kurogxrix

[kurogxrix]

i’m i the only one whose tumblr is extremely laggy recently???

[kurogxrix]

Foundations (#5)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms (Bucky).

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.3.k.

note1: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

note2: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Mutual Pining". Card number 4B-016.

Previous Chapter

Bucky hadn’t meant to come out.

But the tension in his back was unbearable, a deep, twisting ache left behind by the force of the seizure. He had managed to sleep for a few hours, but the pain had dragged him back to consciousness, leaving him restless. At times like this, it was easier to sleep without the prosthesis since its weight made things worse. So, as he often did on rough nights, he had detached it before lying down, giving his body some relief.

He hadn’t bothered to put it back on.

Because as far as he knew, he was alone.

He padded sleepily toward the kitchen, wearing only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He pressed his hand idly against the stiff muscles of his back as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort. He was still half-asleep when he reached for the light switch, flipping it on.

That was when he saw her.

Sitting on his couch, curled up in his blanket, a mug of tea in her hands.

She had woken up to the sound of the storm outside. Not wanting to leave in the middle of the night, she had quietly made herself a cup of tea, maneuvering through the darkened apartment with only the glow of the streetlamps to guide her. She hadn��t turned on the lights, there was no need.

She’d been sipping her tea absentmindedly, lost in thought, when the sudden brightness filled the room, momentarily blinding her.

And then there he was.

Standing in the doorway, tired and rumpled, hair slightly tousled from sleep, his bare torso illuminated under the dim light, the ridges of old scars and muscle casting shadows across his skin.

And, most notably, without his arm.

Her eyes flicked to the space at his left shoulder.

Bucky realized too late. Saw the exact moment she noticed, the way her gaze briefly lingered before snapping up to meet his.

His entire body tensed.

“…You’re still here,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

She swallowed, slowly lowering the mug from her lips. “Yeah. Didn’t feel right to leave Thomas alone after what happened, so I put him to bed and stayed a little longer. But… I ended up crashing on the couch.”

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, without quite meeting his gaze, she lifted the mug slightly. “Tea? Water’s still hot.”

Bucky hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

She could feel his discomfort, the tension rolling off him at being seen like this; so vulnerable, standing half-dressed in his own kitchen, missing a limb. She sighed softly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

He exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I understand why you stayed. And I’m… grateful for that.”

Something about the way he said it made her chest feel a little tighter.

She approached carefully, offering him the cup, forcing her eyes to stay on his face and not drop to his bare torso, the lean muscle, the sharp angles of his collarbone, the scars tracing his skin. She could not think about that right now.

And yet, somehow, her half-asleep brain completely bypassed the normal route of conversation and went straight for-

“Do you always take off the prosthesis to sleep?”

Bucky’s entire frame went rigid. His jaw tensed, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. Too controlled, too neutral, like he was deciding whether to let her question slide or shut her out entirely.

“No,” he said at last. Then, as if preparing for some awkward moment regarding the topic, he added, “If it bothers you, I can-”

“No!” she cut in quickly, horrified. “My God, that’s not why I asked.”

His brows knit together slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to believe her.

She swallowed, shifting the cup between her hands. “It was just… curiosity. I’ve heard a lot of amputees take theirs off because the artificial limb feels heavy or uncomfortable when they sleep.” Her voice softened slightly as she gestured toward the missing arm. “And since… you know.”

Bucky exhaled, raking a hand through his already messy hair, and she absolutely did not think about how unfairly attractive that was.

“This isn’t a regular prosthesis,” he admitted after a pause. “You’ve seen how it works. It’s… different. Feels natural most of the time. But the strength it has… it strains my back sometimes. Puts too much tension on the muscles that support it.” He rolled his shoulder slightly, exhaling through his nose. “Nights like tonight, it’s just easier to take it off.”

She nodded slowly, watching the subtle tightness in his stance, the weight he seemed to be holding in his posture.

“So you’re in pain right now,” she said, less a question and more of a realization.

There was no point in denying it.

Bucky just let out a quiet grunt, taking the cup from her hands.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the way he rolled his shoulder again, trying to ease the stiffness. “Do you want to take a hot shower before I leave? It might help.”

“Leave?” Bucky’s brows furrowed as he looked at her like she had lost her mind. “At this hour? With this storm?”

She blinked at his tone, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to impose. You seem fine now, and maybe you wanted your privacy back.”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re not imposing.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Then, as if the mere idea of her stepping outside in this weather offended him, he added, “And what kind of man would I be if I let you go unaccompanied in the middle of the night, with the skies falling down?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, slightly thrown by the sharp conviction in his voice.

“Right,” she murmured, taking a sip of her tea to hide the sudden warmth in her face. “Guess I’m staying, then.”

Before he could reply, the apartment was swallowed by sudden darkness as everything went out at once -the light, the subtle sound of the fridge- leaving only the sound of rain slamming against the windows.

Bucky muttered a sharp curse under his breath, setting his tea down on the counter with a soft clink. “Great. Happens every time the rain’s this heavy,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “The wiring in this place is older than I am.”

She blinked at the unexpected shift, adjusting her eyes to the dim glow leaking in from the storm outside.

"Do you have candles?" she asked, glancing instinctively toward the kitchen. The small emergency light on the wall stayed stubbornly dark after a few attempts to make it work.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Probably. Somewhere. I think.”

She arched a brow, amused despite herself. “You think?”

He pushed off the counter, moving stiffly toward the cabinets. “I’ll check.”

“Don’t bother,” she said casually behind him. “I’ve been through every cabinet in there while cooking and organizing, and there are no candles.

He sighed and moved toward the fridge. Reaching up, Bucky grabbed something off the top -a small flashlight- and flicked it on, casting a cone of light that cut through the dark.

“Ah, that’s unfair,” she teased, tilting her head. “I don’t even reach up there.”

Bucky smirked faintly, glancing over his shoulder at her. “That’s ‘cause I had to hide it. Thomas keeps draining the batteries playing astronaut or secret agent.”

She let out a soft laugh, watching him as he limped slightly back toward the living room, shining the light ahead of him.

“Alright,” he said, pausing by the TV. “Check the last drawer in the rack.”

“The junk drawer?” she asked, moving carefully across the room.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, aiming the flashlight so it illuminated the drawer.

She crouched in front of it and pulled it open, and the soft beam caught on a chaotic mix of odds and ends: some tools, a broken pair of sunglasses, loose screws, a tangle of string, batteries, and other forgotten bits of life.

“Wow,” she chuckled. “You weren’t kidding. Miscellaneous indeed.”

From behind her, Bucky gave a soft huff. "Told you."

He shifted his weight against the wall, metal-free shoulder leaning slightly as he adjusted the beam of light.

"Pull some stuff out," he added after a beat. "It’s probably packed too full, you won’t see anything unless you move things around."

She hummed her agreement and started to carefully take out the tangled mess. Batteries, some pliers, a random cable that looked way too short to belong to anything useful, she placed all of it on the floor beside her, trying to keep some kind of order.

Reaching deeper, her fingers brushed against a small rectangular box near the back. It felt like a matchbox, finally, something useful.

“Aha!” she said with a small grin, tugging it free. “At least we have-”

Her words died on her lips the second she looked at it.

It was not a matchbox.

It was a sealed box of condoms.

Correction. A sealed box of XL condoms.

Her face went up in flames instantly, lips parting in silent shock.

Behind her, Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly at her sudden pause. He leaned forward to get a better look. The moment the saw the box in her hands, his eyes widened just a fraction, and before either of them could say a word, he reached out in one smooth motion, snatching the box and tucking it hastily into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Uh…” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze like it burned. “Forgot those were in there.”

She pressed her lips together to hold back any kind of reaction, her cheeks absolutely burning. “Right…” she murmured, ducking her head and diving back into the drawer as if she could erase the awkwardness by force of will.

As she resumed rummaging -now definitely avoiding eye contact- Bucky shifted his weight, glancing toward her for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. He clamped the flashlight between his teeth to free his hand. With the beam of light now bobbing faintly as he held it in his mouth, he discreetly slid the box of condoms back out of his pocket and turned it over in his fingers.

Expired. Two years ago.

He huffed a dry, almost soundless laugh through his nose. Not that he was surprised.

Quickly, he slipped it back in his pocket and took the flashlight from his mouth just as she straightened, holding up an opened package of candles with a triumphant little smile, though her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

"Here."

“Thanks,” he murmured, accepting them, brushing his fingers against hers just briefly, enough to make something sharp and tense spark in the space between them.

She quickly busied herself, gathering all the other junk and stuffing it back into the drawer, sliding it shut like she could shove down the thick tension in the air.

After lighting two candles -one set on the kitchen counter, the other on the dining table- they each grabbed their now-lukewarm tea and sat for a moment, a truce in the dim space.

She wrapped her hands around her mug and turned slightly to look at him, studying his tired profile in the glow. That’s when it hit her.

"You haven't eaten," she said softly. "You went straight to bed after the seizure."

Bucky was mid-sip, and when she said it, he paused, lowering the cup slightly. He was already shaking his head, about to downplay it like always.

“I’m fine-”

"I can reheat the gnocchi in a pot with a pinch of water," she offered gently, like it wasn’t a big deal. "They’ll be perfectly edible in a couple of minutes."

His jaw worked as though he wanted to argue, but in the end, he sighed, nodding once. He couldn’t say no to that.

"I’ll help," he muttered, already rising from his chair.

She arched a brow but didn’t stop him. "Alright. You can set the table."

As she pulled the tupperware out of the fridge and started rummaging for a pot, Bucky moved carefully toward the cabinets, grabbing plates and cutlery with one hand. It took a little longer than usual, he had to take multiple trips to set everything down, maneuvering around her, sometimes a little too close.

They brushed against each other a few times as they both navigated the small kitchen, her reaching over him for a spoon, him moving around her to get place mats for the plates. Neither said a word, though both felt it.

Every brief contact felt warmer than it should have, charged in a way that made her chest tight and Bucky’s gaze drop away.

“Do you want water or more tea?” she asked as she stirred the gnocchi in the pot, now steaming slightly.

“Water’s good,” he said quietly, moving to grab a glass.

His fingers brushed hers when she handed him a second one to help, and for a moment, they paused, not quite looking at each other but not pulling away either.

"Table’s ready," he mumbled eventually, breaking the moment, and went to set the glasses down.

“Alright,” she said softly, a small smile curving her lips. "Dinner’s served."

Bucky looked over at her as she turned around, and for a moment, as she walked toward the table with the pot in hand, all he could think about was how normal this felt, how easy, how… dangerous.

Because this? This was something he could get used to. And that scared the hell out of him.

As she get to the table to set the pot down, her eyes caught something that made her pause. There were two plates on the table.

Her brows lifted slightly in surprise. “You set one for me too?”

Bucky shifted in his chair, running his hand through his hair. He shrugged, glancing toward the candle flame rather than at her.

“I just thought… maybe you’d wanna join me. Like a late snack or something,” he murmured, almost shyly. “Felt weird to eat alone.”

Her heart did an odd little flip at that.

“Alright,” she said gently, giving him a small smile as she sat down. “A snack it is.” She served herself a small portion, careful to take less since it was clear he needed it more.

They settled into their chairs, and as she picked at her plate, she watched him out through her lashes, curious to see what he’d think.

He took a bite, chewing slowly at first, and then something in his expression shifted, and his eyes widened slightly as the flavor hit him.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, like he hadn’t expected it to be that good.

A smile tugged at her lips as she watched him, and sure enough, after that first bite, he didn’t hesitate, digging in faster now, like once the first swallow settled, his body realized just how hungry it was.

Still, halfway through, he slowed for a second, glancing up at her. “They’re really good,” he said quietly, making eye contact like it mattered to him that she knew he meant it.

Her smile grew. “Good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I’m glad.”

For a few moments, they just ate quietly, with the candlelight flickering between them, and somehow, it felt less like nanny and employer, and more like something else entirely.

Bucky grabbed a forkful, savoring another bite before glancing at her, trying to sound casual. "Are these… much trouble to make?"

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Ah, there it was, a subtle way of asking if she might make them again sometime.

"Not really," she replied, secretly amused. "I actually make them once a month. They’re pretty cheap to do, too."

Bucky quirked a brow, leaning back a little in his chair, clearly surprised.

"Really? Huh. I bought a package once, about this size," he gestured to the plate with his fork, making a face, "and… let’s just say it definitely didn’t taste like this, and the price wasn’t cheap."

She chuckled, setting her fork down for a moment. "That’s because those barely count as real gnocchi; they use a paste with more flour and additives than anything else and then freeze them to death. This?" She gestured toward the food between them. "Potatoes, egg, flour… oh, and cornstarch."

His brows lifted slightly as if filing that information away like a secret recipe.

"And the time you use to make them," she added. "Which, if you have practice, isn’t that much."

He hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at his plate, idly nudging a piece of gnocchi with his fork.

 "If you want…" she started, casually, "I could teach you how to make them,  someday."

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, surprised, blinking like he hadn’t expected that offer.

She smiled a little, giving a small shrug like it was nothing, even though, to him, it felt like something. "It might be a nice activity to do with Thomas. He’d probably love that."

Bucky stared at her a second longer, as if processing it, and then something warm, -maybe even a little hopeful- lit up behind his tired eyes.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat as if to play it off, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, that would be great. I’m not great in the kitchen, but if it makes the kid happy…"

She chuckled, sipping her water. "Still, if you don’t feel like getting flour all over your kitchen, I can always make them for you two again. Just let me know in advance."

Bucky nodded slowly, but there was something softer, more thoughtful in the way he looked at her now. Because the truth was, as much as he liked the idea of cooking with Thomas, the thought of her in his kitchen, making dinner like she belonged there, like this was something they always did… yeah, he liked that a little too much.

Even if he knew she’d eventually leave. Even if he knew when she walked out the door, he’d sit at this same table with Thomas, and the apartment would feel too quiet again. That was always when the little bubble of domesticity burst, and he remembered he was only playing house in his own head.

"Want a second serving?" Her voice broke through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back.

He glanced down at his empty plate, surprised to see it already cleared, then back up at her.

A slow, almost sheepish smile curved his lips. "Yeah… I’d like that." She stood up to grab the pot, and he watched her move.

Maybe pretending for a little longer wasn’t the worst thing.

They talked while he ate, and the conversation flowed easily between bites, like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes neither of them realized they owned. He asked about some of the kids she used to teach, and she told him a story about a girl who had insisted on wearing fairy wings for a whole month, claiming it was part of her "emotional growth."

Bucky listened, and his eyes occasionally crinkled in that rare way when he was amused, and though he didn’t speak as much, he looked... content.

When he finally finished, pushing his plate back with a satisfied sigh, she stood to collect everything without asking, moving toward the sink to wash up. He didn’t stop her, maybe because he knew it would take him longer with one hand, or maybe because, at that moment, it was nice to have her there doing something so normal in his kitchen.

He leaned back slightly, watching her roll up her sleeves, methodically washing each thing like… like this was just another evening for them.

But then she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her wrist, and something in him shifted. It wasn’t unusual for him to be awake at that hour -he was used to restless nights, to wandering through the dark- but her? She wasn’t supposed to be part of that quiet, lonely world.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth was already moving:

"Want to sleep in my bed?"

She froze mid-scrub, and her fingers went still in the water. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, raising her brows slightly as if questioning if she had heard correctly.

He straightened a bit, realizing exactly how that sounded, and cleared his throat. “Not with me,” he clarified quickly, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… You look exhausted, and I’m probably not getting any more sleep tonight anyway.”

"I-" she started, hesitating and twisting the kitchen towel in her fingers. "Are you sure?" The offer was tempting -God, she was tired- but part of her questioned the propriety of the situation. Sleeping in her boss’s bed? Even with the best intentions, it felt intimate.

Bucky leaned slightly in his chair, watching her carefully, and gave a soft shrug. "'S fine for me," he said quietly. "I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t."

She bit her lip, still unsure, and he must have picked up on it because he added, almost awkwardly, "You can... hum, lock the door if you want."

That made her chuckle softly. "I don’t think that’ll be necessary," she said with a playful lift of her brow. "I’m not exactly afraid that the Winter Soldier’s gonna take advantage of me."

His lips twitched at that, but something in his gaze sharpened.

"It’s just... the bed is intimate, and-" she tried to explain, but he cut her off gently.

"I don’t mind you there."

They stared at each other for a heartbeat.

"You’re here almost every day," he went on, trying to make her understand. "Taking care of my son. You cook for us, do our laundry, inventory the pantry, sometimes clean…" He let out a small, tired breath, holding her gaze. "Hell, you practically manage the whole household. How can I not offer you my bed to sleep in?"

Something in her chest clenched at the way he said it. Not just the words, but the way he looked at her, like she had become something more than just an employee, without either of them fully realizing it.

That was what convinced her.

Her fingers finally relaxed around the towel, and she gave him a small smile. "Alright," she murmured. "Thanks, Bucky."

He nodded, glancing away like it wasn’t a big deal, but his jaw worked a little, as though the moment had stirred more in him than he was ready to admit.

----

She slipped quietly into his room, closing the door behind her with a soft click, with her heart still beating a little faster than it should. The room was dim, lit only by the faint, silvery glow of the streetlights sneaking through the curtains. It was simple but warm, like the rest of the apartment.

She hesitated briefly before pulling off her pants, folding them neatly on a chair by the corner, leaving herself in her T-shirt and underwear. Then, she slid under the covers.

As she settled, shifting slightly to find a comfortable spot, she realized -of course- that the whole bed smelled like him. A mix of soap, leather, and that unique scent she’d come to recognize as Bucky.

Her stupid body tingled in response, betraying her before her brain could even react. She turned her face into the pillow, nuzzling it without thinking, breathing him in before she could stop herself.

God, what a creep.

What would he say if he knew? What would this poor man possibly think if he ever found out his nanny was lying in his bed, clinging to his pillow like some lovesick teenager?

And worse, what if he knew she couldn't stop thinking about that stupid box of condoms? Correction. Stupid box of XL condoms.

She groaned softly, burying her face deeper in the pillow, feeling her cheeks burn.

For fuck’s sake, she scolded herself.

But it was hard to get a grip when working there didn’t even feel like a job anymore. Because it wasn’t just about Thomas, as much as she loved the kid. It was the little things: quiet conversations over some beverage, the three of them going to the grocery store together, the way Bucky watched her sometimes like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

And now she was here. In his bed.

She swallowed thickly, shifting again under the blanket, trying to will her thoughts into silence.

----

Bucky had already been up for a while by the time she woke up, and when she shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, she found breakfast already laid out.

Simple, just toast with cream cheese and jam, a black coffee for him and -he remembered- a milk coffee for her. Thomas was happily munching on cereal, swinging his legs under the table, with drinkable yogurt in one hand.

She blinked, still waking up, and instinctively offered, “Need any help?”

Bucky shook his head, sliding another piece of toast onto her plate. “Nah, just sit and eat.”

So she did, and the moment she sat down, The child beamed at her, absolutely thrilled to find her still there in the morning, and on a Saturday, no less.

“What are we doing today?” he asked excitedly, gripping his spoon with his little hands.

She smiled, stretching a little. “Well, I stayed because of the storm,” she explained. “But I’ll be leaving after breakfast.”

Thomas’s face fell, and his bottom lip jutted out slightly. “Can’t you stay?”

Bucky glanced up at that, but before he could interject, she was already speaking.

“No, buddy,” she said gently. “I have things to do at home, my real home.”

The kid frowned, clearly unhappy with that answer. He chewed on his lip, thinking for a moment before pressing, “And when you finish? Can you come eat dinner with us?”

Bucky was about to step in to remind Thomas that she had her own life outside of them, but before he could open his mouth, she beat him to it, again.

“Sorry, Thomas,” she said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Today’s Saturday, and I have plans for tonight.”

That, however, caught Bucky’s interest.

Not that he had any right to ask, but-

“With who?” Thomas piped up.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, “Uh- some friends.”

Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, feigning complete disinterest, though his grip on the mug tightened slightly.

“Boys or girls?” Thomas pressed, utterly unbothered by social boundaries.

“Girls,” she said firmly, shooting the kid an amused look.

That settled fine with Bucky. Not that he cared. Not that he should care.

Thomas, however, was not done. “And where are you going? Is it a birthday? A party?”

“Not a party, kiddo,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “We’re just going to a pub.”

Thomas frowned in thought. “What do you do there?”

Damn, Bucky thought, hiding a smirk behind his coffee. The kid was relentless this morning.

She blinked, clearly not expecting this much morning interrogation, and struggled to keep up with his rapid-fire curiosity.

“Uh… we drink, chat, dance a little… that kind of stuff.”

Bucky set down his mug a little, fixing his gaze on her over the rim.

Dancing.

Thomas furrowed his brows, clearly trying to grasp the concept. “Oh, so there’s music then. And all the people there dance?”

“Some do, some don’t,” she answered, reaching for her coffee.

The kid chewed on his spoon thoughtfully. “So you dance with your friends, but there’s other people, all dancing there next to you?”

She hesitated, sensing where this was going. “Um… there’s a space to dance, and everybody who wants to dance, well… they just go there and do it. Sometimes I dance with my friends, and sometimes people ask you to.”

Thomas blinked. “Do you know them?”

“Um… no,” she admitted, suddenly regretting the direction of this conversation. “You just… you meet them while dancing or- or later.”

Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, watching this unfold with a blank expression, but she felt his attention sharpen at that answer.

Fuck.

Thomas frowned, clearly confused now. “But Daddy says you’re not supposed to talk to strangers or take things from them. But it’s okay to dance with them?”

She nearly choked on her coffee.

“Well-” she cleared her throat, scrambling for an explanation, “it’s okay if you’re an adult and you’re in that particular scenario.”

Thomas tilted his head, still piecing things together. “So… if a man you don’t kno-”

“Honey,” she cut in smoothly, offering him a small, patient smile, “finish your cereal, please, before it gets all mushy.”

“Okay…” the kid mumbled, clearly unsatisfied by the abrupt end to his interrogation.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, swirling the coffee in his mug, staring at the dark liquid like it might have the answers he was looking for.

But then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“So, a girls’ night?”

She nodded, lifting her mug to her lips. “Yeah, it’s been a while since we dressed up nice and, um… socialized.”

His grip on the cup tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

“The three of us work with kids,” she continued, swirling her coffee absently. “And, well… sometimes it’s nice to change the jumpers for a dress and just… have some fun.”

Have some fun.

Right. Of course.

She had a life outside of this apartment.

Outside of him.

She wasn’t his. She wasn’t theirs.

And yet, sitting there at the breakfast table, where she had been just the night before, where Thomas had lit up when he saw her, like she was part of their little world, Bucky was reminded, again, that this wasn’t real.

That, at the end of the day, she walked out that door, and she went back to a life he wasn’t part of.

Maybe she’d meet someone tonight. Maybe she’d dance with a stranger. Maybe-

He swallowed, setting his mug down with a quiet thud.

“I see.”

She cleared her throat, shifting slightly in her seat as the silence stretched between them. Something about the way he said "I see" unsettled her, like a door had quietly closed, and she wasn’t sure why.

So she tried to bridge the gap.

“Is your back still bothering you?” she asked, keeping her tone light, like it was just casual concern. “Or your head? You mentioned a headache last night.”

His fingers flexed slightly around the ceramic, a small shift, barely noticeable. “Back’s fine. Just a headache.”

She nodded, setting her mug down. “I have some lavender oil in my bag,” she offered. “If you want, I could rub some pressure points on your temples and neck. Might help.”

Bucky froze.

For a second, he thought about refusing. About keeping that blurred line drawn, that careful space between them almost intact.

But then there was that other part of him. The part that had gotten used to her voice threading through his apartment, the sound of her shuffling around the kitchen, the scent of whatever she wore floating faintly in the space even after she left, the simple, human comfort she brought into a life that had been built on surviving instead of living. The part of him that leaned, that craved, even when it had no right to.

The part of him that wanted to pretend a little longer.

He wetted his lips, flexing his fingers against his knee like he could still convince himself to turn it down.

God, he was so fucking tired of wanting things he couldn’t have.

“…Yeah,” he murmured, rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind.”

She smiled softly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

And damn if that didn’t make his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

As she stood up and walked toward her bag to rummage for the little bottle of lavender oil, she took a breath.

Why was she doing this?

Why did she feel this need to take care of him, to soften whatever storm she felt churning behind his tired eyes, especially after catching that strange shift in him when she mentioned going out?

To prove what, exactly?

To reassure whom?

Her fingers fumbled slightly over the zipper, and she felt the tension in her chest growing tighter the more she thought about it.

Bucky was her boss.

God, she was projecting her own feelings on him, wasn’t she? Projecting something onto the soft edges of this makeshift little life they’d built together without ever daring to admit what it really was. Maybe he didn’t give a fuck if she went out or not and she perceived a shift in his demeanor because she wanted to.

She swallowed hard, biting the inside of her cheek as she finally wrapped her fingers around the small bottle.

Maybe that’s why she had said yes when her friends suggested going out tonight.

Because this, this everyday routine, was killing her. Feeding her crush, her whatever-this-was, letting it grow wild and dangerous in a space where nothing could ever really happen.

She was setting herself up to get hurt.

And now here she was, oil in hand, about to soothe his headache like they were anything more than two people stuck in an arrangement that worked well enough until someone crossed a line.

She blew out a soft breath, composing herself before turning around, pasting on a gentle smile she didn’t quite feel. “Alright,” she said quietly, holding up the little bottle between her fingers. “Let’s see if this helps.”

And as she moved back toward him, her heart ached because part of her already knew it wouldn’t fix the thing she wanted to soothe.

“Oh, do you have a hair tie? This could get messy,” she said, pausing as she realized only then that his long hair might get in the way.

“I’ll get it!” Thomas chimed in enthusiastically before either of them could react.

Bucky huffed a quiet breath through his nose, and before he could say anything, Thomas was already running off toward the bathroom.

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head, but her heart was thumping a little faster than she liked to admit.

A moment later, the kid returned, holding out a black hair tie like it was treasure.

“Here!”

“Oh.” She took it gently. Right. Now she had to… Okay. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She ruffled his hair gently before stepping behind Bucky.

From her position at his back, she caught the way he straightened a little, squaring his shoulders like he was bracing for something.

"Alright, hold still," she murmured.

Then, carefully, she lifted her hands to his hair, gently combing through the thick strands with her fingers to smooth them out before gathering them to tie back.

The moment her hands slid into his hair, she felt him tense and freeze for a second. But before she could ask, she caught the smallest sound, a sharp inhale, like he was stopping himself from groaning. Her fingers hesitated, hovering just for a heartbeat, but when he didn’t pull away, she went on.

God, she thought, when was the last time someone touched him like this?

Her fingers were soft -so soft- and his scalp prickled under her touch. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him like that, careful, patient, almost tenderly.

He knew she felt him tense. She paused, just for a second, like she wasn’t sure if she should keep going.

But he forced himself to breathe, to let her. He let out a long, controlled breath as she worked, and his body slowly started to relax under her gentle hands.

She focused on the task, careful not to pull too hard, smoothing down stray strands with her fingertips. She couldn't see his face, which somehow made it easier. When she finally gathered the strands and tied them back in a loose ponytail, her fingers touched him for a second longer than they should have.

“There,” she whispered, almost more to herself. "Not too tight."

His head dipped in acknowledgment, but he didn’t speak.

“Okay now,” she murmured gently, stepping in closer behind him, grazing his neck with her fingertips, starting to work into the knots at the base of his skull, and Bucky let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

God, it felt good. He told himself it was just for the headache.

But as her hands moved up to his temples, rubbing slow, careful circles, he knew part of him wanted this for reasons that had nothing to do with pain relief.

His body had been wrecked after the seizure, just like always. It was like every muscle had been pulled to its limit, every fiber burning and sore, leaving him feeling like he’d gone through a war. His back, his neck, and even his jaw felt locked up and raw. But as her hands worked carefully along the tight muscles at the base of his skull, and her thumbs pressed firm but slow into the knots, the pain eased. Not gone, but slipping into something bearable, and God, that alone felt like a miracle.

What would he give to have this every time his goddamn brain decided to remind him how broken he was?

Her thumbs circled up to his temples, rubbing with gentle pressure, and a low hiss slipped through his teeth before he could stop it.

He felt her pause, just briefly, and he almost kicked himself, until she kept going, as if she understood that it wasn’t pain that made him react, but relief. A soft hum escaped his throat next, and he hated how good it felt, how vulnerable it made him feel to want it so much.

And of course, because his brain besides being a mess, was a goddamn traitor, another thought slithered in his mind.

How would it feel to have her hands on other parts of his body?

Not working at the knots in his neck. Not relieving his tension. But in a softer, slower, and more exploring way instead of fixing him. He swallowed hard, shifting slightly in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way his breath hitched. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trying to keep himself composed, trying to stay focused on the innocence of the act.

"Feeling better?" she asked softly, still working her fingers gently behind his ears, tracing small, careful circles.

Bucky swallowed, with eyes half-lidded, trying to keep his voice even. "Yeah," he managed. "The ice-pickers behind my eyes seem to have disappeared. All is... numb now." He let out a soft, breathless chuckle, like he couldn't believe how much lighter his head felt.

"I'm glad," she murmured, as her hands slowly slid down the sides of his neck, expertly seeking out the tension that was still tight in his shoulders.

She let her thumbs dip lower, pressing just between his shoulder blades, and-

He moaned.

Low, guttural, and completely unfiltered, the sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it. The moment it left his lips, Bucky's eyes snapped open, and the shame heated his face as his back tensed again.

Fuck.

He felt pathetic, but there was a part of him, buried deep, that thrummed with how good it felt to let go, even just a little.

Behind him, she stilled for a fraction of a second.

She had definitely heard that.

He could feel his ears burning, and before he could gather himself enough to speak, her hands moved again, smooth and calm, as if nothing had happened.

She bit her lip so hard it almost hurt, thanking every higher power he couldn’t see her face right now. Because that sound? That sound had gone straight from her ears to her southern region, sending a jolt of heat through her body so fast it left her breathless.

She swallowed thickly, schooling her features before sliding her hands back up to tend a different spot. But then, guided by purely innocent intentions, she casually, carefully, returned to that same spot between his shoulder blades. Just to... make sure she worked out the tension. Of course.

Her fingers circled there again, pressing slow and deep-

And he didn’t disappoint.

Another low, breathy sound rumbled out of him, not as loud as before but just as raw.

She had to bite her lip harder, pressing her thighs together instinctively as she kept going, pretending not to notice. Maybe if-

"Can we go to the park when you feel alright, Daddy?" Thomas' small voice cut through the thick air between them like a pin to a balloon, breaking the invisible thread that had been pulling tighter and tighter.

Bucky stiffened slightly under her hands, and she froze, suddenly reminded that the child was there. Sitting on the couch, surrounded by toys, watching them like it was just another normal day.

Her face burned as a wave of mortification crashed over her. How had she let herself forget?

Bucky cleared his throat, answering with a soft voice, but there was something on it, like he was pulling himself back together. “Sure, kiddo. I’m all yours today. Wanna… wanna go visit Uncle Steve too?”

Thomas beamed. “Yay! Can we buy chocolate cake too?”

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah. We can do that.”

Taking the cue, she let her hands slide gently away from his skin. “There you go,” she said quietly, more composed than she felt, heading straight to the kitchen sink to wash the oil from her palms. The water ran warm, but her skin felt flushed for other reasons entirely.

She needed to stop imagining things that weren’t meant to be there.

Bucky was her boss. Thomas’ dad.

And if she didn’t want to fall harder, to make this nice domestic fantasy crack open and hurt, she needed to start expanding her social circle, like she had promised herself. Even if she didn’t want to. Even if she’d rather stay right here, tangled up in something that wasn’t hers to want.

She dried her hands slowly, hearing Bucky’s voice behind her as he started chatting casually with Thomas again, like nothing had happened.

“Well, I should... I should get going,” she said, folding the towel neatly over the sink. “Still have groceries to buy and...” Her voice trailed off as she smoothed her palms down her thighs, like she wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.

"Of course," Bucky replied quietly, already pushing himself up from the chair, rolling his shoulders.

She glanced toward the living room area where her jacket and bag rested over the arm of the couch and moved to gather them. Just as she was slipping on her jacket, Thomas looked up from where he was playing and chirped, "Have fun dancing!"

Right.

She blinked, forcing a smile as she bent slightly to ruffle his hair. "Thank you, dear. I will."

Bucky was already at the apartment door when she turned around, opening it wordlessly, filling the doorway with his frame. She walked over, adjusting her bag on her shoulder, and he stepped aside to let her pass first, ever the gentleman.

They walked side by side in silence to the elevator, neither of them quite knowing what to say.

As they reached the building entrance, she turned to him, giving a small, polite smile, holding onto the strap of her bag like a lifeline. “Have fun at the park with Thomas,” she said softly.

He hesitated, tapping his fingers against the doorframe before he forced himself to meet her eyes briefly.

"Yeah... and you-" he cleared his throat, darting his gaze away for a second before returning, almost reluctant. "Have fun tonight. Just... be careful."

"Always."

And with that, she turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on her back until the door clicked shut behind her.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira@technicallytinyheart@put-trash-here@chinggay85-blog@tulippix@dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100 @tanyaherondale @theflowerswillbloom @stars4birdie @soberbabes @greatmistakes @littlesuniee @casey1-2007 @escapefromrealitylol

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[kurogxrix]

oh my god

Say Yes

Bounty Hunter Boba Fett x Female Reader

Content & Trigger Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): fluff, heavy suggestive themes, protective!Boba, Mandalorian!Boba, light angst, non-descriptive sex

Word Count: 2.5k

A young, handsome bounty hunter on Tatooine makes it a daily intention to ask you to marry him.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // fluffuary 2024 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart riduur – partner / spouse “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde” – marriage vows

“Marry me, cyar’ika.”

You glance up from the worn open tome resting on the counter in front of you. “Again? Really, Boba?”

The Mandalorian helmet, dented with flaking green paint, tilts slightly to the right. “You called me ‘Boba’ this time,” teases the bounty hunter.

You roll your eyes and push off from the counter, cheeks heating even as you grumble in false irritation.

Boba Fett, Jabba the Hutt’s favorite mercenary for hire, has asked you to marry him every day for several weeks now. And each time, you have refused him. For the first few, you were overly polite. But as his attempts continued, your polite rejections transformed into snarky quips and blatant dismissals.

It’s not like you don’t find the man attractive. Underneath the armor is an incredibly handsome man, and his attention has always been sincere. But Boba Fett is a dangerous man, and you’re just a simple shopkeeper trying to make a living in Mos Espa. In that regard, the two of you are incompatible no matter how much he persists and chases after you.

“I like how you say my name,” continues Boba, his voice a soft purr. “Sounds beautiful on your tongue.”

“And you are too forward,” you snap, knowing that your sharpness is just a cover. Which is silly, because you do like him, and Boba seems to understand this. Boba burrows beneath your skin, and you cannot dig him out.

“Am I?” he asks with mock offense. You really want to throttle him, but you also really want to kiss him.

“Yes. I don’t know how many times I have to say this, Fett,” you emphasize, deliberately using his last name. “But a ‘no’ is a ‘no’ even if you don’t like it.”

Yep. Push him away. Keep pushing. Maybe he’ll take the hint this time.

Boba Fett stands tall, arms crossed over his chest, one hip slightly popped. With the helmet on, you have no idea what his expression might be or what he’s feeling. Not knowing is maddening, and it quickens your heartbeat, a growing tingle buzzing in the tips of your fingers.

“So, all those touches meant nothing to you?” he asks with just the faintest hint of roughness in his tone.

“Yes,” you lie.

Boba shifts on his feet, shoulders straightening. “What about all the kisses you’ve given me? Hm? Nothing?”

Kriffing hell, why is this man always so direct? It’s nice that Boba is good about telling you what he wants and what he’s thinking for the most part, but it always catches you off-guard. It makes you weak, melting you into goo that he can mold however he wishes.

“Those are not enough to build a marriage, Boba,” you shrug. “There has to be more.”

“But there is more.” He steps around the counter, stepping into your space. “Isn’t there?”

Boba is right. There is more. There has always been more. Whenever Boba is on Tatooine, he is visiting you, talking with you, bringing you gifts, fixing things around the shop without you having to ask. He has offered to take you out after you’ve closed shop. He routinely takes a personal interest in your safety and security. Because of that, no one bothers you or tries to harass additional credits out of you. They stay away and respect you because they see you as Boba’s woman.

And it isn’t only that. He only ever speaks softly to you. He only ever treats you with respect and shows general interest in your life. The most maddening thing is how many women have actively shown their interest in him to his face, and he has brushed them all aside. Even after all these refusals on your end, Boba still declines their advances, and shows up at your shop each day insisting that you marry him.

“Why do you keep denying this, cyar’ika? You know I’d make you happy.” Boba is standing too close, almost on top of you.

“The shop is closed,” you reply. “If you’re not going to make a purchase, you should leave.”

Boba nods his head and backs up, reaching for an item off the shelf without looking. He deposits some credits on the counter, much more than what the item is actually worth.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder, tapping the counter as he makes his exit.

The soft chime that alerts you to when the front door opens echoes throughout the room.

You’re in the backroom organizing. It’s the next day, and Boba hasn’t shown himself yet. This might be him, but it’s likely not. There are times when Boba does not come, and you are fully aware that those are times when Jabba sends him off for a job.

“Sorry. We’re closed.” You step out from the backroom and immediately freeze.

Three Nikto bikers loiter in the middle of the shop. It’s evident that they are not here to purchase anything. Their dark eyes roam over the shelves and tables, but once they notice you, they focus in, drawing closer.

“Apologies,” you say, attempting to project your voice, to sound tougher than you are. “We’ve closed for the evening. If there is something you need right away, I can ring you up. Otherwise, you’ll need to leave.” You do your best to keep your voice steady and calm, but you hear the gentle shake.

“This street is our new territory,” hisses the leader of the group. “We were stopping by to offer our…services.”

Services, meaning protection, meaning “pay us or you’ll be a target.”

Tatooine might be overrun with crime lords and criminal activity, but the main powers at play are not known to harass the smaller folks just trying to make a living. These are outliers. These are individuals who answer to no one but themselves, and believe they can carve a piece out for their own gain.

Rarely are they ever successful, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try.

Just as you open your mouth to reply, the soft chime comes again. This time everyone turns and you sigh with relief when you see who it is.

“Boba Fett,” says the Nikto slowly. His shoulders stiffen and they all put their hands on their blasters.

The bounty hunter does no answer right away. His helmet moves, scanning the Nikto, and then you, assessing. Even from across the shop, you sense Boba’s anger. There are few things that rile him up, but you’re one of them.

“It’s not smart moving in on Jabba’s territory. Or to harass what’s mine.” When Boba says mine, he growls it. The possessiveness in his tone heats your flesh, sends a sharp spike of desire down to your belly.

The Nikto all glance at each other before the leader addresses Fett. “We didn’t know the female was yours, Boba.” He holds his hands out in a placating gesture, indicating that he didn’t mean any harm. Yet you know that isn’t true. Their intention from the start was to harass you for credits.

You scoff at female but decide to let it go.

“I think it’s best that you leave.” Boba steps to the side.

The duo glance at their leader for direction. The Nikto’s features are impassive, but he eventually inclines his head, exiting as Boba insist they do. When the last one leaves, Boba momentarily glances in your direction. The door stands open, and Boba exits with him.

When it whooshes shut, you sprint over to the wall panel, immediately engaging the lock and shuttering the windows. You stand in the silent shop for a few minutes trying to calm your heartrate. Once it’s manageable, and not beating so hard it might burst from your chest, you head upstairs to your small apartment above the shop.

By the time you’re curled up in bed, you’re no longer anxious, but there is the slightest bit of tension that lingers in your limbs. Sighing, you turn over in the bed, only to hear the brief pulse of a jetpack shutting off and boots on the small balcony outside your bedroom window.

Slowly, you push up to sitting, the bedsheets falling to your waist. You know it’s Boba. He does this some nights. Camps out and protect you in the only way he knows how because you’re too stubborn to take him up on his numerous marriage proposals.

Tonight, it’s obvious as to why he’s out there. Part of you is reluctant to leave him outside. You’d prefer it if he were with you, within arm’s reach, to see him without the helmet. Plus, nights on Tatooine can grow cold. You want him inside where it’s warm.

On quiet feet, you go to the door that leads outside. Opening it silently, you stick your head out into the chilly air, finding Boba as he leans against the exterior wall, arms crossed.

“You should be in bed, cyar’ika,” chides Boba playfully.

You swallow, suddenly nervous now that you’re confronting him. “Do you want to come inside?” you ask, a bit hesitantly.

Maybe it’s the uncertainty in your tone, or the way you shrink back a bit into the interior of the room, because Boba is suddenly alert, all of his attention attuned to you.

Boba immediately pushes off from the wall and approaches you, his hand on the door, pushing it wider. “Are you hurt? Did one of them touch you?”

You shake your head vehemently. “No. I’m fine. Promise.”

Boba’s chest heaves slightly but you’re not sure if it’s from his sudden movement or a releasing of relief. He glances over his shoulder at Mos Espa, the t-shaped visor of his helmet fixated on the city’s skyline. Turning back, Boba nods.

You step away from the door and Boba enters. Even with the door closed and the windows’ shutters slanted to dim the moonlight, some of it still spills over the room like tiny white rivers.

His helmet hisses as the pressure seal disengages. Slowly, Boba lifts the helmet off his head and sets it aside on a nearby table. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, the ends sticking up slightly after he does so. With the faintest movement, Boba turns, and that moonlight cuts sharp glowing lines over his face, highlighting tanned skin and dark eyes.

You don’t even realize you’re moving closer to him until Boba grabs you by the waist and pulls you against his armor-clad body. Instinctively, your hands reach out, locking onto the beskar. Boba’s head dips and yours rises to meet him automatically, and yet there is no connection. It is simply holding, a waiting between two hesitant people.

“You haven’t asked me to marry you today,” you murmur.

The corner of Boba’s lips turns upward in a soft smile. “Will you marry me, cyar’ika?”

“No,” you say automatically, before the two of you start laughing.

“Let’s try that again.” Boba reaches up and cradles your cheek. “Cyar’ika. Will you marry me? Will you allow me to speak the words of my people? And will you speak them back?”

The words of his people. The Mandalorian marriage vows. You are distinctly aware of what they are and what they mean. Which is why Boba’s earnestness isn’t fake to you. Mandalorians take their weddings vows seriously even though the process of exchange is simple. It is the intention behind the exchange that is most important to them.

That is how you know Boba speaks the truth, that him asking you to marry him is a genuine desire of his.

“Passion does not make a relationship,” you reply.

The answer is a shift away from actually having to answer. How many times have you and Boba ended up on the floor of the backroom after rejecting him? It’s more than you can count on your hands.

“That’s all this is to you?” he laughs. “You know I can give you more. I do more than that now.”

You curl forward a bit, rest your forehead against the beskar. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

“Of what?”

“Of what will change.”

Boba’s fingers brush under your chin and lightly guide your gaze back to his. “I wouldn’t ask you to give anything up.”

“Yes, but—”

Boba gives the slightest shake of his head and you instantly quiet. “Do you want me?” he asks. “Tell the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I want you,” you breathe, allowing the words to drip off your tongue.

“May I have one of your kisses?” he asks softly, one gloved thumb lightly pressing down on your bottom lip.

“Yes,” you breathe.

Boba closes the distance, forms perfectly to you. It is slow and delicate and sweet. Your body hums with energy, and when you press for more, Boba growls and pulls back, hastily ripping off his gloves to reveal his bare hands.

Then he’s cupping the side of your face, drawing you back to him, tasting and tasting and tasting until your fingers are clawing at him in desperation. When he breaks the kiss, you still lean forward as if you can reach him.

“Then repeat the words with me, cyar’ika. Become my riduur.”

Boba presses his lips to yours, draws forth an air-stealing shiver from deep within your lungs.

“Mhi solus tome.”

“Mhi solus tome,” you repeat.

We are one together.

Boba slides an arm around your waist to drape softly over your curves. “Mhi solus dar’tome,” he says.

You say it back to him. “Mhi solus dar’tome.”

We are one when parted.

“Mhi me’dinui an.”

“Mhi me’dinui an.”

We share all.

This time, Boba slots his pelvis against yours, and you understand his heated intention.

“Mhi ba’juri verde.”

“Mhi ba’juri verde,” you say with shaky breath.

We will raise warriors.

Boba snuggles the side of your neck, breathes in your scent. “I’d like to lay with my riduur.” His fingers find the edge of your sleeping robes.

“As long as I can have my riduur the same way.”

Boba grins against your throat. Together, the two of you remove his armor, piece by piece by piece. The moment his flightsuit is unzipped and he steps out of it, Boba is on you, drawing your lips to his, desperately claiming what is now so rightfully his.

Your own clothes are gone before making it to the bed. Boba runs his hands over your back, sliding down to lift you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his middle, and Boba carries you off, placing you gently onto your back.

His mouth upon your skin is a brand. Hot. Searing. It goes lower, lower still until you’re crying out for him, begging for him to be with you as your riduur should. Boba is happy to do so, sliding between your thighs so perfectly, you both lose yourselves momentarily before becoming nothing but a raging storm, waves crashing into each other repeatedly until one of you breaks.

Rest does not come until the morning suns begin to ascend over the horizon. You do not open your shop. And Boba does not return to Jabba’s palace.

There is peace for a while.

Harmony.

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @cherryofdeath @enfppixie @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @beebeechaos

[kurogxrix]

aweee the little family moments🥹 also glad they’re finally getting their freak on because they 100% needed it LMAOO

"Like there was no tomorrow." CH.8—Daryl Dixon.

Chapter Summary: Your first night in Alexandria is peaceful with you, Daryl and April sitting on the porch steps, ending with an interesting tattoo and the promise to let April slowly experience a "normal" childhood.

A/N: This chapter is just to show how you three are becoming more of a family?. Hope you like it! Just a sneak peek, there will only be a couple more chapters but in this story Negan never existed 'cause that would trigger the events we all already know, and I prefer to end it with an and they all lived happily ever after :) And if you want to read the prequel about how you and Daryl met, I'll leave you the link of the intro here just in case♥ Thank you! Sorry if this is boring :(

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

“So, what did you do before all this, darling?”

The road to Alexandria was filled with bumps and jolts, walkers everywhere and it ended with a wounded person, but for the first time in what feels like a lifetime away, the afternoon doesn’t grow deeper, darker or scarier with the protection Deanna offers, in exchange for the group returning the favor.

“I was a journalist for the local paper.” It all seems like part of a distant, blurry life as you sit on the single couch across from her, watched by her critical eye and the camera on, but it all feels like you’ve had to push away who you’d been, that ordinary person, with an ordinary life. “I went to college, graduated, worked. The usual.”

Deanna nods, but the almost imperceptible way her eyebrows raise for a second in surprise doesn’t go unnoticed in front of your eyes.

“Aaron said he saw you shoot and that you have a hell of an aim, did you learn on your own?”

“No. My dad made me learn.”

“And where is he now?”

The silence is overwhelming in your world, but a lifetime with a man who just pretended to care is summed up before you as a shocking revelation: he was really never a father.

“He died on the way.”

She nods again, sadly.

“I’m sorry, darling, may I ask what his name was?”

“Mark. His name was Mark.” Despite the pain, the smile that brings you to think of him is sincere, as much as his love for you: a stranger who became a true father, full of love for you all the time he treasured you like a real daughter. “He was an architect, but an accident left him bedridden. He was a good man, a good father and husband.”

Deanna smiles softly, as if she's accompanying you in the pain of an irreparable loss.

“That's sounds nice. And just to finish, may I ask, who in your group are you engaged to?”

Her gaze travels to the ring on your hand in your lap, and like a reflex, your nervous fingers try to hide it as you let out a soft, shy laugh.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you his name.” You stand up and the conversation is over, and she smiles knowingly, amused by the mind game you just let her as a homework, but at the same time, you can see her monumental effort to uncover the truth in that second. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you and your family have a good night.”

The walk to the entrance is lonely, but the memory of a home in your past life is like a ghost haunting your mind, memories of your own house with cold walls, with people related by blood, maybe, but who now you don’t know if you should call family: mom & brother, those titles that suddenly feel too big and foreign, unreal, like an illusion you lived in for many years, but to which you never really belonged. However, when you open the door of the Monroe family house, the orange–tinted sunlight of those afternoon hours hits your face, with an expression that relaxes again when you realize how beautiful the sunset looks the moment danger doesn’t lurk from all directions, not when there’s an entire wall around protecting you.

Aaron is standing at the bottom of the porch stairs, hands in his pants pockets and a friendly smile on his face.

“Do you mind if I walk you home?” But the question floats back into the air as you frown in curiosity, and both of you stand still for a few seconds, taking in what home meant to each of you two. “That sounded weird, didn’t it?”

You chuckle as you walk down the stairs, and both of you begin to walk down the street.

“It did, honestly. It’s still really weird to think about this community, an ordinary neighborhood like the one I used to live in. And it's weird to see so many people together, happy, almost as if fear didn’t exist in their world. My best friend and I went through some bad things, and I guess that keeps me from believing in any of this.”

He ponders your words, eyes observing the neighborhood he lives in as if it is all suddenly an illusion, but the warmth of the sunset feels real on your skin, the conversations of some people on their porches are pleasant sounds that are a lifetime away from those incessant grunts coming from the walkers: everything seems like a proof that you could have back that homely feeling that before seemed absurd even to think about.

“I know it can be hard to get used to this life after fighting for yours for so long, but I think your daughter deserves that chance, I think you all deserve that chance.”

Aaron smiles, but the bruise on his cheekbone is still changing color.

“I’m sorry about the punch, it wasn’t from me, but for what it’s worth, I did believe your speech. It was nice actually.”

“Thanks. I practiced it a lot.” His eyebrows wiggle playfully, and you both share a laugh before changing the subject. “I’m still trying to… figure out all of you if I’m honest, but I can understand the distrust of your group, especially from your husband.”

The word is still new to you, foreign to your ears, as if it’s all an illusion too. But a short distance away because they all still look the same, you can find the house provided for everyone to spend the night, or to start a life, a home, a family, depending on what? You don’t know for sure yet, but the thought of staying permanently gains strength when you think of April.

Through the gap between the white painted wooden railings surrounding the porch, you see the wings on Daryl’s vest, who’s sitting on the floor, leaning forward slightly, doing something.

“We’re actually engaged. Something like that, I don’t know, it feels weird to think about it.”

Aaron chuckles.

“Don’t make it so complicated. I understand. It’s hard to define marital status in this world, too.”

You nod, agreeing with him, but by the time you reach the house, Aaron sees the river of blood flowing from the possum’s open body while staining the wooden floor. Daryl’s knife sinks into the poor animal’s stomach and he looks up, blue eyes as cold as ice when it comes to looking at strangers, and he answers Aaron’s wave with a nod, cold too, like a warning sign more than a friendly greeting.

You bite your lips when Aaron looks at you, his gaze slightly wider.

“Have a good night. I think you know where my house is if any of you need anything.”

Nodding warmly in thanks, you wave goodbye, trying to silence your own laughter until he’s finally far enough away to not hear you.

“What’s so funny?” Daryl asks, but you shake your head as you walk the porch stairs to the wooden chair in the corner.

“You have to skin that poor animal that did nothing to you just now? Do you want to traumatize April?”

Daryl scoffs, turning his attention back to the possum.

“April saw me do the same thing to squirrels, she ain't picky like ya. Besides, Sam took her for a walk.”

You twist your lips.

“Well, excuse me but not all of us had to eat rare animals like you.”

He chuckles.

“How did the interview go?”

You sigh, wishing the lie you told had been true.

“Good I guess, though I had to lie. I told Deanna my dad had been an architect because Mark was one…”

Your voice drops to a whisper at the end of the sentence, as if the weight of the lie had sunk deep into your chest, (because after so many years together, your mind still registered Jeff as a father figure) but when Daryl looks up and your gazes meet, you can feel the warmth in his ocean–colored eyes, so you just shrug.

“He was yer real dad, peach. Don’ feel guilty for choosin' him.”

“Guess so. Thank you.” You manage to smile amidst the confusion that comes from thinking about those two infinitely different men, internally wishing you could find your brother now more than ever, as if he had the answers to everything. “It’s just that… I would like to know how things happened in my house, if my mom was what I always thought she was, or if she was also a lie.”

Daryl nods, understanding, but he holds your gaze.

“She loved ya, that’s the only truth among all the lies, okay?”

When you nod too, he continues cleaning the poor animal, but when you see his hands stained with blood, an idea appears in your mind.

“You haven’t take a shower yet.”

Daryl shrugs, eyes still on the floor.

“Why ya ask?”

You laugh sarcastically.

“Oh, you’re cute, love. Did you really think that was a question?”

He chuckles, and silence reigns for a while, but always comfortably, like the afternoons in the different seasons you spent together, for 3 and a half years: but now, like a peace offering from the life that seemed like it would always go at supersonic speed, you can finally feel a little calm to enjoy the small luxuries that still existed in that new world that rises from the ashes, that was rebuilt from the ruins.

The decision in your body makes your boots make a sound against the wood when you stand up, a sound that Daryl follows until his gaze meets yours again, after looking with confusion at your outstretched hand.

“What?”

“Will you make me explain it, Dixon?”

His head tilts to the side slightly.

“Can ya?”

His honest question makes you let out a laugh, but at the same time, makes you frown in confusion.

“Are you serious?”

Daryl chuckles, stabbing the knife into the center of the animal, pinning it to the ground so no one tries to steal it from him before standing up.

“Ya should have started there.”

But when he tries to get closer, you hold up a hand, stopping him in place.

“Please don’t put your hands on me when you have that poor animal’s blood still on them.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, but he begins to walk slowly as you walk backwards.

“Whatcha think our kid is gonna eat tonight, woman?”

You roll your eyes before turning to the door, taking advantage of the time alone before everyone comes back.

The velvet carpet feels unreal beneath your fingers, but the weight of your body completely stops being yours the moment you sit beneath it, your back against the couch, with cushions that must feel like heaven as April sleeps on them, on her right side and in a fetal position with a sense of protection. Night has already fallen, but the light from the ceiling envelops everyone, always close, clean and tired, so some choose to sleep the night away, among them Sam and Carl who, laying in the couch behind his dad, continues to cradle Judith in his arms: emotions and sensations are still confusing, but for the first time in a long time, every one feel the peace.

“So…” Michonne is the first to dare to start a conversation, and she holds a mischievous smile as she looks in your direction, and at Daryl who's sitting next to you, although his attention is on the arrow he continues to sharpen. “I know we had to split up when the prison fell, but you guys came back with a daughter. I see you didn’t waste any time.”

The rest of them laugh knowingly, louder when Daryl scoffs, but it’s endearing to see the affection they all seem to have for each other.

“And what did you do before all this, (Y/N)?” Across the carpet, Maggie is still stroking Glenn’s hair, who has his head in her lap. “Before you became Rambo, because I saw you shoot, and you don’t seem to have learned it in this world. That, and how the hell did you get your falcon?”

Their gazes that fall on you are curious.

“I was a journalist.”

The answer hangs in the air, but you wait to see if anyone will dare to inquire about it.

“No fucking way.” Abraham laughs openly, sinking further into the single sofa that receives his large, worked body, taking another swig from the bottle of whiskey he stole from somewhere.

You laugh with him, because you know that who you were was never hand in hand with who you were force to be.

“I was, but… I learned the fine art of shooting, too. I took classes for years, and I think I did it when my dad saw the hell of an aim I had: every time I threw a toy at my older brother, it always hit him right in the head. Ask Daryl, I did the same thing to him once…”

Michonne laughs as she recalls the story of the peach hitting him in the forehead, but when Carol and the others frown in confusion, Daryl looks up when he feels the weight of the stares, mimicking their expressions before he turns his attention back to the arrow.

“I ain't tellin' that story.”

Rick chuckles at him, looking at you next.

“And your brother, (Y/N)? Was he with you at the beginning?”

Thinking about Austin is trying to unravel the whole mystery of your family, but doing so at this moment is useless.

“No, he disappeared before all this happened, but I hope he’s alive. And about Aeris, I found her shortly after leaving a camp: she was injured, nothing serious, but I tried to take care of her as best I could for a couple of weeks until she regained the mobility of her wing. However, when I tried to get her to leave, she stayed with me.”

The story is fascinating for everyone.

“How do you know she’s her?” Rick asks, and his question makes Daryl look at you, silently challenging you to repeat what you said in the car when you went to the prison.

“Aeris is a girl. She taught herself to listen to the walkers and look for a way out away from them. No offense, all the men here are pretty tough, but it would have taken a boy a long while to figure that out on his own.”

There’s not a shred of shame in your words but they take the compliment with smiles and little laughs, and the group continues the conversation for a few more minutes, until, after seeing that Daryl is still in his own world, Carol is ready to make him the main topic again.

“Maybe you should tell us about the very romantic way Daryl proposed to you, (Y/N). Because don't think we didn't see the ring, Pookie.”

“Don'…” He warns her, but his failed attempt at holding a menacing glare no longer works with her or the others, not after everything they’d been through together, which ends in a grunt of frustration from his part. “Jesus, ma lil' monkey behaves better than ya'll, and she’s 5.”

“Speaking of your daughter, Daryl…” Glenn chuckles, but his brow furrows in genuine confusion. “Why do you call her monkey?”

Daryl shrugs, pretending the memory of the first time he held April doesn’t weigh with the thought that, at that moment, her small body fit perfectly in his arms, as if she was made to be his baby girl, his little monkey.

“Every time I hold her, she clings to me like a monkey. Plus, I know the nickname bothers her.”

Michonne frowns too, chuckling.

“That’s so you…”

A little later, even though everyone tried to fight harder to stay awake longer, you all succumb to the need to close your eyes and rest your mind and body, each in their own world, dreaming of memories from the past. But you seem to be the second one who brought with you the casual insomnia of your past life, and now, the shadows of the night feel as painful as the scars on your wrists, as if you suddenly feel that burning hell in your body again, forcing you to open your eyes. Luckily, the real world is not too dark with the light that filters through the curtains as you sit back down, noticing that Daryl is not by your side. Abraham's hand is no longer clutching the now-vanished bottle, and for some reason, everything seems to click in your mind as you stand, walking silently to the slightly open door.

The air is cool on your skin, and it brings back memories of Daryl and you sitting on the terrace of your room, hiding from your dad, talking about everything as you sit on the first step of the porch next to him: you breathe in the scent of the dew on the grass, and he reaches out to hand you the bottle.

You take a sip, and the bitter liquid slides down your throat.

“I don’t know what I missed more: this or the sex.” You chuckle at the way he frowns at you, genuinely offended. “Relax, I’m kidding. God, I’d forgotten you have no sense of humor.”

Daryl scoffs, taking the bottle back.

“I never made a joke 'cause ya spent our time together makin' fun of me.”

“Oh, please. You don't know how to tell jokes, Daryl Dixon.” You roll your eyes and he chuckles, but then, for a few seconds you remain silent, continuing to accept the fact that the street is free of walkers or any danger. “All of this is kind of crazy, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“Yeah. But I think this place can really be a home for April and Judith.”

“But?”

“No buts, peach. For the first time in ma life, there ain't a but.” Daryl shrugs as well, looking at you seriously. “Though it feels weird to think that the life I pictured with ya can become a reality in a world where the undead walk.”

His words fall on your chest with the weight of your story that seemed to end forever that night: the same life that you two could now continue or start over with April when there was finally no one to stand in the way. But selfishly, your mind brings back those words Daryl uttered: “I don’ wanna see ya anymore. Go home. S’ over.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Dunno. I got bored.”

“Of me?”

After that, the devastating and deafening silence. The feeling of leaving him that night was ugly and painful, and in that moment, in that second, you understood what a heartbreak felt like.

“Did ya hate me for that?”

His voice is shy like his gaze that this time can’t make eye contact with you, and so full of guilt that it can fill the whole night.

“No. Never.” The confidence in your words is like a spark in the darkness of his life, and Daryl can finally look in your direction. “It was painful and confusing, but I could never hate you, Daryl. I thought about it a lot, and I realized that I let you in, I chose that life with you, and honestly, I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

He takes a moment to let your words settle in his chest and to free him from the guilt that accompanied him all that time, but listening to you is all Daryl needs to start letting go of all the sadness, the mistakes, and the opportunities that he lost for fear of betting everything and that you, eventually, would get tired of that life by his side, walking away from him like his parents did.

“When did you get the tattoo?” You ask, softly.

Daryl clears his throat, feeling the heat on his cheeks despite the breeze, looking at your profile and the way you give him time to compose himself (while you admire the moon and the starless sky) because behind his rough exterior, there had always been that person who once told you that he didn’t know how to love or let himself be loved, the same person who now has your name tattooed on his chest. Daryl knows that was going to happen the moment you two entered the shower, but when you didn’t say anything, perhaps because of the darkness of the bathroom, he really thought that you hadn’t noticed it.

Daryl put the bottle aside as his hands wake up as nervous as his frantic heart.

“I got it the day after I pushed ya away.” Daryl is shy, he always was, although he knew how to mask his own insecurities well with his cold gaze, and that menacing attitude and sarcastic comments, but it all comes down to this moment, to being able to be completely honest with his feelings because now Daryl knows that, although you can still choose to leave, you have chosen to stay with him, you have chosen him. “Ya have always been the only one, peach. Ma life 'fore ya had no meanin' 'til ya showed up with yer bold comments and the way ya told me that ya liked me, when ya told me that we were all a lil' broken and that was okay. Ya have always been the only one since the moment ya walked into ma work place with yer eyes full of life n' I felt like an idiot lookin' at ya. S' always gonna be ya, peach, for the rest of ma life.”

It’s overwhelming, all of it, like the world suddenly stops spinning, so abruptly that it’s like that moment when you get off the roller coaster and your body has to acclimate to the change. But when your hand cups his cheek and Daryl leans slightly into your touch, the warmth of his skin against yours is proof that it’s all real, that the journey apart was worth it in the end.

“I’ve always loved you, silly, even if that head of yours didn’t let you fully believe me. But do you know why I chose you?” Daryl shakes his head, but loving the way your thumb caresses his skin. “My grandfather told me once to find someone who would let me linger in his gaze, and I never understood what that meant until I saw the way your gaze changed when you looked at me. And at that moment, I understood every word.”

And in that instant when Daryl place his hand on your waist, moving closer to you until your lips meet, it's as if you and him finally understand that, after so many ups and downs in that roller coaster of emotions, you two can step off that wild ride and step safely onto the ground, without any fear at all when it comes to love.

And the kiss is soft at the beginning, as if you two were going back to the start line, trying to recognize each other, but he needs more, so Daryl licks your lower lip for you to let him in. You open your lips a little bit for him, and he sinks his tongue into your mouth. Drowning in lust after being away from each other for so long, Daryl pulls you against closer to his body, your back arching under his touch as his fingers start searching for your skin under your t-shirt.

“Mommy?”

As if that were the most impure image in the world, you pull back to see April stopping in the doorway.

“Now I know why people say kids ruin all the fun.” Daryl sighs, and even though you know he’s joking, you slap his shoulder making him chuckle as he looks at April. “Ya okay, sweetheart? Did ya have a nightmare?”

April rushes to take the hand he extends, walking across the wood in her fuzzy socks. Expertly, as if he’s always been her father, Daryl guides her to sit between his legs, shielding her from the night’s chill with his arms.

“Wow. You look like quite the father.” You chuckle, but he knows you mean it too. “Who would have thought? But I'm proud of you, Dixon.”

April laughs at the same time Daryl snorts.

“I wasn’t jokin' 'bout what I said in the shower.”

About having more kids after getting married.

“In the shower?” April looks at him with curious eyes, a gaze so deep it forces him to swallow.

“That’s somethin' between mommy and daddy.” Daryl clears his throat, still nervous but full of excitement to talk about himself as her daddy. “And ya should be sleepin', monkey. S' not like every day ya get a couch that comfortable to lounge on.”

You chuckle as a flash of the past crosses your mind.

“Believe him, sweetheart, because his bed was rock hard.”

Offended, Daryl frowns.

“I bought a new mattress.”

“After I complained of pain.”

And there it was in front of April, the way you two used to tease each other, earning smiles at the end because it was all just that, a joke: and it makes April smile.

“Ruby never laughed, but you two do quite a bit.”

Her words are lighthearted, but they’re also like an arrow sinking into your skin. But before she feels the first pang of pain from a life half-lived, though, your hand pushes her lock of hair behind her ear, your fingers caressing her soft in the process.

“Why are you so cute, uh?”

She laughs cutely.

“Can I ask you two something?” Her gaze still holds that spark of happiness, and she alternates it between you and Daryl, both of you nodding. “Can you please teach me how to swim?”

Confused, you two share a look before looking back at her.

“Why, sweetheart?” Daryl asks.

April shrugs.

“Ruby’s friend would tell me stories of when he and his family would go to the lake to swim. He said it was one of his best childhood memories in the whole world.”

Childhood, a childhood April didn’t get to experience healthily, not when she had learned what it was like to be afraid and terrified, abandoned, of having a gun pointed at her twice, of having her short life constantly put in danger instead of enjoying games and laughing like a normal little girl. But before you can find a good excuse and say no, Daryl speaks again, and there’s a certain playfulness in his deep voice that masks the fear he feels too at the danger of exposing her outside, just to try and get her to experience a life without fear.

“I heard someone say there was a lake nearby. I think we could practice there.”

“Really?!” April asks with genuine excitement. Nodding, you swallow the lump in your throat, along with your own fears as April’s gaze comes back to life, as if the stars that weren’t in the sky have awakened in her eyes. “I love you two! Thank you so much!”

She presses herself against Daryl’s chest, as if her life depended on it, and he rests his chin on her head, hugging her back, breathing out his own fear: but now, you two know what being parents was all about.

@fluffy-dixon @stunkbiggu @kurogxrix @ffsjustletmesleep @kaz11283 @daryldixmedown @enretrogue @minnie-min

[kurogxrix]

so many things i wanna write but so much writer’s block to resolve

[kurogxrix]

The Bird and The Worm

Steven Grant x Shy!Fem!Reader

TW/CW: None really, some fluff. Overprotective Birb Dad Khonshu, activate!

A/N: Alright since y'all loved this post so much I had to do something with it, and given that it's Valentine's Day and I am, as usual, chronically single, I figured I would share the delulu with our sweet little nerd. It's short, I know. But my chest is hurting and I am thinking of going to the ER later lol (I also recommend listening to Owl City's "The Bird and The Worm" it's a cute song!)

You had been in a very good mood, today, Khonshu had noticed. Humming to yourself, giggling a bit louder than usual at something on your phone. He watched as you practically bounced around your flat.

"I take it something has happened, little bird?" Khonshu hummed, a humored scoff coming from his chest. You continued to buzz around, even reaching for your seldomly-used makeup kit you only used for special work parties or for fun--and the latter was rare.

He leaned against the wall, to remain out of your way, amusement tickling something deep within him. Indeed, you were like a busy little bee, buzzing around her hive.

"Oh!" You finally chirp out a response, beaming happily up at him. "I... Um... Well, I um, got a date!"

That surprised him.

You were a wallflower; a shy, little thing that had beautiful and bright colors that stood out; especially amongst his dwindling followers. Not keen on being the center of attention, you preferred to dance on the coattails of most social situations.

And you had never been out on a date before, let alone asked out by anyone.

"And who is your date?" Khonshu asked, tipping his head to the side as you began to apply your facial primer. Makeup trends definitely changed from how they used to do them back in his day...

"Oh, he's so sweet! Some guy knocked into me while I was out today; knocked my smoothie all over the floor and didn't even apologize." You huff, recalling that rude dude, "Then he showed up and snapped at him! He even paid for me to get a new one, even though I said he didn't have to..."

You remembered how heartbroken you felt--you had been looking forward to your favorite smoothie all day. Work sucked and those little pick-me-ups always boosted your mood and energy when you needed them.

"And after that we sat down and started talking--we have a lot in common." You giggled, carefully dripping foundation on your face before beginning to blend it. "He seemed hesitant at first, when he asked me out, tonight... But he finally got all the words out and, well, I d'nno... It felt right to finally say yes to someone?"

"Hmm." He hummed, thinking hard. You didn't normally warm up to people, and to see you so excited for something... he was happy for you. His shy little bird opening up her wings a little.

"And you are not concerned this man was putting up a front?" He asked dubiously, his own mind drawing conclusions.

"...No. I really didn't get that vibe from him." You replied thoughtfully, looking down at your bronzers and highlighters; trying to think of what kind of look you wanted to go for. Something to match your little turtleneck dress, surely. And well, it was Valentine's Day, so.... You went with some neutral shades. Blush was light and pink; your eyeshadows a mix of red and pink, too.

"...I see." Khonshu murmured, his head tipping to the other side.

"But we're going to meet up for dinner tonight. I hope it all goes well..." Your voice had fallen a little bit; the melancholy tone slipping into your voice a little saddening. You had spent many of these holidays alone--never having anyone to spend them with.

So... Well. There was no harm in letting you have this date, letting you go out and try to have fun with this mystery man of yours.

But you were downright silly to think Khonshu would just up and let you go to an undisclosed location without him shadowing you to make sure your were safe.

He had intended to follow you to make sure your date was what you had claimed he was--not some secret serial killer or someone who had a history of some form of violence towards another person.

But this... was so much worse.

Oh, he was steaming.

Fuming, toxic--an inferno of rage and disgust when he sat down with you at your little table.

The setting was a little roo intimate for his tastes; warm, soft candlelight, round-table booths where two could sit undeniably closer than most would deem normal--tucked in the back where few prying eyes would see.

Well. Save for him, anyways.

But what made him the most angry wasn't even how close you two were sitting; or even how he made you laugh.

It was the fact your date was Steven-fucking-Grant. The biggest thorn in his side since Marc had begun work under him as his Avatar. Even bigger than Marc's challenging and anti-authoritative attitude towards his will.

He was glad the man was no threat, but he hated the fact that naturally, your shy and quiet-natured soul had been drawn to Steven. The man was, by his own tally, a whiney, soft-hearted little cretin.

Always looking on the verge of a panic attack or a sobbing fit, his very soul radiated something that pissed Khonshu off.

And so... Khonshu decided that he could not let this be. Not his little bird. Not on his watch.

You needed to be kept safe--and being involved with Steven or any of the others meant you could be put in harm's way. Even moreso just than being a follower of his.

At least worshipping him can be done in private. Here you are, in public, with the worm. Instead of devouring him, like a bird should, you commiserated and laughed with him.

And so, he spent the rest of the evening trying to ruin your date; if only to keep you safe. Yes, yes. He had to keep you safe. And away from Steven. Especially Steven.

...Mostly Steven.

When Steven held out the little flower he'd gotten for you, Khonshu made the candle flame flare up and catch the head on fire--making the both of you panic just for him to dunk it in the pitcher of water at your table.

But all that did was make you worry, taking his hands to check them over for burns, handing your napkin from your lap to dry his hands.

He spilled the glass of wine on Steven's crisp and neatly-pressed shirt. All that did was make you giggle at Steven's apology for being "clumsy", and you leaned over with some napkins to try and dab away the red stain on the fabric.

The waiter had dropped your food order, spilling your pasta in your own lap and covering your legs with the sauce and noodles. (Oh, he felt bad for that one.)

But once again, fate was conspiring against him. Steven had all but tripped over himself in an effort to try and flag down the staff for a towel to help clean you off (but maintaining a respectful touch as he did so).

At all the "funny" coincidences of the evening, Steven managed to convince you to let him walk you home.

Khonshu had had enough.

He pushed Steven into a dirty puddle in the sidewalk, splattering your nice shoes with grime and muck, his curls plastered to his head with gross water as he was left sputtering in confusion.

So... naturally, you ripped off your jacket when you pulled him up, and wiped his face with it; offering to take him back to your apartment to clean up.

The night turning out "perfect" for you two had him wanting to smash his skull open on a brick wall.

"Don't mean t' take up your couch, love." Steven murmured into his warm cup of tea. You had so generously offered to wash his clothes for him and let him shower--even giving him permission to use your special shampoos and soaps!--and then told him, since his laundry was dirty... He could have the couch and you two could split the vegan-friendly chocolates he brought for you while his clothes were washing.

"It's okay." You reply, wiping the last bits of your makeup from your face; already having slipped into some cute pajamas with kitty cats on them, your shirt had the slogan "Nap time is the purr-fect time!" on it. You sat next to him, cradling your cup of tea in your hands, the faint sound of your washer humming along in the background.

"Whole bloody evening's been a mess, hasn't it?" He smiled apologetically. "I didn't mean to come home with you--that is! Uh! I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck and couched nervously, a hint of pink on his cheeks, "Well, I didn't want to impose, y'know? Or seem like some creepy weirdo who tries to stalk girls home, yeah?"

Steven was wearing a pair of your largest pj pants, and an old sports jersey, wrapped up in one of your fuzzy bathrobes. He looked the farthest thing away from a "creep". He had been a perfect gentleman all evening!

"It's okay." You smile warmly at him, setting your mug down next to his on the coffee table in font of you, reaching for your TV remote.

As you both settled in on your couch for a silly rom-com movie that had popped up in your recommended list on Netflix, Khonshu was almost vibrating from the sheer rage he felt--he was certain he would snap his staff with how hard he had been gripping it.

He was even more enraged when, after you had both become so engrossed with the movie you had let your time slip away; that you had offered to let Steven stay the fucking night. And even moreso that he accepted.

When the two of you had fallen asleep, cuddling on your couch--Khonshu hated the fact that you two just seemed... so... Ugh! Perfect for each other! No matter what he had done tonight--somehow you inevitably wound up in his arms; snuggled up and sleeping peacefully.

Well... it was better than the more intimate alternative--but still!

The bird wound up cuddling with the worm. His little bird.

As your chests rose and fell with calm, even breathing; Steven snuggled so tightly against you that his arm was draped over your waist and his nose was in the crook of your neck, Khonshu glowered.

He wondered if he let himself get hit by a car, would it kill him?

It was better than watching his sweet, innocent little bird fall for one of the most deceptively innocent creatures on Earth.

Yes you were happy, but come on...

Why did it have to be his Avatar?!

[kurogxrix]

UGHHHHH love ex!widow reader so much

Red, white, and you

Sam Wilson x ex widow!reader

Summary: After weeks of flirting with his ex-Widow teammate, Sam finally gets a date. Their dinner is filled with playful banter, and by the end of the night, he realizes this is just the beginning of something real between them.

Word count: 2077

Notes: no Captain America: Brave New World spoilers :)

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Sam Wilson had always been a flirt. It wasn’t something he planned—it just came naturally. A well-timed smirk, a smooth compliment, a playful wink. It worked more often than not. But not with you.

You were different.

Ever since you started working with him, assisting on missions as part of your post-Red Room life, he’d been laying it on thick. Nothing serious—just harmless teasing, soft smiles, lingering glances. But no matter how hard he tried, you never gave him anything back.

No blushes. No flustered reactions. No teasing remarks in return.

Nothing.

And yet, that only made him want to try harder.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Nice work out there,” Sam said as the Quinjet settled down after a mission. “Didn’t know deadly could look that good in combat boots.”

You glanced at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know Captain America had time to flirt mid-fight.”

“Multitasking is a skill,” he shot back with a grin. “And I’m great at it.”

You shook your head, unbuckling your harness. “Uh-huh.”

Sam sighed, watching you walk off. Another swing, another miss.

Bucky, sitting across from him, chuckled. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to her,” Sam admitted, rubbing his chin. “I mean, I’ve faced off against aliens, rogue supersoldiers, and angry government officials, but this?” He gestured toward you as you disappeared down the hall. “This is my toughest battle yet.”

Bucky smirked. “Hate to break it to you, man, but I think she’s immune.”

“Nobody’s immune forever,” Sam muttered, determined.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Over the next few weeks, he kept at it.

Casual compliments. Light touches on your arm. Offering you his jacket when the night got chilly. Always being the one to check in after missions, making sure you were okay.

And still, nothing.

At this point, it wasn’t just flirting anymore. It was a challenge.

But more than that? It was real.

The more time he spent with you, the more he wanted to know. Not just about your combat skills or your past as a Widow—but about you. What made you laugh? What made you smile? What made your eyes light up, just a little?

So he kept trying.

Until, one night, everything changed.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The two of you were alone, finishing up after a mission. The others had left, but Sam had stayed behind, claiming he had “Captain America duties” to take care of. In reality? He just wanted more time with you.

“Let me guess,” he said as you wiped down your weapons. “You’re about to run off without saying goodnight?”

You paused, glancing at him. “Would you rather I salute you first, Captain?”

“Damn, that’s cold,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Here I am, keeping you company, being all charming, and I don’t even get a ‘goodnight, Sam’?”

You shook your head, setting your weapons aside. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when I know what I want.” His voice was softer now, more serious. “And I think you know that by now.”

You held his gaze for a long moment. Then, before he could say anything else, you stepped forward, grabbed the front of his suit, and kissed him.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t hesitant. It was firm, decisive—like you were making a point.

Sam barely had time to react before you pulled back, staring at him like you were waiting for some kind of response.

He blinked. “Okay, hold up. Did I just win?”

You sighed. “Not everything is a battle, Sam.”

“Then what was that?”

You crossed your arms. “That was me making sure you finally shut up.”

He grinned. “Damn. You could’ve done that weeks ago.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright. Since I clearly am getting somewhere now—how about dinner?”

You raised a brow. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I am asking you on a date,” he confirmed. “No missions, no weapons, no Quinjet. Just me, you, and a very overpriced restaurant.”

You considered it for a moment. Then, with a small smirk, you nodded. “Alright, Captain. One date.”

Sam grinned. “See? I told Bucky you weren’t immune forever.”

You rolled your eyes, but for the first time, he caught it—the small, amused twitch of your lips. And just like that, he knew he was in trouble.

Because he was going to want so much more than just one date.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Sam Wilson had faced high-stakes missions, political pressure, and life-threatening situations. But standing outside your door, waiting for you to answer, was somehow way more nerve-wracking.

When the door finally opened, he had to take a second.

“Damn,” he said, looking you up and down with a slow grin. “You clean up nice.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t hide the slight smirk as you stepped out. “You’re acting like I don’t look good in tactical gear.”

“Oh, you do,” Sam assured, offering his arm. “But this? This is unfair.”

You gave him a dry look but took his arm anyway. “Let’s go before you start reciting poetry.”

He chuckled, leading you to the car.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The restaurant was nice. Really nice. White tablecloths, dim lighting, expensive wine—definitely a step up from their usual post-mission takeout.

“You trying to impress me, Wilson?” you asked as you sat across from him.

Sam smirked. “That depends. Is it working?”

You took a slow sip of your drink, watching him over the rim of your glass. “Jury’s still out.”

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright. What would impress you?”

You shrugged. “You’re the one who’s been trying for weeks. Shouldn’t you have figured that out by now?”

Sam exhaled a laugh. “See, that’s the thing about you—you don’t make anything easy.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Not at all,” he admitted. “Frustrated? Absolutely. But surprised? Never.”

You smirked, setting your glass down. “And yet, here you are. Buying me dinner. Trying to win me over.”

“That’s because I like a challenge.”

The way he said it—low, smooth, confident—made something flicker in your expression, but you covered it quickly.

“You must, considering you’ve been at this for weeks,” you teased.

“More like months,” Sam corrected. “But who’s counting?”

You quirked a brow. “So you’re saying you were flirting with me before I even noticed?”

Sam grinned. “Oh, you noticed. You just pretended you didn’t.”

You leaned back in your seat, tilting your head. “And what makes you so sure?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Because nobody ignores me that perfectly unless they’re trying to.”

You exhaled a small laugh, but didn’t argue.

Sam took a sip of his drink, watching you carefully. “So what changed?”

You met his gaze, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass. “You didn’t give up.”

He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“Most guys? They stop trying when they don’t get what they want right away. They lose interest. Move on.” You paused, then looked at him. “You didn’t.”

Sam’s expression softened. “Because I meant it.”

You held his gaze for a long moment.

Then, you smirked. “And because you don’t like losing.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “That too.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

By the time you left the restaurant, the city had settled into a quiet hum, the streets glowing with soft yellow light. Sam walked beside you, hands in his pockets, stealing glances your way.

“Y’know, this is the part where most people say they had a good time,” he teased.

You hummed. “Most people aren’t me.”

Sam chuckled. “Right. Forgot who I was dealing with.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “I did have a good time,” you admitted. “You’re not a bad date, Wilson.”

Sam grinned. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He stepped a little closer. “No promises.”

There was a pause—a small, charged moment where neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.

Then, without warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn’t cautious, wasn’t slow. It was firm, certain—decisive, just like the first one.

Sam barely had a second to process it before he kissed you back, his hands settling on your waist, pulling you even closer. The world around him blurred, the sounds of the city fading into nothing. All he could focus on was you—the warmth of your lips, the press of your body against his, the way you kissed like you had nothing to lose and everything to give.

When you finally pulled away, Sam exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You really don’t do anything halfway, huh?”

You smirked, your fingers still curled around his jacket. “Not my style.”

Sam grinned, shaking his head. “I think I’m in trouble.”

You stepped back, your smirk still in place. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

He laughed, running a hand over his face. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Sam tilted his head. “So… what now?”

You shrugged. “That depends. Are you gonna keep flirting, or are we past that stage?”

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh, I’m never gonna stop flirting with you.”

“Good,” you said, turning to walk away. “I’d hate to think you were getting lazy.”

Sam chuckled, falling into step beside you. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.”

You shot him a glance. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”

Sam smirked. “What, you want something else? Doll? Baby? Mrs. Wilson?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, bumping his shoulder against yours, “you’re still here.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But when Sam felt your fingers brush against his, just for a second, before you pulled away, he knew.

This wasn’t just a date.

It was the start of something real.

[kurogxrix]

gazes (joaquín torres x reader)

SUMMARY ››››› It's become increasingly apparent to Sam and Bucky that you and Joaquin cannot take your eyes off each other. Unfortunately for them, you two have decided to be Professionals and that means keeping your eyes, hands, and lips to yourselves. No matter how difficult it is.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,716

WARNINGS ››››› sexy times implied

A/N ››››› Ok so these headcanons y'all have been sending me are incredible. I read these two back to back and I just had to write something connecting them.

The kid had no tact.

Sam wasn't exactly sure why he expected more from the guy who'd led into his theory that Steve was on the moon by referencing vague internet rumors, but even despite that, he'd assumed Joaquin possessed some sense of subtlety.

Instead he was over at the leg press trying and failing not to stare at Y/N as she bent over at the middle to help Bucky push deeper into the stretch.

"You know she could hit you with a harassment claim for staring at her like that."

Joaquin jumped, the weights dropping suddenly with a loud clang. Across the gym, Bucky laughed as Y/N whipped around to face the two men. "Everything ok?" Her voice sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam couldn't help but smirk as Joaquin turned towards her, giving a little wave.

"Foot slipped," he answered, and she nodded, turning back to Bucky quickly.

"Foot slipped," Sam mocked.

"Dude, you scared the shit out of me."

"If you paid half the amount of attention you give to Y/N to your surroundings, you'd have known I'd been standing here for three minutes."

Joaquin gave a defensive scoff. "I wasn't staring at her--I was just--" he stopped, searching for an excuse, and Sam raised his eyebrows.

When it was clear Joaquin couldn't find a convincing enough lie to end the sentence, Sam shook his head. "You know, if you talk to her, she might actually let you take her out."

"I talk to her," Joaquin protested.

Sam shook his head, uncrossing his arms. "No, I mean talk to her. Chat her up. You've gotta have some game, right?"

"I've got game..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to look in her direction, finding her standing over Bucky's feet with her hands on her hips. "But like, we're co-workers, you know? I don't want to make things awkward around the gym or the compound or anything."

"Joaquin," Sam said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're already making things awkward."

"He's staring at your ass again."

"And you're trying to get out of stretching again," you quipped, moving Bucky's leg closer to his chest. The super soldier tilted his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of your accusation.

"Doesn't change the fact that I think you're about to give him a heart attack."

"I highly doubt he's worried in the slightest about my ass. He's probably zoned out."

"He's definitely focused in...on--"

"On my ass," you finished, shaking your head. You might have given Bucky's claim a little more credence if it weren't for the fact that Joaquin Torres had been anything but the consummate professional towards you. He was friendly and upbeat and welcoming, and one of the few genuinely good guys you'd ever had the pleasure of working with.

You'd never caught him staring once, and it's not like the boy was exactly known for subtlety. Last time Bucky had asked him to cover for him so you couldn't come down and teach him the right way to train his body, he'd told you that Bucky had left the compound to get you a thank you gift for all of your hard work. All while staring at the gym door.

The heavy sound of weights falling against each other echoed throughout the gym, and you spun around to face the sound. Sam hovered over Joaquin's shoulder, the latter no longer working the leg press but instead looking as if he'd just received the scare of his life.

Bucky broke into laughter, and you smacked at his leg.

"Everything ok?" you called out, and Joaquin smiled, giving a sheepish little wave at you. "Foot slipped."

"It's a good thing he wasn't at the bench press. You might have killed him."

Your head snapped back to Bucky who was giving you a shit eating grin.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm right."

"Do you think if I ask nicely Wakanda will take you back?"

"So you know I'm right."

You chanced a glance back at Joaquin who was still talking to Sam before turning back around and placing your hands on your hips. "I'm calling Ayo."

You were running early.

Not to any event in particular, but just for the general course of your day. It was rare for you to wake up to your first alarm so completely refreshed, and with a fully awake brain, you found it much easier to navigate the morning. You were able to get dressed without crawling back in bed for a few more minutes, and didn't have to battle with sleepy indecision when choosing what you wanted to eat for breakfast.

One thing after another just continued to roll your way, leading you to the gym much earlier than usual.

And that's where the luck stopped.

Or maybe it didn't stop. But it definitely took a turn. Because while you fully expected someone else to be in the gym already, you hadn't expected just one person to be in the gym. And even if you had, you wouldn't have guessed that that one person would be Joaquin. And if, for some reason, you'd had the foresight to sense that, you definitely never would have pictured him to be running on the treadmill shirtless.

You stopped in your tracks, eyes falling to the bouncing dog tags on his chest and then lower to the well defined abs you'd somehow never seen before.

It felt like you'd seen just about every man in this compound shirtless. At some point, they all seemed to strip in the gym or during one of your group training classes you ran for those who weren't field agents. Bucky was shirtless half the time you worked together. It was so normal, you hardly even blinked an eye anymore. Seeing Sam without a shirt was more rare and quite the sight, but it'd never caught your breath quite like seeing Joaquin. Joaquin, who had never so much as worn a tank top in the gym, Joaquin.

And now here he was, chest bare and heaving, feet pounding rhythmically against the treadmill, hair still messy from his pillow and sweat. Your brain couldn't seem to function correctly, offering you images of the sight before you, only closer. Much closer. Hovering inches over your stretched out body as the headboard behind you rammed into the wall with the force of each thrust--

"Hey," Joaquin greeted, noticing you standing off to the side. You blinked, heat rushing to your face as he turned the treadmill down to a more leisurely pace. "Something wrong with my form?"

It was tempting to lie and offer to "help him fix it." Or to be completely honest and tell him you'd never seen a human form as perfect as his.

But neither of those responses were professional or even appropriate, and you needed this job.

You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, I was just wondering why you were wearing those," you said, gesturing to his dog tags, and allowing your eyes to fall to his chest once more. You followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down his body, heading to the waistband of his shorts. Joaquin reached to touch his tags, causing them to jingle together once more and pull your attention up to him.

"It's hard to let them go," he smiled, ruefully, hitting the button so the belt slowed even more. "I'd say it's a habit, putting them on, but at this point they're just like a part of me."

You nodded, wishing you'd taken this conversation anywhere but to the idea of dog tags and what they stood for. It wasn't so much a mood killer but a guilt inducer because instead of you feeling embarrassed and somber, all you wanted to do was grab them and pull him closer to you.

He must have read the conflict on your face because he gave a crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, it's kinda morbid."

"No," you shook your head, clearing it of the daydream induced fog. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"No, nah, it's cool," his smile grew into grin, as the belt came to a stop. He leaned his forearms against the console, staring at you as if waiting for you to continue the conversation. Which you were not equipped to do with a smiling and shirtless and sweaty Joaquin Torres right before you.

"Well, thanks for being cool about it," you said with a nod.

My God, something was wrong with you. They were just abs. And sure, maybe the abs belonged to the man who not only found the time to moonlight as a superhero but star in your increasingly dirty dreams of late, but it was just a body party that you'd seen a million times.

But never on Joaquin.

You blamed everything your brain was doing to you on Bucky and all of his stupid comments about Joaquin's supposed fixation on your ass. You wondered what he would say if he could see you now. "And I thought I was half machine. I could practically see your brain short circuiting." or "If that's what you're like when you see him half-naked, how are you ever going to--"

"Yeah, of course," Joaquin said, still smiling, his eyes lifting up over your shoulder as the other door to the gym opened and Sam came in. "Hey," he greeted with a jerk of his chin.

"Hey," Sam said, drawing closer, his eyes on you. You forced a smile on to your own face, and lifted a hand, not trusting anything that was coming out of your mouth.

"You're here early," the other man said, stepping onto the treadmill next to Joaquin's, and putting his water bottle down next to the machine.

Both of them were looking at you now, and it's not like you could handle staying in this gym any longer. "I came down looking for my water bottle. I think I left it here yesterday."

Sam raised his eyebrows glancing around the gym, and Joaquin stepped down off of the machine. "Do you want help looking for it?" he asked, and your whole body seemed to tense up at the idea, your brain transporting you to a future scenario where the two of you wandered around the room, Joaquin next to you or behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him, all the while searching for a water bottle that was sitting on your dresser.

"No." Your voice came out too high, but you tried to play it off, shaking your head. "I've already interrupted your workout enough. It's either by the weights or not in here."

"Alright," he nodded. "If you need any help looking around the compound though, let me know."

"Thanks," you said. And then you gave another stupid wave and beelined it for the weight racks because you had to get out of here.

You made a show of looking next to each section of weights, even bending over to check underneath of them as if it could have been knocked under somewhere. After you felt an appropriate amount of time had passed to be convincing, you straightened up, empty handed. You turned back to Joaquin and Sam, both watching you rather than continuing their workouts as you might have hoped.

"Not here," you called back with a shrug and then left the gym and headed straight up to your shower.

He was nothing if not predictable.

The minute Y/N bent over to check behind the weight rack, his eyes were glued to her. Or perhaps more accurately, the bright teal spandex shorts she wore. As she pulled herself back up from searching for her water bottle and turned to them, Joaquin quickly looked to Sam as if the two had been talking the whole time and then "casually" returned to her.

"Not here!" she said, shrugging and then walking out of the gym, her footsteps quick and purposeful as she left through the door Sam had just entered by.

"So, what'd I interrupt?"

Joaquin looked up at Sam as if remembering he was there. "What?"

"You know, when the two of you were sitting by this machine making eyes at each other? Did you actually say anything to her or….?"

Joaquin shook his head. "No, she just came in and, uh, we chatted for a second, and then…" he trailed off, as if not fully remembering any of the past ten, twenty, however many minutes.

"You just chatted," Sam repeated, the disbelief on his face edging into his voice.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded.

"Anywhere in this chat you finally ask her out?"

"Nah, it didn't feel right."

"It didn't--she was practically taking off the other half of your clothes with her eyes," Sam sputtered, gesturing to Joaquin's shorts.

The kid laughed and shook his head as if Sam didn't know what he was talking about. Joaquin moved to exit the gym as well. "I'll see you later, man," he said, leaving a very exasperated Sam behind.

Bucky Barnes was a motherfucking liar.

"Let's grab a drink on Friday," he said.

"Consider it me making it up to you for being such a pain in your ass," he said.

"I'll buy," he said.

Mothefucker.

This wasn't just you and your favorite co-worker getting a drink. This was a goddamn set up. Because one hour and three mojitos into the night, Sam and Joaquin walked in the front door.

"I fucking hate you," you said, glaring up at his stupid smug face.

"Well, what a surprise, he grinned, as you shook a finger up at him.

"I told you in confidence I'm a flirty drunk."

He snorted, giving you a look out the side of his eyes. "You told me you were a flirty drunk after you sent me several highly inappropriate drunk text messages about what you wanted to do to a certain Lieutenant, who," the self-satisfied smile was back on Bucky's face. "Is making his way over to us right now."

"When I get home, I swear to God, I'm buying you a ticket to Wakanda."

Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "You're not going to do it now?"

"I didn't bring my credit card because you said you were paying," you huffed.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam and Joaquin were next to the two of you, greeting Bucky with hand slaps and one armed hugs. Sam came around and wrapped an arm around you first before sliding into the seat next to Bucky, and Joaquin came forward, giving you a quick hug.

Which was a first.

More than the feeling of his back underneath your palm, or the way he seemed to emanate warmth, you were done in by how absolutely incredible he smelled. But before you could fully identify whether it was his shampoo, a cologne, or just him, he pulled away and took the only other available seat near the group--the one next to you.

"I see you started without us," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at the assortment of glasses that sat before you. Most of them were Bucky's as he downed beers faster than should have been humanly possible.

"Hard drinker, huh Y/N," Joaquin teased, shooting you a smile.

"Pfft," you dismissed. "Only three are mine."

"Three?" Sam asked, leaning forward to better look at you. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour," you said, completely unnecessarily leaning forward too.

Bucky shrugged. "I got the time wrong."

"Guess we better catch up then," Joaquin said, and you sank back into your chair, narrowing your eyes at him in challenge.

"If you can."

They did.

You were outpaced fairly quickly against the two soldiers and one super soldier. The rum-induced fuzziness around the edges of your brain was compounded by having Joaquin so close to you. At some point he'd pulled his chair a bit closer to yours so that he could better hear the conversation, and you don't remember when it happened, but his arm had also slid around the back of your chair. To your relief neither Bucky nor Sam seemed to acknowledge this. In fact, Bucky was positively quiet and normal all things considered. Everything was going better than you could have expected.

Until the music kicked up.

Sam was the first to be dragged onto the dance floor. He was Captain America. Of course he'd been targeted by the stunning girl in the red dress who'd only had to come up and ask "Does Captain America dance?" to succeed in pulling him off to the dance floor.

Bucky was next. Although he wasn't tugged onto the dance floor by his hand the way Sam was. It was the sight of the person in the tight black number that did him in, luring him away to the dance as if drawn by a magnet.

And then it was you and Joaquin, sitting at the bar. Alone. Together.

You looked up from your drink, pushing the straw down into the ice to stir up the clinking sounds, and he took a swig of his beer before putting the bottle back down on the bar.

"Alright, let's dance," he said, nodding with his head towards the crowd, and you let out a disbelieving snort.

"I don't know how to dance. I mean, I can dance," you attempted to clarify, although you had a feeling words were failing you at the moment. "But that's real dancing, and I can't do that."

"I guess you're lucky you have a really good teacher asking you to dance then," Joaquin grinned, holding out a hand. You looked down at his open palm, hesitating only for a second before you slid your hand into his and jumped down from your chair.

He led you out through the moving bodies expertly, dodging couples who were clearly more into the dancing than each other and couples where the complete opposite was true. The small bit of space he found you was closer to the center of the dance floor than you'd usually feel comfortable with, but when he turned towards you with that look on his face, any of your residual anxiety had vanished.

"Ok, come close," he said, and you took a small step closer to him, causing him to laugh. "Closer." He gestured, and you moved forward some more, Joaquin's hands finding their way to your hips and pulling you even closer. His hands rose, one finding its way to your mid-back, pushing your elbow up to rest on his, as the other took your hand and placed it over shoulder.

"This ok?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and you nodded, trying to keep your attention on him, his instructions and his words, and not the way that you could feel just about every part of him from the way he was angled against you. His right side was flush against your left, and his knee pushed between yours.

"Just follow me," he said, his head bent close to yours. Before you could even respond, he started to move, pulling you along with him through the dance. It was smooth and rolling and you'd never seen a guy able to roll his hips like Joaquin. He seemed to know exactly how to guide you, moving his body to push and pull yours along whenever you hesitated or felt lost, coaxing waves and movements out of you that you didn't know you could do. Each success was met with a small word of praise and a brilliant smile, as his hands shifted to hold you closer, and you wrapped your own hand around his neck to better feel and predict his movements.

It felt as if a fog had rolled in over the dancefloor, obstructing all else from view so it was just you and Joaquin, eyes locked to each other as you moved together, occupying the same space.

The song faded into the next one, and Joaquin stopped. You went to move backwards, to give him space and have him move on as many other of the more skilled dancing couples seemed to do, switching partners amongst each other. But he kept you close to him, hand sliding down to your waist.

"Now you can really dance," he teased, his eyes shining as they stared into yours.

"Only with you." It was supposed to be a self-deprecating joke, but it came out too quiet and earnest. Joaquin licked his lips, and your eyes followed the gesture, flickering between his mouth and his eyes.

You don't remember making the decision. You only remember, moving even further into his arms, and pushing yourself up to reach his lips with your own. He bent down to meet you, pulling you even closer and pressing his hard body into yours. His lips moved as slowly and sensually as his hips had, drawing you in and guiding you through a careful rhythm that promised much, much more.

Sam sat with Bucky at the bar. Joaquin and Y/N had disappeared somewhere amongst the dance floor, hidden amongst the crowd.

"You think it worked?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"If it didn't we're screwed," Sam shook his head, taking a swig from his drink.

As if on cue, the two emerged from the swaying bodies, hand in hand, sweaty and much happier than they had been when Sam had left them at the bar.

"We're gonna head back to the compound," Joaquin said with practiced casualness.

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, and Sam swore there was mischief literally glinting in his eyes.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded too fast and too many times. "Yeah, Y/N forgot about something there…"

"What'd you forget?" Bucky asked, turning to Y/N with a wolfish smile.

"Nothing. We're going to have sex," Y/N said, flatly, causing Sam to nearly spit out his drink. "And if you say one more word, I know a pilot who will fly you to Wakanda himself. No ticket needed."

Bucky mimicked zippering his lips into a smug look, and she rolled her eyes before tugging Joaquin out of the bar by his hand. And he followed. Eyes glued to her ass.

[kurogxrix]

keeping for later

the corel incident

sephiroth x reader | 7.1k+ words

warnings: my little twist on what happens in corel, angst with a happy ending, gn!reader, graphic depictions of violence (towards the reader and others), drowning, protective seph my beloved - would and does kill for you, as usual with me sane!seph. please let me know if i missed anything!

dust kicks up under your feet with each step you take, the blaring sun beating down on your skin, the heat of it seeping into your hair and scalp, lingering on your clothes. the air is nearly as warm, almost hard to breathe in at the peak of the day's heat, and the smell of coal was just as prominent. it’s different from mako but the same kind of suffocating that could make one sick if you weren’t used to it and were more accustomed to cleaner air.

corel is different than you had expected. you knew of the economic decline for the need of coal with shinra building more mako reactors but there’s a quaint peacefulness to the town and a happy hopefulness to the people, though it doesn’t hide the signs of how badly off they have been. with the construction of the mako reactor however, a ‘promise of prosperity’, there was a reason to think things were truly going to turn around.

and of course shinra had pulled out the full stops to show them as much by bringing in water and supplies, public security, urban planners, and soldiers to clear out the monsters along with the construction crew. the project is nearly finished now, the reactor building shiny and silver, standing out against the brown dusty hues that paint the town, now in your line of sight and is your current destination. 

you had joined sephiroth on this mission to corel hoping to help the townspeople however you might be able to but shinra seemed intent on putting on a show, the whole reason you assumed they had sent sephiroth to deal with monsters that could have been handled by a few 2nd class, and when you arrived you were quickly ordered to ‘enjoy the town’ and plan to attend the tour of the reactor. nothing more.

in no place to disobey, here you are, walking up the metal steps, the first few already blanketed in a thin layer of loose dirt, and joining the citizens already at the threshold of the reactor waiting for the tour to begin. you take a quiet place at the back of the group, thankful for the cooler air coming from inside that soothes your heated skin as you wait.

after a few minutes someone walks towards the front of the group dressed in a more casual dark blue suit, wearing a shinra hard hat and a smile that looks almost too excited. you don’t recognize the shinra employee who introduces themselves to the group as jaden, your tour guide for the day. not that you could say you know many employees outside of soldier.

based on his looks from the front to the back of the group, someone else has taken a place behind you and you feel a shiver run up your spine when you register their presence at your back. you hadn’t heard them approach or their steps as the group shuffled forward to meet the person conducting the tour and even as the tour starts with some bullshit introduction about the ‘wonders of shinra technology’, they don’t make any noise.

rolling your shoulders, you let the odd feeling slide down your spine and fall to the floor, finding your thoughts wandering to something, someone, else so easily. 

what kind of monster might sephiroth be facing right now? or was shinra perhaps trying to force him in front of the camera? was he okay? realistically, you know that he’s unscathed but it wouldn’t stop you from worrying about your beloved until he was at your side again. it had only been a few hours since you had to part ways, so little time compared to how often you had to be apart at times, but it was enough to make you miss him already.

jaden continues to lead everyone down wide hallways and a series of doors that are all open for construction workers to get in and out of easily. a few of them pass by you carrying different tools and materials in their arms and over their shoulders without sparing anyone in the tour group a glance.

“these men have been working tirelessly to finish the reactor quickly and efficiently so it can be up and running as soon as possible for your town. soon, the prosperity of shinra and the miracle of mako energy will be shared with all of you,” your tour guide explains excitedly.

a few of the townspeople in front whisper among themselves, some of them not looking particularly sold on the words that they would likely hear a dozen more times in one form or another by the end of this tour. would they be sold on them by the end of it? was it really going to help as much as shinra promised?

“what do you think about the reactors?” the person behind you asks. her voice is so close, hushed yet gentle, and you nearly knock back into her as you startle. she doesn’t seem to pay any mind to it, doesn’t flinch or step back, she only waits expectantly for your answer.

“oh- i’m sorry!” you’re quick to apologize and had almost forgotten what she asked you in the slow moments it takes your heart to settle as you take in her kind looking features; light brown hair and dark hazel eyes with black lashes that could perhaps rival sephiroths in length and fullness. “i, um - i don’t know,” you finally answer, quiet and guilty like you shouldn’t be caught saying such things. jadens voice comes over the group, hopefully hiding the rest of your truthful answer, and you shuffle forward with the rest of them, tearing your eyes away from her. “i can’t say i agree with how wonderful they try to make them out to be.”

“hm,” she doesn’t seem totally pleased with your answer by the gruffness of her tone but doesn’t comment more on it and your tour continues with your mind floating between sephiroth and the familiar yet new things in front of you.

a place you had never been but a reactor nonetheless, hardly any different from the ones surrounding midgar or nestled in other cities and towns like this one. but really where you would rather be is with sephiroth, in midgar or far away from it. it hardly mattered as long as he was there with you.

you wish he was here with you right now, walking by your side, your hands brushing as you walk and observe the new reactor together. though you’re certain the people would be ogling him rather than the reactor if that were the case. most of them had likely never seen a reactor but just as so, they’d never seen him either and, like everyone in midgar, they’d fawn over the untouchable war hero without a care in the world.

what would it be like, you wonder, if both of you got to be here as normal people with a normal life. would you be holding hands like the couple in front of you, pointing things out to one another and whispering in each other's ears with a smile as you step just a bit closer into an embrace for lovers? would either of you have even supported the building of a reactor?

in your dreams of a life you and sephiroth would have together in another, kinder, life there was no mako or shinra and you had never been happier. is it possible these people would feel the same at some point?

perhaps. but there was nothing anyone could do about it now. 

is it too late for you and seph to have a normal life without any of this too?

your thoughts are quickly cut off the moment you step into a spacious access room and feel the cold press of the metal to your side and an arm snake around your middle, capturing you against an unfamiliar chest. the room is lined with shinra boxes and big plastic blue tubs on one wall, a large window and open door leading into a small control room on the other side, devoid of anyone besides your tour group.

you’re quick to register just what is pressed to your side, to swallow the lump in your throat that’s keeping you from breathing and try to slow your heart that’s beating so rapidly inside your rib cage as you take in the situation. the huge metal doors leading to the next area are closed off, the people in front of you none the wiser to what’s about to happen and as soon as you look down to confirm that yes that is a handgun nestled to your side, the doors you entered through begin to close.

you’re all trapped.

“play nice, okay?” the woman who was behind you speaks in your ear lowly before addressing the entire room, pressing the muzzle of her gun deeper into your side until it’s digging into your skin uncomfortably through your shirt. “now listen here everyone,” she kicks your feet forward and you see everyone's gaze fall to you, quickly dropping into horror. “i’ll be taking over the rest of this tour.” 

------------✧♡✧-------------

you stare at your phone as if continuing to watch it will make the gray and white blurs of the screen disappear and give you the chance to call or text sephiroth. it doesn’t and it’s hardly a distraction from the terrified aura that’s suffocating the room. it’s so palpable you swear you can grasp it with your hands and feel it stain your skin.

based on the fact everyone else with a phone was in a similar state and the very real lack of alarms going off, you can only assume whoever your captors are have done everything they could to prepare for this and compared to what was going on somewhere else in the reactor, the people watching over you were on the equivalent of babysitting duty.

the shinra employee jaden and the couple you had seen being affectionate towards each other earlier take the duty of trying to calm everyone down. they had from the moment your group was locked in the much too small control room, you being shoved in last, and though there was something uncomfortable, scared, sitting at the bottom of your belly too, you were more restless than anything. you needed to do something, anything.

you’ve sat here for too long but couldn’t afford to be careless. you needed to know more before taking action. you didn’t want anyone to die or to put these innocent people in any more danger than they were already in. did anyone outside know of what was happening? 

what the fuck even is happening? where’s sephiroth?

you’d heard of the terrorist group avalanche before, had known they’d been a bit of a thorn in shinra sides. would they resort to trying to stop the completion of the reactor by.. what? holding random people hostage till shinra compiled seemed as stupid idea as any. shinra would never give into that. 

moving along the back of the group with unhurried steps, you come to stand next to the bolted door and as though you might need to feel the coolness of it to ease your nausea, you wrap your arms around your stomach and lean against it with your head down, your ear pressed to the small crack between the door itself and the doorframe. what you wouldn’t give from some of that soldier hearing now, you think to yourself, letting the thought of sephiroth keep you calm. the voice in your head telling you he would be here soon is his own, deep and soothing, a most sacred promise.

the world outside is muffled and hushed compared to the worried words and cries inside the control room but you do your best to listen and gather what you can coming from the walkie talkies being used to communicate between the woman and the two others that had since joined her and those working with them elsewhere. 

“but sir-,” the woman from before speaks.

the radio comes louder than her voice had. “a few casualties are sometimes necessary for change. do as you are told. team b is nearly finished and team a has successfully captured the target. we’ll continue as planned.”

silence follows.

“they said the explosion shouldn’t destroy more than core,” a man voices, one of the ones who had joined her armed with much bigger guns, chimes in almost soothingly. “if the building comes down that’s shinras own damn fault but we’ll get out of here.”

you hear the woman mumble something you can’t make out and then in a choked out cry, “they weren’t supposed to be here!” her voice rises at the end but you can tell she tries to swallow it.

another pause.

“we can’t save everyone eve,” the man speaks softer than before and had it not been for the words he was saying, you might have felt like you were intruding on an intimate conversation. “some people are just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

you don’t listen to the rest of their conversation and slowly make your way to the back of the group once more but this time you take your time observing the room in its entirety. the double doors closed tight leading into another sealed off room at the very back, the control panels shiny new buttons, the large vent on the left wall above one of the control panels and how it sits compared to the window, showing you the three people guarding this room.

with everyone complying without incident, albeit scared out of their minds, you wonder how often they had looked back to check on the group. as of now, the woman - eve, was tucked in close to a much taller man's embrace, their backs facing the window and the other man you could hardly see from where you stood but you can make out his shoulder near the door leading deeper into the reactor.

“you’re shinra too, right?” jaden breaks your concentration, his voice with a hopelessness to it. though you don’t love the identity of only shinra when addressing you. “you came with soldier?”

“i did.” you reply and try to quickly decide how much would be right to share with him from what you had eavesdropped. you aren’t even sure you’ve processed it fully. you couldn’t begin to wrap your head around who they might have been after and successfully captured. you didn’t want to think about a reactor being blown up, let alone with people inside of it. you wouldn’t imagine if you were to die here and leave sephiroth.. no. it wasn’t going to happen. you and everyone were going to get out of here if you had something to do with it. for now you decide the less he knows the better, probably. “would you help me get into that vent?” you point towards it. “and maybe try to talk to some of the more rational others so you can come up with a plan if.. if anything happens?”

he takes a breath before he answers. “are we going to die here?”

“not if i can help it. just do your best to keep everyone in here safe.”

jaden proves to be incredibly useful, keeping everyone as they had been, acting as though you weren’t standing on your tiptoes to reach the screw of the vent with the small tool one of the locals had given you that was barely enough to undo the screws holding it in place. jaden stood watch and took everything you handed him, delicately placing the items behind the control panel so they wouldn’t make a sound or be seen.

when you’re ready, with your heart still set to an unsteady rhythm, you lean down to give him the tool and whisper in his ear, quickly and quietly telling him what you heard your captors talking about so he could tell whoever arrived first to save them. “please keep that to yourself until the right time.” and then, as quietly as you could, you hop into the vent without daring to look back.

you thought you might lose your nerves if you saw any of their faces praying that you were going to get help. it was certainly an option but you were much closer to the core than anywhere else in the reactor and if anyone outside already knew that the reactor had been taken over, help was surely on the way and would reach them before the reactor core. you just hoped you could get to the core in time and be enough to hold whoever these people were off until help, sephiroth, arrived.

------------✧♡✧-------------

sephiroth was thankful for the quiet of fighting alone, even if it was stiflingly hot and the monsters prove to be no real fight at all. scarlet had insisted on a photo op that lasted much too long for his liking and then reporters swarmed him with questions and cameras to capture this historical moment for corel but he had been able to get out most of the questions in order to start his mission and begin to clear out a few monster nests lingering on the outskirts of town.

he was nearly finished, standing among the dust blowing in the wind, ready to come back to town to find you and whisk you back home or somewhere away from shinras gaze if but for a night, when his phone rings, a number he doesn’t recognize, and he begins to feel a heavy sensation in his chest before answering it, his feet already instinctively making their way to the last place you were supposed to be.

“soldier first class sephiroth,” comes the voice on the other end of the phone.

“what is it?”

“come quickly. the reactor has been taken over by avalanche terrorists and they’ve captured vice president rufus shinra.”

it’s mere minutes of running as fast as he possibly came before he’s back in town, trying your phone over and over the entire way but none of his calls go through. he immediately starts to make his way towards the reactor when an uneasy security officer stops him in his tracks, nearly petrified at the look sephiroth gives him when all he can think about is getting to you. 

i’m coming. please be okay.

the officer stutters and all but pleads with sephiroth to follow him to scarlet. “w-we’re trying to get the - the c-cameras back up sir. they’ve shut down all e-electronic signals,” the words tumble out of his mouth almost too quickly to catch. “please sir.”

sephiroth follows for his own reasons, a chance to find where you are quickly instead of rushing in and slaughtering anyone who keeps him from finding you, but instead of leading him to the reactor he’s taken to another shinra building, shiny and new and full of people running around in a panic. the air is so much cooler inside than the mid days heat outside but it does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest and the impatience to get to you that’s already boiling over.

“this way, sir.” the officer says, leading them down a bustling hall and into a room that was in a different kind of panic.

the fuzzy screens of the monitors lining nearly floor to ceiling drowns the room in grays and flashing whites but unlike the rest of the building, the room was quiet, as if it was on bated breath, until scarlet's loud voice cut through the air, her voice sounding as if she had lost her calm long ago.

“i don’t care what you have to do! get the camera back on now so we can locate the vice president and plan an immediate extraction. and we need to find what the hell they’re doing inside the reactor! now!”

“y-yes ma’am,” it’s only thanks to sephiroths soldier hearing that the words of the small hunched over man in front of the screens working away furiously even meet his ears. 

not an uncommon reaction to the woman scarlet is.

sephiroth steps are nearly silent across the room but his presence takes over the whole space in an instant. everyone, aside from scarlet and the man in front of the computer, turning to look at him and acting as though the world paused as he makes his way past them but none dare to meet his eyes.  

not that he was focused on any of them anyways. every passing second he wasn’t any closer to being with you once more he was preparing for plan b; to leave here and start slashing through the entire reactor until you were in his arms. until then, his only focus was the screens in front of him and where you might be among them once they’re back on.

“good, you’re here,” scarlet says by way of greeting him as if he were a petulant child who hadn’t adhered to their curfew too many times to scold anymore. “once these fools get the cameras back up,” she speaks louder to ensure whoever ‘they’ were would hear very clearly, “and we locate rufus shinra we will be sending you to retrieve him. do stay put until then.”

“what’s going on inside the reactor?” sephiroth asks pointedly, coldly.

“another team is being sent to deal with that. your orders are to retrieve the vice-”

“i’m in!” the man in front of the computer exclaims in the same moment the screens start to clear from blurred lines to a live feed all around the reactor in a green hue.

sephiroth steps closer, his eyes trying to take in so much all at once, any sign of you anywhere, his pupils going so thin at the mix of bright and dark lights between the different screens reflecting back at him. he isn’t breathing as he searches, feeling like he’s losing a bit more of his sanity everywhere he looks and you’re nowhere to be seen. 

this is where you were supposed to be. and while it would be an unbelievable relief if you found your way elsewhere, somewhere safe, something in his chest, his unanswered calls, told him that was not the case.

the screens change and the first security camera his eyes focus on is an access room, the control room behind it stuffed with people.

“this one,” sephiroth demands, pointing at the screen and without needing to be told twice the man enlarges the view.

mako eyes dart back and forth, studying everyone, every corner of the room and the leather gloved hands at his side clench tightly when he yet again does not see you. he can’t let himself think about if they might have taken you elsewhere, hurt you-

“the public tour group,” scarlet notes, studying the security view without any kind of hurry and hardly any interest but then, as if finding something amusing, her voice peaks up. “ah, that’s right. hojo said you’d grown fond of that little beast. they were supposed to be a part of the tour, no?”

ignoring her and the name hojo usually referred to you in, sephiroth takes in his first breath in what felt like so long. he looks down at the man sitting in the chair, noting how small and afraid he looks from sephiroths angle well above him. he tries to hold back his slipping rage that he usually keeps such a well and tight leash on.

“please show me more.”

“your orders do not change soldier,” scarlet says through clenched teeth, not even trying to control her own anger. “you are to locate and retrieve the vice president.”

sephiroth says nothing as the security view of the access room minimizes and he’s back to searching among the dozens of screen tiles with his heart in his throat and his body screaming to run and fight until he finds you. the screens change again a few moments later and before he can look at more than a couple, all of them without you, the man controlling the computer speaks quietly again.

“oh my god.”

sephiroth immediately finds what the man is looking at and in the next second the view takes over every inch of the floor to ceiling screens; an overhead view of the reactor's core room. it might look unassuming, nearly ready to be turned on, if not for the lone masked man standing in the middle of it and the cylindrical packages of explosives he strategically places all around. the red cylinders stand out, bright among the water below that’s already sparkling with mako and sephiroth recognizes the avalanche attire as the man moves.

he would have demanded going back to the other cameras had something, someone, not caught his eye in the corner of the screen. almost a blur compared to the main focus that everyone else watched and with scarlets demanding voice somewhere in the room behind him, there you were, holding tightly onto the long ladder leading to the platform, sliding down rather than taking them step by step.

when your feet hit the platform, followed by your quick steps forward, the avalanche man turns towards you and reaching for the gun at his side -

“get back here soldier!” scarlet's voice barely follows after sephiroth at how quickly he’s out of the room, out the building, holding masamune tightly in his left hand and running faster than he ever had before towards the reactor in the near distance.

------------✧♡✧-------------

you don’t know what you were thinking running straight for the enemy with no solid plan and no weapon. as if the heart on your sleeve that would plead for the lives of everyone here, including the terrorists own, would be enough or as sharp, convincing, as a blade. 

but you meant what you said before. you didn’t want anyone to die if you could help it. you didn’t want to kill anyone. you didn’t want to be killed. you didn’t want to do nothing when maybe, just maybe, you could be enough.

your momentum hasn't stopped from the moment you kicked your way out of the vents and were able to sneak past one of avalanches look outs to a maintenance door leading right into the core. your feet carry you through the door and down the ladder so quickly, you hardly stop to confirm what is happening below before you’re sliding down the ladder and turning towards the danger with your blood pumping and pieces of hair sticking to your face and neck.

“wait! please!” you scream out, grabbing the attention of the only man who seems to be inside the room. the metal grated floor sounds loudly under your hurried steps, thundering alongside your heart beat.

the masked man turns on you so quickly, grabbing his gun with one hand, holding a stick of explosives in the other. your steps halt as he points the barrel of his gun right at you and though you can’t see most of his face, you can make out the surprise in his eyes.

“have you come to beg for your precious reactor?” he spits at you with venom, his voice rough and full of hatred.

“no,” you answer honestly, shaking your head and holding up your hands to show him you have nothing on you. “no. but i do want to stop you.”

“tch.”

he cocks his gun, the click of it joining the sounds of sloshing water below you. it’d be an almost calming sound if you weren’t in such a situation. 

keep trying.

you take a tentative step forward that he doesn’t react to, your eyes locked on one another. “what about everyone that lives here? the innocent people that are in the building right now?” your voice cracks with emotion but you can’t let it stop you. you have to keep going. have to hold on. another step and this time he tenses and you will your heart not to drop to your stomach, to not let any of your fear show. “even if everyone survives the reactor being destroyed, what do you think shinra will do to this town when it’s nothing but a loss? what do you think they’ll do to you if you get caught? it's not too late to stop this and run!”

“will you be helping deal their punishment? shinra dog?” 

“i don’t want anyone to get hurt. you included.”

“how can you say such things when you’re fine with hurting the planet?!” his emotions slip and you can hear how much this means to him in his voice.

“don’t send this town or your friends to their deaths - there has to be another way!” you can’t control the few tears that roll down your cheeks, the way your heart threatens to waiver with the loss.

“that’s enough from you,” his voice is eerie, unsettling, but it’s drowned out by another voice in your head, that of your beloved.

stay strong. i will always find you.

with all the strength you could muster, some you swore was lended by sephiroth, you launch yourself at the avalanche man, feeling more than hearing the ringing in your ears from the gun going off too close to your head. the bullet cuts through the grated flooring and into the water below behind you and the crashing of your bodies follows against the cold and hard platform, making it groan under your joined weight.

it was by sheer surprise you were able to take him down, you realize now with your much smaller body trying to keep him to the ground as you fight to get the gun out of his hands. he fights back with all his might, doing everything he can to keep hold of it and finish his job. ungentle fingers of his free hand find their way into your hair and pull with a tight fist, forcing you off of him enough for him to maneuver his body a bit and point the gun towards the bundle of explosives sitting on the core's control panel.

you swallow down the aching pain in your skull along with your fear and worry and use the adrenaline it gives you hold onto his arm, your nails digging through his shirt and into his skin so you can swing your legs up as you’re pulled off of him, the bottom of the guns handle hitting against the bridge of your foot just as the trigger clicks.

the reverberation of the shot kicks back on your foot but the following explosion is what sends the gun skidding all the way across the platform, out of reach near the main entrance door and both of you along with it. the bullet having hit another explosive that causes the whole reactor to tremble as it blows a hole in the side of it.

the air is so hot, full of smoke and dust and shards of metal that cut into your skin as you continue to tumble along the floor with the avalanche mans grip on you and yours on him. it’s hard to breathe, even harder to move with his crushing weight now on top of you.

sunlight coming through thick black clouds shines in your eyes from behind you, blinding the man when it comes through the bundles of smoke making its way out into the open air and you take the chance to gain the upper hand. using all the strength you can muster, you shove him off of you, almost tumbling right into the waters below, and you don’t hesitate to try to get on your feet as quickly as you can.

but he proves to be faster, long arms reaching out for you even as he struggles to get up himself and grabbing at your ankle unforgivingly, bringing you back down to the floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. it’s not without a hell of a struggle that he hauls you over the edge of the platform but he doesn’t relent no matter how hard you kick or fight against and scratch at the hands plunge you into the sparkling mako waters, holding you below the surface. 

it feels like chaos incarnate at first, the water sloshing and obscuring your vision, burning your eyes and ready to flood your lungs when you can’t fight it off any longer but moment by passing moment you feel the serenity of the water begin to wash over you. 

it’s warmer than you had expected it to be, quiet and peaceful in your ears. the gentle sway helps to coax your muscles from fighting as your strength starts to leave you quickly. your head feels so very light, drifting from fear to searching for comfort while your lungs fill with water and your hands can no longer hold on.

it hurts at first, painful as your chest constricts and your lungs squeeze only to bring in more water than before. all you want is sephiroth. to cry in his arms like a child and apologize for leaving him. it adds to the pain in your chest but like most of your body, it numbs the longer you stay under the water and as you feel the hands holding you let go, so does your consciousness.

------------✧♡✧-------------

at the sound of the explosion, sephiroth runs faster than he ever has before. nothing more than a blur of silver and black kicking up dust and the embers of his powerful aura sparking in the air in his wake, ready to alight the whole planet in his fury if he were to lose you here and now.

smoke bellows into the sky on the opposite side of the reactor that he’s facing, the scent of it quickly invading his senses and like a beacon, he follows in directly to you. sephiroth doesn’t bother to enter the building by any normal means, choosing the fastest way to get to you, made possible by strength only few possess.

his heart is pounding, every breath he takes in only fueling the inferno kinding inside of him and the hand holding onto masamune is strong enough to have snapped the leather cords wrapped around her hilt had they been made of normal materials. still, they groan under his grip as he slashes through the outer siding of the reactor that he climbs to in the blink of an eye.

sephiroth can feel the steel ripping in two like aluminum underneath the edge of his blade that slash a clean x through the metal. the screeching sound of metal cutting metal doesn’t breach his ears, not when all he can hear is his own heart beating, searching for your own, and how it’s tearing through his chest and rib cage to get to you. 

under the pressure of his boot, the bottom most part of the siding folds in and he forces the other panels away with his hands, tearing them away with adrenaline fueled otherwordly strength, allowing him to make a massive hole to step inside. the bright sun shines from behind him, a golden halo backdrop against the black of his coat and the shining in the silver of his hair.

it’s as if the world has stopped as he takes in the scene before him, a split moment that lasts minutes in sephiroths gaze that immediately finds you in the chaos of the room. your hands losing their strength to fight back as you’re being held under the mako waters by the same figure he had seen on the security camera. the blood dripping down arms that hold you there, bleeding and bruised from the fight you had put up in your attempt to stop this.

a choice that fills sephiroth with so many emotions he can’t and won’t begin to process them now. not until you’re safe in his arms.

like an angel, or perhaps more accurately to the dangerous expression on his face - a monster, sephiroth launches from his spot, the readying stance he moves masamune into cutting through the air as his broad figure consumes the light around the avalanche man. in the next millisecond the space around him is splattered in deep crimson red, droplets of blood trickling into and diluting among the water before the man's head has a chance to hit the grate under sephiroths feet.

without care and with more strength than was likely needed, sephiroth grabs ahold of the back of the man's jacket and throws him to the side, hard enough that as he pulls you from the waters with an unrelenting and yet gentle grip around your arms, the sound of the man's body hitting the metal door leading into the rest of the reactor echos in the space.

sephiroth handles you like porcelain, feeling himself breaking at the sight of your features losing color and your body completely limp, lifeless, in his arms. he can’t hear your heart beating. can’t feel any warmth from your body that’s only growing colder in his grasp. there’s no response to the urgent way he calls your name despite how his voice doesn’t reach his own ears either. his body works on muscle memory alone to give you first aid and it’s as if his eyes are watching someone else's hands give you cpr, trying to force you to breathe. water spills from your mouth and with each passing moment that you remain cold and unmoving, he feels his world crumbling around him. 

“please..” with more force than he intended, he pulls your body into his. cradling the back of your skull with one hand while the other holds you completely and securely against him, he pleads into your wet hair. “don’t leave me..”

like in his nightmares where he’s coated in your blood and you lay against him like you are now, he feels frozen. in fear. in anger. in power that electrifies the particulars of the air that surrounds you both, ready to devour the world, and yet was not enough to save you. so unlike his bad dreams though, your warm palm was not there to smooth against his cheek, ready to hold the weight of his suffering like it was your own. your voice wasn’t there to tell him it’s all right and pull him back to reality. to help lull him to better dreams he hadn’t dared to entertain or give hope to until he met you. dreams that were now slipping through his grasp no matter how tightly he held onto them.

no matter how tightly he holds onto you or the remaining bits that would be left of him after losing you. jagged and bloodied shards that genesis nor angeal could -

*ba-dum* 

a sound so tiny and small. enough to stop every movement of his body and light the darkness that was over taking him.

the first breath you’re able to take in is so painful. your lungs burn as you choke and fight for  air and you can feel each aching beat of your heart, like it was sapping every last bit of strength from your muscles to pump and the echo of it riverates back tenfold throughout your entire body but trying to get your bearings through it all only proves to make it worse.

it’s so cold.. so hard to breathe. i’m still in danger, corel is still in danger - c’mon body you need to move.. everything hurts.. i can’t -

“it’s okay angel. you’re safe now.” sephiroth's voice. undeniably rough and wrought with overwhelming relief, it’s a soothing balm to the anxiety and pain coursing through you faster than your heart can keep up, that was keeping you from feeling his arms holding so tightly onto you and the warmth that always seemed to accompany him. “i’ve got you.”

you can feel all of him now, the shake of his hands that hold onto you like you might slip through his fingers, nothing more than a mirage. the wicked rate at which his heart beats. the deep irregular breaths he takes. the heat of him mingling with the chilling wetness of your clothes.

looking up at him, tears prick your eyes stinging and hot, you can’t help but smile. he made it. everyone was going to be okay. through your blurry vision, it’s hard to make out anything other than the curtain of silver hair that drapes over you both and the emerald of his eyes that stare back at you but you swear the air is alive with a mixture of his relief and pain.

the hands holding onto you tighten, his gloved fingers at your back flexing and the ones holding your head tangling further into your hair as he leans in to rest his forehead gently against yours and whispers your name softly, reverently, as though it was a prayer to the goddess; a secret spell that was meant to make everything right.

your muscles scream in protest when you bring your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, his head a comforting weight against your own, smelling of sweet flora and warmth; home. 

“seph..” you murmur, an answering call to his prayer; proof that he hadn’t been too late, that he wasn’t without you. through the soreness of your lungs and throat, through your tears and the way your body trembles you cling to him with what little strength you have but knowing you were alive and with him made it worth every bit of tiring effort.

footsteps begin to sound in the distance, echoing yells from the shinra army having finally made their way into the reactor. sephiroths hold on you doesn’t waver in the slightest as he begins to stand, his footing sure and steady, his strength immeasurable and unyielding in the way it swore to protect you from any further harm and the regret he feels for not having been in time to stop any harm from coming to you. 

you always feel small in sephiroth arms, something precious - treasured - and looking down at you curdled into him now, soaking wet and calming a bit more each passing second, breathing easier, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to let you out of his hold again. 

the reactor core door swings open, the room quickly swarming with familiar uniforms sephiroth walks past without sparing another glance. if they try to talk to him, he doesn’t know or care. with you safely in his arms, he passes by them all, steps over the headless body near the door and makes his way into the chaos outside the reactor where it might as well have been only the two of you in the streets of corel as everyone parts for sephiroth while you remain in the safety of his arms and chest, where he intends to keep you for as long as possible.

[kurogxrix]

Spoils of War | Masterlist

Summary : Your father, the God of War, trained you to be his executioner— his weapon. When he assigns you a mission on Earth, you encounter Bucky, who helps you see yourself as more than a weapon. He offers you refuge and helps you go into hiding. Knowing that his favourite child has gone rogue, your father sends your half-brothers, Phobos and Deimos to bring you home.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Demigod!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Trauma, mentions of abuse, Violence, cursing. 

Notes : There will be five chapters of this! This fic draws from my experience of abusive friendships packaged in Greek myth so please be kind lovelies! Enjoy!  Read the full pitch here

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

This is an ongoing series. 

Latest update : 28/01/2025

[kurogxrix]

Toy Soldier (part 1)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Dark content: Sexual Assault Wounds(Bucky) tried to make it as vague as possible but, there are mentioned. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic includes fluff, smut, and the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow. 

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions. 

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans,  the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could. 

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

[kurogxrix]

is it too late to tell y’all that english isn’t my first language?

[kurogxrix]

Sonon Kusakabe

[kurogxrix]

BAHAHA DID I LIE THO? the fact that this post got 50 notes and 15 of them is people disagreeing via reblogging (and some of them liking through MY reblog) really says a shit ton. Honestly we should bring back thinking before posting🥰

The ChatGPT FanFiction Special™

You ever read a fanfic, and it just SMELLS like AI? Only bullshit lines that a machine vomited out. You wouldn’t replace your favorite fanfic author with a vending machine, would you? So don’t do it with a fanfic.

WORD COUNT: 2K!

"You’re something else, you know that?" GROUNDBREAKING. Truly. Shakespeare could never.

"The air was heavy with the scent of danger." Bitch... What does danger even smell like? WD-40, fear, and disappointment?

"His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, a storm brewing in their depths." Oh, so now the character's a fucking weather forecast. Cool. Storm’s coming! Better take cover from that lazy-ass prose!

"He growled low in his throat, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine." Growled low in his throat—like, WHERE ELSE should he be growling from? Y’all think you’re writing smut, but you’re just describing bad air conditioning.

"The tension between you crackled like a live wire." Oh, we’re crackling now like popcorn inside a microwave? Great, because my relationship with the character is sounding like a radio station.

"You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as..." Jesus Christ!

"He wasn’t good with words, but his actions spoke volumes." Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just say the character is emotionally constipated like the rest of us do and move on.

"He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours..." BRUSHING LIPS. Is the character kissing me, or is a draft blowing by?

Listen, I get it. Writing fanfic is hard. But if your Character x Reader fic reads like it was pulled of ChatGPT’s basic-ass memory bank, just don’t. We know, we can smell it, and that smell? It’s not "danger"—it’s mediocrity.

ON WE GO TO THE HOLY EXAMPLES OF SMUT!

The Foreplay Starter Pack:

"His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch like he was mapping uncharted territory." Stop exploring and focus on the destination.

"Your peaks stiffened/pebbled under his touch." Are her tits made of decorative gravel or... how about they might be diamonds?

"His breath was hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine." AI and neck breath—name a more iconic duo.

The Main Event:

"Milking him for all he was worth." Milking his cock? Is he a dairy cow? Moo, motherfucker.

"The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathy moans." Skin slapping—sexy and clinical at the same time!

"The coil in your stomach tightened until it finally snapped, sending waves of pleasure through your body." Oh, the coil and waves of pleasure! Because orgasms can’t just happen, they have to involve mechanics.

The Big Finish:

"He shuddered as he found his release, spilling into you with a guttural groan." Because he's a guttural broken faucet.

"His hot seed filled you, marking you as his." That's called National Geographics.

"His climax ripped through him, leaving him thoroughly spent." Sounds like he just tore his dick in half and the "writer" was unable to write out the word for ORGASM.

"Your bodies collapsed together in a sweaty tangle, breaths mingling as you came down from your shared high." Oh, sure, nothing like sweaty mingling for a totally original Shakespeare sex scene.

Miscellaneous AI Erotica Bullshit:

"Your slick heat welcomed him eagerly." Ew. EWW. Slick heat. Just stop.

"He groaned as your tightness gripped him like a vice." A vice? Am I squeezing him to death? RIP: his dick. Glad the writer can't write the word pussy, vagina, or cunt, right?

"His balls were churning, and he felt them tighten before he found his release." A churning release. Like milk into butter. Sexy.

"Your moans filled the room as he hit that spot over and over again." That spot while moans fill a whole damn room. Never named, never explained. Just trust the AI—the spot's there. Somewhere.

"Your walls fluttered around him." Walls fluttering. Like curtains while the window is open. AI loves it.

"He kneaded your soft flesh." Kneaded? Like bread dough? Because nothing makes smut more sexy than baking imagery. I can’t. Just say tits or breasts.

"He spilled himself inside you, groaning as he filled you to the brim." To the brim? Am I a measuring cup?

BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.

More Overused Descriptive Combos (SO MANY):

"Piercing eyes." OH? DID HIS PIERCING EYES LOCK EYES WITH YOURS? Lemme guess they’re also "a stark contrast" to something else, like his rugged appearance, his messy hair, or whatever. AI's go-to move for intensity. His eyes aren’t piercing anything unless he’s shooting lasers.

"Calloused hands." Everyone’s hands are calloused and rough, and they’re ALWAYS trailing along your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake which sends shivers up or down your spine.

"He moved with a predatory grace, like a wolf stalking its prey." Please. The character is not prowling around like some male hunter in a Wattpad mafia fic.

"Their fingers danced across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake." Yup. That's what I said before. And the fingers danced. AI loves romanticizing every little touch.

"You felt his warm breath ghost against your cheek/ear." LOOK, MORE GHOSTING BREATH. Ghost Hunters should investigate such a fic ASAP. Also, the character loves nibbling your ear.

"The rain pattered softly against the window." Oh great, we’re starting with Rain, The Sad Bitch’s Metaphor™. Nothing screams ChatGPT Energy louder than trying to force the weather to feel human feelings.

"The room was cloaked in a heavy silence." Of course, silence is cloaked now. Did ChatGPT throw a fucking blanket over the scene?

"A soft breeze rustled/carried..." A SOFT BREEZE? Like, was the breeze carrying a soft generic plot development? The character's sweaty ass? AI intros just love sounding deep while saying absolutely nothing.

"Pain shot through them like lightning, sharp and unforgiving." Always with the lightning. Does pain have any other personality traits, or is it just electricity 24/7?

"A chill ran down their spine." Yeah, again. And a chill ran down my spine too... when I realized this fic was AI-generated.

"Through the fabric of their clothes." AI loves this detached, dramatic bullshit, instead of just saying shirt or pants, or whatever clothing.

Emotions for Days:

"There was something in their gaze—a mixture of pain, longing, and something else they couldn’t quite name." What the fuck is something else? Is it allergies? Do they need to fart? Is it a milkshake because of the mix? AI loves throwing vague emotions around because it doesn’t know how to actually write them.

"Their chest ached with a heaviness they couldn’t put into words." Their chest is heavy and aches? They need a doctor, not a quick fuck. Next!

Scene-Setting the Intro for the Basic Bitches:

"The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red." Of course, AI’s obsessed with painting the sky and dipped sunsets because they’re deep.

"The city buzzed with life, but they felt utterly alone amidst the chaos." Congratulations, AI. You just wrote a Lana Del Rey song, not a fucking fanfic.

And the action scenes? Holy shit. ADRENALINE COURSING through every sentence. And if the words "flickering," "casting eerie shadows," "a stark contrast," "stoic/rough/usual (insert a cringey male behavior cliché) demeanor," or "shifting" don’t pop up at least once every three paragraphs, did it even really happen? And there's still so much more dead giveaways for AI content that I did not write down...

And Finally: The Overachieving AI Writer™

If someone’s dropping 5+ fics a week, you KNOW they’re cutting corners. Writing takes time! Editing takes time! Life gets in the way!

AI Fics Use Formulas – They just put in different names and settings. The structure, emotions, and descriptions? Copies every time.

No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.

Lack of Personality – Good writers have a style, a unique voice that comes through their work. AI writing? Bland and generic, with no heart and no personal experiences.

Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:

They have jobs, school, families, or mental health shit to handle.

They overthink EVERY sentence because they CARE.

Writing takes TIME. Even short one-shots involve brainstorming, rewriting, and editing.

If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:

They’re lying about how fast they work, OR

They’re outsourcing an AI that doesn’t need sleep, coffee breaks, or motivation.

NO ONE WITH A NORMAL LIFE CAN POST THAT MANY FANFICS DAILY UNLESS THEY HAVE HELP. Between work, school, eating, sleeping, and, you know, EXISTING, it’s physically impossible. Writing takes time! Editing takes even longer! Like I said, if someone’s putting out perfect fics daily, it’s not skill—it’s AI. Period.

Because I doubt they're secretly a fanfic god on meth. No one has that kind of output and originality unless they’re cheating or they've sold their soul to OpenAI. Stop romanticizing it, and stop outsourcing your creativity to AI.

If you’re still reading and feeling personally attacked, congrats, that says more about you than me, and your written fic might be AI-generated. You’re welcome.

TL;DR:

And here’s why that sucks. (Why AI-Fics Can Go Fuck Themselves)

Real fanfic writers are constantly comparing themselves to this impossible standard. They’re thinking, "Why can’t I write that fast? Am I not good enough? Do people even care about my work if I only post once every few months?"

REAL fanfiction is about connection. It’s about sharing your passion, your creativity, your perspective on a character or story that you love. It’s about building relationships with readers who get it, who see you, and who appreciate the time and effort you put in.

AI fanfics? They’re soulless. No voice. No connection. Just the same tropes and clichés, copy-pasted into a different setting. The fandoms deserve better.

If you're using AI to brainstorm ideas for a writer’s block and to get suggestions, that’s one thing. If it becomes about mass-producing stories for the sake of content and kudos, then it destroys what writing is about. There’s a real difference between using it as a tool and passing off the generated work as your own. Especially when there’s no acknowledgment that it was AI-written.

And the more AI-generated garbage gets uploaded, the harder it is for real fics to get noticed. They flood the tags, the archives, the searches. I’ve seen accounts that magically started posting perfect fics every week in 2023. Search through their archive, and you’ll notice every story sounds the same. And guess what? People eat it up.

@ellipsus-writes said it best: FuckGPT!

AI doesn’t belong in fanfiction! It doesn’t understand the heart of a fandom and it sure as hell doesn't understand the fictional characters like you do!

So yeah, if you’re a real fanfic writer reading this: TAKE YOUR TIME. Post when you’re ready. Because your work—YOUR work—is what makes fandoms magical. Not some AI bullshit. You’re the reason people stay up until 3 AM crying over fictional characters. You’re the one inspiring others to write, draw art, and create. You’re the one giving your fandom community life!

Support real fanfic writers. They’re the soul of the fandom and they deserve better than to be left behind because of AI.

And to the readers: STOP giving kudos to AI-made fics. Read real stories. Because your fandom deserves better.

AI-written fics are all the same, and if you’re pretending to write them yourself while spamming the fandoms with mediocre, over-polished bullshit: We see you. And we judge, report, and even expose you on Reddit.

YOU’RE SOMETHING ELSE, YOU KNOW THAT? Yeah, you're something fake as fuck.

FINAL THOUGHT: "The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face as she realized... this fic was AI as hell."

[kurogxrix]

right like they’re so many things wrong about this post and i’ll just point some out,

- ‘BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.’

assuming that just because there is a scene about unprotected sex even in a dangerous environment means that it’s made by AI is insane, not everyone thinks the same, not everyone wants to write the same generic shit and not everyone is safe.

- ‘No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.’

ever read a drabble or a simple fluff fic with no other plot then the characters cuddling or hanging out? Just because you find it boring that there’s not meaningful plot or character development doesn’t mean that it’s AI generated.

- ‘Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:’

once i wrote a 12k one-shot in ONE DAY because i had a day off and i was stressing off about finishing my series. Not everyone has the same capabilities and you don’t need to take WEEKS to write a piece of writing. please.

- ‘If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:’

orrrr they have the free time and dedication to do so in a short span of time….?

and in the least meanest way do i mean it, but i think that your take on AI fics roots from your personal preferences on how you like the media that you’re consuming. Overused descriptions doesnt mean that it’s AI, short writing and editing span (unless REALLY unreal) doesn’t mean that it’s AI, synonyms that you may not understand or like doesn’t mean that the fic is AI, and a lack of plot or character development doesn’t as shit mean that it’s AI.

I think that probably you should either write a fanfic to show us what’s your ‘take’ on real writing or perhaps just stick to reading fics made before the popularization of Ai because this post is filled with so much bias and so little sense that maybe i’m starting to believe that it was made with AI😭

Not everyone is going to write fics like you want them to, everyone is different and work differently and just because you work in one way doesn’t mean that so will the rest of us. Wake up from this narcissistic hold😭

The ChatGPT FanFiction Special™

You ever read a fanfic, and it just SMELLS like AI? Only bullshit lines that a machine vomited out. You wouldn’t replace your favorite fanfic author with a vending machine, would you? So don’t do it with a fanfic.

WORD COUNT: 2K!

"You’re something else, you know that?" GROUNDBREAKING. Truly. Shakespeare could never.

"The air was heavy with the scent of danger." Bitch... What does danger even smell like? WD-40, fear, and disappointment?

"His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, a storm brewing in their depths." Oh, so now the character's a fucking weather forecast. Cool. Storm’s coming! Better take cover from that lazy-ass prose!

"He growled low in his throat, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine." Growled low in his throat—like, WHERE ELSE should he be growling from? Y’all think you’re writing smut, but you’re just describing bad air conditioning.

"The tension between you crackled like a live wire." Oh, we’re crackling now like popcorn inside a microwave? Great, because my relationship with the character is sounding like a radio station.

"You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as..." Jesus Christ!

"He wasn’t good with words, but his actions spoke volumes." Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just say the character is emotionally constipated like the rest of us do and move on.

"He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours..." BRUSHING LIPS. Is the character kissing me, or is a draft blowing by?

Listen, I get it. Writing fanfic is hard. But if your Character x Reader fic reads like it was pulled of ChatGPT’s basic-ass memory bank, just don’t. We know, we can smell it, and that smell? It’s not "danger"—it’s mediocrity.

ON WE GO TO THE HOLY EXAMPLES OF SMUT!

The Foreplay Starter Pack:

"His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch like he was mapping uncharted territory." Stop exploring and focus on the destination.

"Your peaks stiffened/pebbled under his touch." Are her tits made of decorative gravel or... how about they might be diamonds?

"His breath was hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine." AI and neck breath—name a more iconic duo.

The Main Event:

"Milking him for all he was worth." Milking his cock? Is he a dairy cow? Moo, motherfucker.

"The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathy moans." Skin slapping—sexy and clinical at the same time!

"The coil in your stomach tightened until it finally snapped, sending waves of pleasure through your body." Oh, the coil and waves of pleasure! Because orgasms can’t just happen, they have to involve mechanics.

The Big Finish:

"He shuddered as he found his release, spilling into you with a guttural groan." Because he's a guttural broken faucet.

"His hot seed filled you, marking you as his." That's called National Geographics.

"His climax ripped through him, leaving him thoroughly spent." Sounds like he just tore his dick in half and the "writer" was unable to write out the word for ORGASM.

"Your bodies collapsed together in a sweaty tangle, breaths mingling as you came down from your shared high." Oh, sure, nothing like sweaty mingling for a totally original Shakespeare sex scene.

Miscellaneous AI Erotica Bullshit:

"Your slick heat welcomed him eagerly." Ew. EWW. Slick heat. Just stop.

"He groaned as your tightness gripped him like a vice." A vice? Am I squeezing him to death? RIP: his dick. Glad the writer can't write the word pussy, vagina, or cunt, right?

"His balls were churning, and he felt them tighten before he found his release." A churning release. Like milk into butter. Sexy.

"Your moans filled the room as he hit that spot over and over again." That spot while moans fill a whole damn room. Never named, never explained. Just trust the AI—the spot's there. Somewhere.

"Your walls fluttered around him." Walls fluttering. Like curtains while the window is open. AI loves it.

"He kneaded your soft flesh." Kneaded? Like bread dough? Because nothing makes smut more sexy than baking imagery. I can’t. Just say tits or breasts.

"He spilled himself inside you, groaning as he filled you to the brim." To the brim? Am I a measuring cup?

BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.

More Overused Descriptive Combos (SO MANY):

"Piercing eyes." OH? DID HIS PIERCING EYES LOCK EYES WITH YOURS? Lemme guess they’re also "a stark contrast" to something else, like his rugged appearance, his messy hair, or whatever. AI's go-to move for intensity. His eyes aren’t piercing anything unless he’s shooting lasers.

"Calloused hands." Everyone’s hands are calloused and rough, and they’re ALWAYS trailing along your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake which sends shivers up or down your spine.

"He moved with a predatory grace, like a wolf stalking its prey." Please. The character is not prowling around like some male hunter in a Wattpad mafia fic.

"Their fingers danced across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake." Yup. That's what I said before. And the fingers danced. AI loves romanticizing every little touch.

"You felt his warm breath ghost against your cheek/ear." LOOK, MORE GHOSTING BREATH. Ghost Hunters should investigate such a fic ASAP. Also, the character loves nibbling your ear.

"The rain pattered softly against the window." Oh great, we’re starting with Rain, The Sad Bitch’s Metaphor™. Nothing screams ChatGPT Energy louder than trying to force the weather to feel human feelings.

"The room was cloaked in a heavy silence." Of course, silence is cloaked now. Did ChatGPT throw a fucking blanket over the scene?

"A soft breeze rustled/carried..." A SOFT BREEZE? Like, was the breeze carrying a soft generic plot development? The character's sweaty ass? AI intros just love sounding deep while saying absolutely nothing.

"Pain shot through them like lightning, sharp and unforgiving." Always with the lightning. Does pain have any other personality traits, or is it just electricity 24/7?

"A chill ran down their spine." Yeah, again. And a chill ran down my spine too... when I realized this fic was AI-generated.

"Through the fabric of their clothes." AI loves this detached, dramatic bullshit, instead of just saying shirt or pants, or whatever clothing.

Emotions for Days:

"There was something in their gaze—a mixture of pain, longing, and something else they couldn’t quite name." What the fuck is something else? Is it allergies? Do they need to fart? Is it a milkshake because of the mix? AI loves throwing vague emotions around because it doesn’t know how to actually write them.

"Their chest ached with a heaviness they couldn’t put into words." Their chest is heavy and aches? They need a doctor, not a quick fuck. Next!

Scene-Setting the Intro for the Basic Bitches:

"The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red." Of course, AI’s obsessed with painting the sky and dipped sunsets because they’re deep.

"The city buzzed with life, but they felt utterly alone amidst the chaos." Congratulations, AI. You just wrote a Lana Del Rey song, not a fucking fanfic.

And the action scenes? Holy shit. ADRENALINE COURSING through every sentence. And if the words "flickering," "casting eerie shadows," "a stark contrast," "stoic/rough/usual (insert a cringey male behavior cliché) demeanor," or "shifting" don’t pop up at least once every three paragraphs, did it even really happen? And there's still so much more dead giveaways for AI content that I did not write down...

And Finally: The Overachieving AI Writer™

If someone’s dropping 5+ fics a week, you KNOW they’re cutting corners. Writing takes time! Editing takes time! Life gets in the way!

AI Fics Use Formulas – They just put in different names and settings. The structure, emotions, and descriptions? Copies every time.

No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.

Lack of Personality – Good writers have a style, a unique voice that comes through their work. AI writing? Bland and generic, with no heart and no personal experiences.

Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:

They have jobs, school, families, or mental health shit to handle.

They overthink EVERY sentence because they CARE.

Writing takes TIME. Even short one-shots involve brainstorming, rewriting, and editing.

If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:

They’re lying about how fast they work, OR

They’re outsourcing an AI that doesn’t need sleep, coffee breaks, or motivation.

NO ONE WITH A NORMAL LIFE CAN POST THAT MANY FANFICS DAILY UNLESS THEY HAVE HELP. Between work, school, eating, sleeping, and, you know, EXISTING, it’s physically impossible. Writing takes time! Editing takes even longer! Like I said, if someone’s putting out perfect fics daily, it’s not skill—it’s AI. Period.

Because I doubt they're secretly a fanfic god on meth. No one has that kind of output and originality unless they’re cheating or they've sold their soul to OpenAI. Stop romanticizing it, and stop outsourcing your creativity to AI.

If you’re still reading and feeling personally attacked, congrats, that says more about you than me, and your written fic might be AI-generated. You’re welcome.

TL;DR:

And here’s why that sucks. (Why AI-Fics Can Go Fuck Themselves)

Real fanfic writers are constantly comparing themselves to this impossible standard. They’re thinking, "Why can’t I write that fast? Am I not good enough? Do people even care about my work if I only post once every few months?"

REAL fanfiction is about connection. It’s about sharing your passion, your creativity, your perspective on a character or story that you love. It’s about building relationships with readers who get it, who see you, and who appreciate the time and effort you put in.

AI fanfics? They’re soulless. No voice. No connection. Just the same tropes and clichés, copy-pasted into a different setting. The fandoms deserve better.

If you're using AI to brainstorm ideas for a writer’s block and to get suggestions, that’s one thing. If it becomes about mass-producing stories for the sake of content and kudos, then it destroys what writing is about. There’s a real difference between using it as a tool and passing off the generated work as your own. Especially when there’s no acknowledgment that it was AI-written.

And the more AI-generated garbage gets uploaded, the harder it is for real fics to get noticed. They flood the tags, the archives, the searches. I’ve seen accounts that magically started posting perfect fics every week in 2023. Search through their archive, and you’ll notice every story sounds the same. And guess what? People eat it up.

@ellipsus-writes said it best: FuckGPT!

AI doesn’t belong in fanfiction! It doesn’t understand the heart of a fandom and it sure as hell doesn't understand the fictional characters like you do!

So yeah, if you’re a real fanfic writer reading this: TAKE YOUR TIME. Post when you’re ready. Because your work—YOUR work—is what makes fandoms magical. Not some AI bullshit. You’re the reason people stay up until 3 AM crying over fictional characters. You’re the one inspiring others to write, draw art, and create. You’re the one giving your fandom community life!

Support real fanfic writers. They’re the soul of the fandom and they deserve better than to be left behind because of AI.

And to the readers: STOP giving kudos to AI-made fics. Read real stories. Because your fandom deserves better.

AI-written fics are all the same, and if you’re pretending to write them yourself while spamming the fandoms with mediocre, over-polished bullshit: We see you. And we judge, report, and even expose you on Reddit.

YOU’RE SOMETHING ELSE, YOU KNOW THAT? Yeah, you're something fake as fuck.

FINAL THOUGHT: "The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face as she realized... this fic was AI as hell."

[kurogxrix]

i don’t understand this at all, most sentences make sense and have been used in fanfics written YEARS ago😭?? you’re just using AI as an example to shit on authors work which you don’t like

The ChatGPT FanFiction Special™

You ever read a fanfic, and it just SMELLS like AI? Only bullshit lines that a machine vomited out. You wouldn’t replace your favorite fanfic author with a vending machine, would you? So don’t do it with a fanfic.

WORD COUNT: 2K!

"You’re something else, you know that?" GROUNDBREAKING. Truly. Shakespeare could never.

"The air was heavy with the scent of danger." Bitch... What does danger even smell like? WD-40, fear, and disappointment?

"His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, a storm brewing in their depths." Oh, so now the character's a fucking weather forecast. Cool. Storm’s coming! Better take cover from that lazy-ass prose!

"He growled low in his throat, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine." Growled low in his throat—like, WHERE ELSE should he be growling from? Y’all think you’re writing smut, but you’re just describing bad air conditioning.

"The tension between you crackled like a live wire." Oh, we’re crackling now like popcorn inside a microwave? Great, because my relationship with the character is sounding like a radio station.

"You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as..." Jesus Christ!

"He wasn’t good with words, but his actions spoke volumes." Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just say the character is emotionally constipated like the rest of us do and move on.

"He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours..." BRUSHING LIPS. Is the character kissing me, or is a draft blowing by?

Listen, I get it. Writing fanfic is hard. But if your Character x Reader fic reads like it was pulled of ChatGPT’s basic-ass memory bank, just don’t. We know, we can smell it, and that smell? It’s not "danger"—it’s mediocrity.

ON WE GO TO THE HOLY EXAMPLES OF SMUT!

The Foreplay Starter Pack:

"His hands roamed your body, exploring every inch like he was mapping uncharted territory." Stop exploring and focus on the destination.

"Your peaks stiffened/pebbled under his touch." Are her tits made of decorative gravel or... how about they might be diamonds?

"His breath was hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine." AI and neck breath—name a more iconic duo.

The Main Event:

"Milking him for all he was worth." Milking his cock? Is he a dairy cow? Moo, motherfucker.

"The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathy moans." Skin slapping—sexy and clinical at the same time!

"The coil in your stomach tightened until it finally snapped, sending waves of pleasure through your body." Oh, the coil and waves of pleasure! Because orgasms can’t just happen, they have to involve mechanics.

The Big Finish:

"He shuddered as he found his release, spilling into you with a guttural groan." Because he's a guttural broken faucet.

"His hot seed filled you, marking you as his." That's called National Geographics.

"His climax ripped through him, leaving him thoroughly spent." Sounds like he just tore his dick in half and the "writer" was unable to write out the word for ORGASM.

"Your bodies collapsed together in a sweaty tangle, breaths mingling as you came down from your shared high." Oh, sure, nothing like sweaty mingling for a totally original Shakespeare sex scene.

Miscellaneous AI Erotica Bullshit:

"Your slick heat welcomed him eagerly." Ew. EWW. Slick heat. Just stop.

"He groaned as your tightness gripped him like a vice." A vice? Am I squeezing him to death? RIP: his dick. Glad the writer can't write the word pussy, vagina, or cunt, right?

"His balls were churning, and he felt them tighten before he found his release." A churning release. Like milk into butter. Sexy.

"Your moans filled the room as he hit that spot over and over again." That spot while moans fill a whole damn room. Never named, never explained. Just trust the AI—the spot's there. Somewhere.

"Your walls fluttered around him." Walls fluttering. Like curtains while the window is open. AI loves it.

"He kneaded your soft flesh." Kneaded? Like bread dough? Because nothing makes smut more sexy than baking imagery. I can’t. Just say tits or breasts.

"He spilled himself inside you, groaning as he filled you to the brim." To the brim? Am I a measuring cup?

BONUS: No one thinks about condoms or any other help to prevent potential pregnancy. They either know what they’re doing, are in an apocalypse (which would make it explainable,) in an established relationship, or raw-dog it because "nothing else matters but this moment." Fuck STDs and pregnancy, apparently.

More Overused Descriptive Combos (SO MANY):

"Piercing eyes." OH? DID HIS PIERCING EYES LOCK EYES WITH YOURS? Lemme guess they’re also "a stark contrast" to something else, like his rugged appearance, his messy hair, or whatever. AI's go-to move for intensity. His eyes aren’t piercing anything unless he’s shooting lasers.

"Calloused hands." Everyone’s hands are calloused and rough, and they’re ALWAYS trailing along your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake which sends shivers up or down your spine.

"He moved with a predatory grace, like a wolf stalking its prey." Please. The character is not prowling around like some male hunter in a Wattpad mafia fic.

"Their fingers danced across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake." Yup. That's what I said before. And the fingers danced. AI loves romanticizing every little touch.

"You felt his warm breath ghost against your cheek/ear." LOOK, MORE GHOSTING BREATH. Ghost Hunters should investigate such a fic ASAP. Also, the character loves nibbling your ear.

"The rain pattered softly against the window." Oh great, we’re starting with Rain, The Sad Bitch’s Metaphor™. Nothing screams ChatGPT Energy louder than trying to force the weather to feel human feelings.

"The room was cloaked in a heavy silence." Of course, silence is cloaked now. Did ChatGPT throw a fucking blanket over the scene?

"A soft breeze rustled/carried..." A SOFT BREEZE? Like, was the breeze carrying a soft generic plot development? The character's sweaty ass? AI intros just love sounding deep while saying absolutely nothing.

"Pain shot through them like lightning, sharp and unforgiving." Always with the lightning. Does pain have any other personality traits, or is it just electricity 24/7?

"A chill ran down their spine." Yeah, again. And a chill ran down my spine too... when I realized this fic was AI-generated.

"Through the fabric of their clothes." AI loves this detached, dramatic bullshit, instead of just saying shirt or pants, or whatever clothing.

Emotions for Days:

"There was something in their gaze—a mixture of pain, longing, and something else they couldn’t quite name." What the fuck is something else? Is it allergies? Do they need to fart? Is it a milkshake because of the mix? AI loves throwing vague emotions around because it doesn’t know how to actually write them.

"Their chest ached with a heaviness they couldn’t put into words." Their chest is heavy and aches? They need a doctor, not a quick fuck. Next!

Scene-Setting the Intro for the Basic Bitches:

"The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and red." Of course, AI’s obsessed with painting the sky and dipped sunsets because they’re deep.

"The city buzzed with life, but they felt utterly alone amidst the chaos." Congratulations, AI. You just wrote a Lana Del Rey song, not a fucking fanfic.

And the action scenes? Holy shit. ADRENALINE COURSING through every sentence. And if the words "flickering," "casting eerie shadows," "a stark contrast," "stoic/rough/usual (insert a cringey male behavior cliché) demeanor," or "shifting" don’t pop up at least once every three paragraphs, did it even really happen? And there's still so much more dead giveaways for AI content that I did not write down...

And Finally: The Overachieving AI Writer™

If someone’s dropping 5+ fics a week, you KNOW they’re cutting corners. Writing takes time! Editing takes time! Life gets in the way!

AI Fics Use Formulas – They just put in different names and settings. The structure, emotions, and descriptions? Copies every time.

No Depth – There’s rarely any meaningful plot or character development. The stories are written to sound pretty, not to feel real.

Lack of Personality – Good writers have a style, a unique voice that comes through their work. AI writing? Bland and generic, with no heart and no personal experiences.

Real fanfic writers take weeks (even months) to post because:

They have jobs, school, families, or mental health shit to handle.

They overthink EVERY sentence because they CARE.

Writing takes TIME. Even short one-shots involve brainstorming, rewriting, and editing.

If someone’s putting out a perfectly polished Character x Reader fic every 48 hours, either:

They’re lying about how fast they work, OR

They’re outsourcing an AI that doesn’t need sleep, coffee breaks, or motivation.

NO ONE WITH A NORMAL LIFE CAN POST THAT MANY FANFICS DAILY UNLESS THEY HAVE HELP. Between work, school, eating, sleeping, and, you know, EXISTING, it’s physically impossible. Writing takes time! Editing takes even longer! Like I said, if someone’s putting out perfect fics daily, it’s not skill—it’s AI. Period.

Because I doubt they're secretly a fanfic god on meth. No one has that kind of output and originality unless they’re cheating or they've sold their soul to OpenAI. Stop romanticizing it, and stop outsourcing your creativity to AI.

If you’re still reading and feeling personally attacked, congrats, that says more about you than me, and your written fic might be AI-generated. You’re welcome.

TL;DR:

And here’s why that sucks. (Why AI-Fics Can Go Fuck Themselves)

Real fanfic writers are constantly comparing themselves to this impossible standard. They’re thinking, "Why can’t I write that fast? Am I not good enough? Do people even care about my work if I only post once every few months?"

REAL fanfiction is about connection. It’s about sharing your passion, your creativity, your perspective on a character or story that you love. It’s about building relationships with readers who get it, who see you, and who appreciate the time and effort you put in.

AI fanfics? They’re soulless. No voice. No connection. Just the same tropes and clichés, copy-pasted into a different setting. The fandoms deserve better.

If you're using AI to brainstorm ideas for a writer’s block and to get suggestions, that’s one thing. If it becomes about mass-producing stories for the sake of content and kudos, then it destroys what writing is about. There’s a real difference between using it as a tool and passing off the generated work as your own. Especially when there’s no acknowledgment that it was AI-written.

And the more AI-generated garbage gets uploaded, the harder it is for real fics to get noticed. They flood the tags, the archives, the searches. I’ve seen accounts that magically started posting perfect fics every week in 2023. Search through their archive, and you’ll notice every story sounds the same. And guess what? People eat it up.

@ellipsus-writes said it best: FuckGPT!

AI doesn’t belong in fanfiction! It doesn’t understand the heart of a fandom and it sure as hell doesn't understand the fictional characters like you do!

So yeah, if you’re a real fanfic writer reading this: TAKE YOUR TIME. Post when you’re ready. Because your work—YOUR work—is what makes fandoms magical. Not some AI bullshit. You’re the reason people stay up until 3 AM crying over fictional characters. You’re the one inspiring others to write, draw art, and create. You’re the one giving your fandom community life!

Support real fanfic writers. They’re the soul of the fandom and they deserve better than to be left behind because of AI.

And to the readers: STOP giving kudos to AI-made fics. Read real stories. Because your fandom deserves better.

AI-written fics are all the same, and if you’re pretending to write them yourself while spamming the fandoms with mediocre, over-polished bullshit: We see you. And we judge, report, and even expose you on Reddit.

YOU’RE SOMETHING ELSE, YOU KNOW THAT? Yeah, you're something fake as fuck.

FINAL THOUGHT: "The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face as she realized... this fic was AI as hell."

[kurogxrix]

I come with a trade proposal

You receive: 🧋🍩❤️🔁

I receive: mermaid reader pt 3

Hmm 🤔 I think I can cobble together some more mermaid content. Deal!

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader, Part 3

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

Reader will come back in the next part. Reblogs will make that part come out faster!

"Father."

Bruce looks away from the computer and sits back, the leather of his chair squeaking slightly. He shoots his son a brief smile and gestures him further into the Aquarium's office. Damian complies, walking past ugly, water-themed wallpaper and varying plaques and certifications that proclaim their successful operations, until he's standing on the other side of the desk. He watches his dad push a small stack of files aside, then use his coffee mug as a paperweight. He just barely hides a grimace.

"How can I help you, Tadpole?"

"I've observed a new behavior with our mer," Damian says, straight to the point like always. He lets his palms splay onto the desk, brushing against mahogany riddled with chips, scratches, and ring stains from a total disregard for coasters. "It started about a week ago. I'd like to grab the files we have on wild mer behavior and cross-reference what I can with what they're doing."

Bruce snorts. He's already standing to pull the research from its corresponding cabinet. "Surprised you don't have these documents memorized already, or photocopied for yourself. What's the new behavior you're seeing?"

"They're more eager than ever to get me into the tank," Damian says, grabbing the binder and flipping through each page with clear familiarity. "I thought perhaps they were finally getting lonely, or bored enough to form a stress response, but they're not doing it to any of the other handlers. They're also leaving gifts for me on the lip of the tank where they take their meals. When I do get in to swim with them, they won't stop bumping me with the edge of their tail, and —"

Damian stops talking when his father puts his arms on the desk and sits his head on top.

"Do you know something about this?"

"Can't believe..." Bruce mumbles, the rest of his sentence lost. Damian leans towards him eagerly, green eyes alight.

"Repeat that?" He asks. Bruce hardly ever interacted with their mer, so the fact that he knows something Damian doesn't is intriguing beyond belief. "Father?"

"I, ah..." Bruce sits up and rubs his temples. He looks a combination of stressed and amused, like he can't tell if he wants to laugh about the situation or cry. "I said, I can't believe my first child-in-law is gonna be a mer."

Damian frowns. "Elaborate."

"What you've described, Tadpole," Bruce says, waving a hand in his direction, "is courting behavior. They think you're their mate. Prospective mate at the very least."

The taller man walks around the desk, is easy, almost jovial attitude replaced by deadly seriousness.

"I'm gonna come with you at dinnertime to watch their behavior more closely," Bruce states, tone leaving no room for argument. "If there's a chance this mating isn't actually "completed" yet, then you'll have to be unassigned from their care."

Damian feels his heart clench, something inside him twisting almost painfully as he stares wide-eyed at his dad.

"What!?"