#I already have his whole part planned out

[anim-ttrpgs]

@gingerbreadbeholder

Thank you!

Yes, we use a virtual tabletop grid with little tokens for that kind of dungeon exploration and combat. We rotate GMs in the White Company AD&D2e campaign referenced in that post, and whatever virtual tabletop we’re using just sorta depends on the preference or convenience for that particular GM.

This time we were using Roll20 with a high-res remake of the dungeon from the actual adventure module. Here’s a few screenshots.

This screenshot is of a bit of a zoomed out view so you can see how many characters we’re working with. There’s 28 White Company&Allies(9 or which, the cynocephali, are enemy mercenaries that Herr Rike bribed to switch sides) and 16 enemy guys. That blue square is where the party's magician, Lady Serena Graves(drawn in white with a green border just above the green border token that uses Pentament art. ) cast her one spell of like the whole adventure and made the ceiling collapse on the guy with the purple robe, instantly ending what would have been a super deadly fight. The guy in the purple robes popped out from behind the corner during the negotiations and cast a spell of paralysis (and probably some other worse effects along with it) on Herr Rike before anyone could react. Against all odds, she passed a save that had a 90% chance to fail, the spell failed to take hold. We rationalized that this might be because she's already like 15% scar tissue and paralyzed muscles, so she's used to standing on bad legs, and so it just barely impeded her, enough to look like there was no effect at all. Then Serena Graves immediately brought the ceiling down on him, which was the plan all along. They had heard from the captured enemy fighters that this guy was such a deadly fighter and powerful magician that they were all terrified of him, so the party didn't take any chances. Rike getting hit by a spell wasn't part of the plan, but other than that, Serena Graves collapsed the ceiling on him as soon as she saw him, just as planned.

It's a good thing too, the DM told us some of his stats later and the captives were not fucking kidding. If this had come to an actual fight, he would have been one-shotting at least one party member per round, without even accounting for over a dozen other enemies.

The thing about magical characters in AD&D is that they will spend the whole adventure doing absolutely nothing until it comes time for them to snap their fingers and make one insurmountable problem instantly go away. The others surrendered after this, and under guard from the White Company&Allies, dug through the rubble to rescue the other half that had been trapped inside.

The token that uses Pentament art is one of the White Company Fighters, Chrysanthemum. Abigail is the one represented by the art from @ ironlily on twitter. Miles is the anime guy. Thistle the Witch is next to Chrysanthemum. Ceridwen is the other green token with a dog.

Here’s a more zoomed in picture where you can see the tokens more clearly. You can see Herr Rike(left, drawn in white with a green token border) and one of the sub-contracted mercenaries (Japanese warrior with a blue border token.) holding two previously-captured enemy soldiers (outlined in red right above them) at knife-point while negotiating with the rest of the enemy. Some of this is our own art, some of it is just whatever we can find, but a lot of it is from either HeroForge or Mordhau. Mordhau is great for quickly creating a bunch of unique historically accurate goons for this campaign, but you have to play a lot of that game to unlock a wide variety of armors. Luckily, I have over 500 hours in it.

And here’s a screenshot of the rooms where a lot of the above story took place. You can see the stairs where those two guys got slime attacked, the door where I drew a lock to indicate it was locked after Herr Rike couldn’t pick the lock, the room with Lubash in it, the door where Herr Rike propped up the jug of oil(drawn in yellow), the hallway with cells where the revenants came out, and the secret passage they eventually found.

We don’t always perfectly adhere to the grid itself, like in instances where it makes sense that the group should be able to stack up closer than the usual 5-foot squares would allow, but even then it is still useful for keeping track of relative positioning, so there is often some theater-of-the-mind going on, but for tactical combat games like every edition of D&D, I really can’t recommend a grid enough.

Also, use adventure modules. If you want a D&D dungeon crawl, play AD&D2e or earlier (I have also heard good things about Advanced Fantasy Dungeons, which is supposed to be a "modernization" of AD&D.) and use the dozens and dozens or even hundreds of adventure modules compatible with them that already come with great dungeons right out the box! The story above is from using an actual 1979 D&D adventure module, and the great thing about using some of the older and more famous ones is that man of them will have resources you can find online, such as fancy remakes of their maps and stuff. "Use adventure modules" and "create situations, not plots" are the two most important pieces of advice I can give to any GM.

"D&D can do anything" and "I don't like dungeon crawls, I enjoy real role-playing" are two statements that often go hand-in-hand and the ironic thing is that the latter statement betrays a very shallow understanding of role-playing while being really snobby. What's even more hilarious is that it's like baby's first RPG elitism, like yeah most people go through a "I like real role-playing" phase but to go through it while putting on airs about the dungeon game while at the same time dismissing dungeon games is real funny.

Anyway, wherever people pick up the idea that dungeon-crawling, the playstyle most supported by D&D, is somehow pedestrian, it very quickly leads to bargaining, like surely if dungeon-crawling is actually bad and for babies then D&D must be capable of so much more, right? Well, truth is, not really, D&D kind of sucks for things besides that.

Where a lot of people go wrong at this point is contending that therefore D&D must be flawed as a role-playing game: like, if it actually kind of sucks for most playstyles besides dungeon-crawling and we've already decided that dungeon-crawling isn't real role-playing, then surely D&D must be bad as a role-playing game?

The issue of course is that most people don't ever interrogate their starting assumption of dungeon-crawls being bad. And truth be told most people who claim to hate dungeon-crawls have never actually played a dungeon-crawl. At most they've played a dungeon-crawl themed linear succession of combat encounters. (I remember this: once when I posted about dungeon-crawls being good, actually, someone responded with a "well I can see the appeal but personally I couldn't enjoy a game that's just back-to-back combat" which is a whole misunderstanding of dungeon-crawls as a genre.)

Anyway so the great thing is that once you re-examine your assumptions about what counts as "real role-playing" and conclude that a dungeon-crawl is as much real role-playing as whatever the fuck Critical Role is doing then you find whole new vectors of being a snooty blowhard and it rules. You can make fun of D&D players in so many new ways,

[cybrasigilism]

NSFW alphabet with Player 388 (Kang Dae-ho)

warnings: smut and all things of the like | not proofread! | lowercase intended | these are my headcanons for this character, please be respectful even if my opinions on the character differ from yours

character: kang dae-ho (player 388)

A/N: you already know the second i got a request to do a NSFW alphabet for my fav, i had to do it. sorry for the spam, i just have way too much free time right now :’) anyways, as always i hope you enjoy! trust this is only the beginning of the dae-ho works i plan on writing

MDNI! 18+ content ahead, reader discretion is advised

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A= Aftercare what they’re like after sex

↳ if dae-ho isn’t the king of aftercare, then i’m santa clause. he will cuddle, draw you a bath, offer you a massage, the whole nine yards. he wants to make sure that you’re not only comfortable, but that you also know how grateful he is that you felt you could be vulnerable with him.

B= Body part their favourite body part of theirs and of their partner’s

↳ his favourite part of his is easily his arms, mainly because of how many people tell him how good his hugs are. as for his partner, he would ask how he could choose one favourite thing about someone who he loves so much. he’s a thigh man

C= Cum anything to do with cum, honestly

↳ would much rather to cum inside mainly because this man 100% has a breeding kink, but if his partner specifically says they don’t want him to cum inside, he will gladly oblige and pull out

D= Dirty Secret a dirty secret of theirs

↳ likes to be edged I MEAN WHO SAID THAT—

E= Experience how experienced are they? do they know what their doing?

↳ he’s definitely not got a massive body count, but trust he does know what he’s doing. you guys aren’t finishing until you cum twice

F= Favourite Position this one speaks for itself

↳ for him, it’s a tie between missionary and reverse cowgirl, it all depends on who wants to take charge in the moment

G= Goofy are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous, etc.

↳ he tries to be light hearted about the whole thing, especially if it’s your first time together. he’s still serious about sex in the sense that he’s determined to make you feel good, though

I= Intimacy how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect

↳ he’s big on praise, so he’s super intimate, kissing his partner all over and telling them how perfect they are are both staples in the process for dae-ho

J= Jack off masturbation headcanons

↳ he’s tried to use porn to masturbate before, but he finds it too artificial and performative and it actually takes him out of the mood rather than get him in it. he’s the kind of guy who thinks of his partner to get off

K= Kink one or more of their kinks

↳ breeding, praise, back scratching, overstimulation

L= Location favourite places to do the do

↳ the bedroom of course, and the shower x)

M= Motivation what turns them on? what gets them going?

↳ confidence. he loves it when his partner knows their worth

N= No something they won’t do

↳ hate sex, no explanation necessary

O= Oral preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

↳ he loves getting head just as much as the next guy, but face-sitting? he’s happy for you to just sit on his face the whole time, no penetrative sex needed

P= Pace are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.

↳ he is a firm believer that sex is more than just the action itself, but it’s about being as close to the person you love and trust most as physically possible, so of course he’s gonna take his time with his partner. after all, why rush a good thing?

Q= Quickie their opinions on quickies, how often?

↳ he’s down if you’re down, but again, he would rather take things slow

R= Risk are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.

↳ again, he’s game to experiment if you are. however he is still solid on his limits, and he wants you to be firm with yours too. he would never forgive himself if he felt like you only did something because he wanted to

S= Stamina how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?

↳ as previously stated, dae-ho will not be through with you until you cum twice. he will go as long as he needs to for the job to get done, whether he’s already finished or not. the training in the marines has certainly helped his stamina, so this is no trouble for him

T= Toys do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or on themselves

↳ i doubt he has toys of his own, however he has no problem with using any toys his partner chooses to bring along

U= Unfair how much they like to tease

↳ jokes on you, he’s actually the one getting teased double jokes on you, he’s really into it

V= Volume how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.

↳ he’s not obnoxiously loud by any sort of means, but he definitely does moan. remember though, he will praise his partner and assure them that theyre making him feel great. think something along the lines of “yeah, making me feel so good baby” or “that’s it, that’s right..oh god yeah, right there.”

W= Wild Card a random headcanon for the character

↳ i’ll say it once and leave it here: he talks you through it

X= X-ray what’s going on under those clothes?

↳ thanks to the marines training, he’s got quite the muscular build. when he’s hard, he’s above average, somewhere around 6 1/2 - 7”

Y= Yearning how high is their sex drive?

↳ he doesn’t have a crazy sex drive, but when he’s in the mood it completely shifts

Z= Zzz how quickly they fall asleep afterwards

↳ he refuses to fall asleep before you do. he will do whatever it takes to stay awake, because he feels it’s rude to fall asleep before his partner does

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

thanks so much for reading! you know the drill, advice + constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing are appreciated and requested! hope you guys like this as much as i had fun writing it :)

[siri-ike]

Summer of change

Chapter 5

First prev

For some reason, Steph had insisted on leaving the morgue in a hurry. Not fear, though! She’d specified that.

Danny wouldn't have minded staying. Last time he’d gone with a strange girl to a scary basement, he’d died. So this was certainly an improvement.

"Next we should go to Amusement Mile" Steph suggested.

"Amusement Mile? That's, what,” he joked, “A street full of amusement parks?"

"Yep!" She grinned wickedly. "And they're abandoned."

This girl wants to die.

That's it, that has to be why she's like this, just like Sam, except this girl doesn’t have ghost hunting equipment or a superhero ghost friend. Well, that she knows of.

Danny narrowed his eyes. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"Some say that every inch of it is haunted," she regaled, completely ignoring his accusation question. "Others say that villains rent it to use as headquarters. But I say that there's no reason both can't be true." There was a sparkle in her eye.

Oh, so she does wanna die, good to know. A wiser man would stay away from her, but not Danny Fenton. The guy who once snuck into a creepy hospital that he knew was haunted. Just because his whole school was "infected" with "ghost."

"You never did tell me what you were in for." he questioned.

All Steph did was giggle as she skipped out the door.

OK. That wasn't at all suspicious. With his luck, she's probably an arsonist or a fan of comics.

She was just as cryptic leading him away from the station, down the streets, and through dark alleys. Before long, he had no idea where they were or how to get back.

Why does he keep letting strangers take him to second locations?

Only when he looked thoroughly lost did she start talking.

She swung around and held out her hand, "Stephanie Brown." Emphasizing her last name.

"Danny Pha-aan-ton." He placed his hand in hers. Smooth as sandpaper.

"Faaaan-ton?" She repeated skeptically.

"Fenton." His voice cracked. If he ever managed to actually die, it might just be from embarrassment.

Then, in the distance, he hears faint music.

_______

Either this kid's an idiot, or that was a fake name. Context so far isn't helping.

Steph perks her ears up at the sound of a carousel. "We're almost there." She grins. And the boy immediately looks... excited? Wasn't he against this just a moment ago?

The entrance to the first amusement park was worn down, wooden boards producing a loud creeek with every step. Even daylight couldn't make this place look welcoming. Her parents would hate it.

"Let's check out the haunted castle." Danny suggested.

"Oh? Wanna pull another prank, do you?" She paused. "How'd you do that anyway? You couldn't have been there before, I watched you stare at the filing cabinets for 15 uninterrupted minutes."

_______

Yeah, there's no explaining that. "A prank? No, that was just ghosts. Morgues are full of them, you know," he joked, "And if you want to see more of them, the haunted house would be your best bet." He tried to act cool, which was almost impressive, knowing just how much uncoolness she had so far witnessed from him.

"Would it now? And what makes you the expert?" She teased, already walking towards the shoddy wooden firehazard castle.

Her piercing eyes prying for information. Danny, the sly fox that he is, confessed everything. From his parents being ghost hunters to the age at which he stopped wetting the bed (she didn't ask), he even told her about that time he had a mullet. Somehow, he did keep his powers to himself.

By the time he finally stopped confessing, they had already gotten to the highest part of the castle... and Steph was nowhere to be seen.

Sunlight lit up most of the room through the gaps in the ceiling. Every footstep was accompanied by a subtle creak of the floorboards. She's obviously planning to jump out and scare him, so would it kill her to sneak? He stares intently, knowing exactly where she is.

Would it be nicer to pretend to be scared? Sure. But Jazz always said “Niceness is performative, Danny!” So a fake scare wouldn't be fair.

"Steph?" He calls towards the slightly more shaded hallway, which so happened to be the only exit. "If you're trying to scare me, might I recommend the hall of mirrors," he teases, "Or whatever that building with the giant clown on it was?"

Suddenly, something landed on the floor behind him. On instinct, he turned and shot a blast of ectoplasm at the noise.

"I knew it!" She squeaked from the doorway behind him.

"Wha-?"

"You're a meta, aren't you!?"

Looking closer at the pile of ash on the floor, it looked like it used to be a backpack. His backpack.

"Is that my bag?" He asked, annoyed.

"Don't worry! I took your stuff out, and replaced it with junk I found in here. Didn't think you'd destroy it, though." She said as though it were the most normal thing in the world. "What was that? Some sort of laser? How far can you shoot it? And how big? What's it made of?" She started rambling. “You know, I suspected something was up when your eyes glowed back at the station, but when you gave me a fake name, it was clear you were hiding something. Do you know any other meta humans? She paused, but not long enough for him to answer. “Obviously I don't think all metas know each other or anything, but you must have sought out someone who could relate, right?”

_______

Thank you to @bespoke-nautilus for proofing

@ladyredmoon13 @ryuukthehatter @sonrium @niamcarlin @sunnysolaria @tiffanyhart13 @tkiesai @not-your-average-url @lurukifennecfox @atomicsheepscientist @glowstickia @superbpastanickelzonk @persephonedevoted @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @howtogetblinded101 @ultra-stormsaga @piece-of-pierce @random-fandom-place

What part of an amusement park should they get ambushed at go to next?

It can be anything from any amusement park.

[msfantasy-anime]

My Captains a Tsundere

Eustass Kidd x Pirate!Reader

Summary: Y/n is part of the Kidd pirates and loved playing cat and mouse with her captain.

No one ever warns you that being a pirate can be boring.

They talk about the action packed adventures. The amazing scenic views. The rich culture and food you experience.

But no one warns how bloody boring it can be to be sailing on a ship for DAYS and have crew as secluded and anti-social as Victoria Punks.

So what do you do for fun you might ask?

You would call it flirting with your favourite captain for entertainment.

Kidd might call it torturing him…

Who’s to say?

After a long and arduous day Captain Kidd needed nothing less than absolute quietness which is typically maintained in the sanctuary of the Captains quarters. However, much like every other day. The world’s most irritating crewmember comes in to ruin any semblance of peace.“Hey Captain!” You holler, kicking in the door with a loud slam.

“Piss off!” The Captain hiss through clenched teeth but you ignore his demands and throw your self to take a seat on the Captains work bench where he’s currently tinkering away.

“Aw common Captain I thought we were passed this! Admit it. You’d miss me if I wasn’t around.” You jab a finger into his chest trying to hoax any form of admission.

“Hah, as if! I’d finally have some peace and quiet.” But your frown turns to a pout as your cross your arms with a huff.

“Then why did you invite me to join your crew and keep me around?”

“Because I didn’t know you were this annoying and someone has to—since you’re hopeless. I just did the world a favour by taking you with me.” He declares whilst you played along with his teasing by sliding off his work station, taking strides behind the stool he’s sitting on before slinging your arms around Kidds neck, leaning into his back and swaying side to side.

“Aw Captain~ you know I think you secretly do care about me under all those faux layers of resentment.” You tease.

“Think whatever you want. It’s not like I care...You’re wrong, though.” He huffs trying ignoring your antics, but your distracting him by pressing the side of your face into his, observing him working as he continues to try and focus on his work.

“Are you blushing? I swear I just saw it.”

“No it’s just hot in here and you pressing your face into me is not helping- what do you want anyway?! Hurry up and get to the point.”

“Wanna take me on a hot date at the next port stop tonight?”

“I could but that would imply I was interested to begin with.” Kidd stabs back making you deflate and letting your embrace slide off.

“Aw bummer! I’ll just ask Killer then…” You mutter ready to turn and leave.

“Fine! I’ll take you on the stupid outing. Quit bothering Killer.”

You tap your finger against your chin in thought before waving Kidd off. “No need to force yourself Captain. Killer to offered take me if you weren’t interested.”

“Shut up - I already said I would take you.” He says, slamming his fist into the table.

“Wow, you’ll actually take me?” You cupped your face in excitement, the urge to squeal being squelched down.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t have plans and didn’t want you getting introuble and making me look bad.”Kidd huffs waving you off. Kidd stops tinkering at his work and looks at you for the first time since you invited yourself on his working desk. “Are you wearing that tonight? You don’t look terrible.”

“You could just say I looked good in this dress.” You say doing a little spin to show off your whole outfit.

“It’s... you look okay.” A huge grin begins to sweep across your face. “Don’t get carried away.”

[moralesmilesanhour]

looking the part

description: a college AU one-shot wherein Ekko watches you get ready for an end-of-semester celebration with some of Piltover's finest. wc: 572 tags: canon divergent-ish, ekko x black!reader a/n: wanted to try my hand at writing for Arcane characters :) the original rough draft was twice as long as what you see here lol

A calm quiet settled over your small single room.

Ekko watched idly as you attempted to wind your braids around your head in a large, elaborate bun. Still barefoot, you were half-dressed in a smart-looking white blouse (complete with a golden brooch that had moving mechanical wings), and a long black skirt that revealed your brown legs through two high slits.

“You look like Medarda,” he commented from his spot on your bed, chin resting in his palm. He had no plans tonight that did not include a long nap, and was appropriately dressed for the occasion in a white tank top and gray sweats.

The bun seemed to remain stable as you slowly removed your hands. You grinned into the dirty dorm room mirror at your triumph.

“That's the idea.”

“You want to look like a topside politician?”

The bun quickly collapsed when you whipped around to face him. He had that ‘be serious’ look on his face, a dark brow lifted in skepticism.

You crossed your arms.

“Ekko, don't start. It's just an end-of-semester party, and I'd like to look the part. That's all it is!”

Ekko put his free hand up in surrender.

“I'm just saying, I don't see the point in spending your whole night schmoozing when you’dve already got Viktor vouching for you.”

The space beside him sank a bit once you joined him on the mattress, and he sat up to accommodate. You stuck out your lips in a pout.

“Says the guy who scored an internship with Heimerdinger.”

Ekko retorted without missing a beat, “And do you see me copying his drip?”

The image of Ekko dressed head-to-toe in Piltie jewelry and double-breasted vests made you giggle.

“Never in a million years.”

���Exactly.”

“But that's not the same thing!” You pushed him by the shoulder, “I just think her hair's cute.”

He reached over to push a stray braid out of your face, the tips of his calloused fingers brushing your cheek as he did so. You watched him watch you, intently.

His clear brown eyes sparkled where the low desk light hit them, the same way they did the day you first met at one of Heimerdinger’s guest lectures. Ekko had raised his hand—the only one to do so—and asked some out-of-left-field questions about whether Hextech was especially vulnerable to ‘bad actors’ under council jurisdiction and whatnot.

Expecting him to struggle to be heard in that giant lecture hall, the ring of his voice cutting through the air, uninhibited and impolite, sent a shock through your system. It also sent the professor on a very long tangent on the dangers of the Arcane when left in the wrong hands, and you could've sworn you heard a snicker or two coming from Ekko’s direction when he had to be interrupted because class time had all but run out.

You stopped him before class ended, and awkwardly asked him if he had really bleached his hair to be that stark white color. He laughed, and invited you to lunch not long after.

“I could do you one better,” he suggested, snapping you out of your thoughts. He made a circular gesture around his head. “How ‘bout a crown?”

“Hm,” you pretended to think, though you were already moving to settle yourself in between his knees. “Do I get to borrow your earrings? Y’know, complete the look.”

A long sigh.

“Alright, but you better not lose ‘em.”

-

Hi! Thank you for making it this far. Pls feel free to reblog and leave feedback in replies/tags, and check out my pinned post if you're curious about me or other stuff I've written :) Have a nice day/night

[pinkolve]

A Missing Lunch and Soft Kisses

Summary: Your boyfriend forgets his lunch at home so you decide to bring it to him.

Genre: Fluff only!

CW: A bit of social anxiety on reader's part, first person point of view, use of y/n, a little ooc Aaron Hotchner, a few little kisses <3

Word Count: 556 (very short, sorry!)

A/N: I wrote this really quickly just to have the motivation to post more stories here, so pardon any mistakes or poor word choice! Let me know if I missed anything that should be a CW, and if you'd read more fanfics written by me!! (I promise I usually write longer stories than this.)

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I walk out of the elevator, looking through the glass doors that await me. There’s a brown paper bag in my hand and my bag is slung over my shoulder. I’ve never met any of Aaron’s coworkers, I’m nervous as to how the first impression will go. I originally wasn’t supposed to be here, this was never planned. Aaron and I haven’t even started planning an occasion for us to meet. If only he had remembered to bring his own lunch, I wouldn’t be here. 

I push open one of the glass doors and walk through. No one looks my way which is already a weight off my shoulders. I completely expected everyone to immediately stare at me, like they did in highschool when someone was late to class. I shiver at that memory. 

I start to walk past some desks and avoid any gazes sent in my direction. I obviously don’t recognize anyone. The nightmare is almost over as I reach the steps leading to Aaron’s office. I knock and wait for a response. 

“Come in!” He orders. I push open the door and watch as his face lights up at the sight of me. I push the door closed behind me. “Y/n! How are you doing, sweetheart?” He walks over to me and kisses my forehead, resting his hand on my hips. 

“You forgot your lunch.” I smile as I lift up the bag in my hand. 

“Thank you for bringing it all the way here.” He grabs it from me. “You know you didn’t have to do that.” 

“I couldn’t just let my man starve, now could I?” I blush at my own words. 

“Mm, how thoughtful of you.” He hums before kissing me again, longer this time. A knock interrupts us, pulling us apart. 

“Yes?” Aaron calls out and the door opens. His hand is still on my waist. 

“Hotch, I found-” A bubbly blonde woman stops mid-sentence. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you had company!” 

“Don’t worry about it, I just came to drop off his lunch.” I respond.

“Ah, well, it’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Penelope.” 

“I’m Y/n, it’s nice to meet you too!” 

“How have I never met you before?” She asks. 

“You know Aaron, he never tells anyone about his personal life. He’s been keeping me a secret for a couple years now.” I whisper. Aaron groans at me. 

“Honey, I was not ‘keeping you a secret.’ No one asked me anything about my love life so I never mentioned anything.” 

“Whatever you say.” I shrug. He rolls his eyes at me and smiles. 

“Do you ever believe anything I tell you?” 

“Depends on what it is.” I smirk up at him. I look back at Penelope and her eyes are wide. Her mouth hangs open as she stares between us both. 

“Are you two…?” She finally asks. 

“Yes, Garcia. We’ve been together for two years now.” Aaron chuckles. Penelope’s face stays the same. 

“Excuse me, I have to go talk to…Someone. Bye!” She practically runs out the door. I look at Aaron with a puzzled look. 

“She’s about to tell everyone in the bullpen about this whole thing.” He smiles. 

“She doesn’t seem like a very good secret keeper.” 

“Trust me, she is not.” He laughs, placing another gentle kiss against my lips. 

[sugarsnapdragon]

Lets take it from the top

Ao3 mirror here

And here's my part for the @rivalsduogiftexchange! Hi @ameiniateria I had your for the exchange! Your prompts were a lot of fun and this is a mix of your first and third prompt. I hope your enjoy and happy holidays!!

With how far away Dream has made his little vault, Technoblade is beginning to suspect that Dream may actually have a house hidden on the SMP somewhere. He's been trecking for a while, trying to find the place where Dream is supposed to meet Tommy and Tubbo. He managed to shake the general coordinates out of Punz, although he's pretty sure the mercenary didn't buy his reasoning.

That's honestly fine though. He doesn't need Punz to trust him, just to stay out of the way. He already made the mistake of trusting Punz with Dream once. He's not going to do it again.

It takes surprisingly long to get to where Dream's little underground lair is. Longer than he would like. He's racing against the clock here. He doesn't have much longer until Tommy and Tubbo get here. It probably would have been quicker through the nether but he's never been the best at the whole coordinate thing. Phil is better at all that stuff. But soon enough he does actually find it.

He lets out a huff at the moutain in front of him. "Really Dream? You couldn't choose an easier place to hide a secret lair?"

show off he's still homeless till we see a house Does he still cunt as homeless if he lives in a mountain lol cunt EEEE

"You're as much help as usual." Techno complains as he ties up the boat he's been using. He's grown to love the voices that haunt him, but he does wish they were a little more helpful sometimes. Still, he tunes them out as he climbs up. Punz had given him fair specific instructions, once Techno scared them out of him. It helps sometimes to have a bloodthirsty reputation. He's got to get up the mountain and then dig into a wall apparently. That doesn't take long to do, in the grand scheme of things.

He doesn't even need to worry about that, as he gets up to where the supposed meeting place is. Dream is already there, waiting. He's furiously messing someone, mask up and eyes locked onto his com. He hasn't noticed Techno yet, and Techno is happy to use the opportunity to look him over. He's used to the way Dream had looked before, in the prison after Quackity and months of starvation and torture. And the last time he saw him….Techno doesn't want to think about that. Dream looks good now. Healthy. Or healthier. He's not close to the admin now but he can imagine the bags under his eyes.

"Dream." He says, loud enough that Dream can hear him. He watches in amusement as the admin jumps, mask falling into place. He jumps down off the small platform he's been sitting on so they're on the same level.

"Technoblade. You're here."

"I am." Technoblade crosses his arms over his chest, an amused smile on his face. "Punz tell you I was coming?"

Techno can't see his face but he can imagine Dream is frowning at him, trying to figure out what Techno's plan is. Techno tries to keep his face neutral until he speaks.

"What are you doing here?" He finally asks, still at the other end of the hall.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?" Technoblade can imagine Dream squinting at him, green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Technoblade licks his lips as he thinks up an answer. He will admit, he kind of moved before he had a complete plan. He had wanted to move first, when he realized what had happened. That somehow XD had held up his end of the bargain and now Techno needed to figure out how to keep Dream from fucking up his entire life. It'll be worth it. Anything to avoid that future.

"I have a business proposition for you." He finally says, walking over to the admin. Dream stands his ground, eyes still locked on him. Good.

"A business proposition?"

"Yep." Techno stops in front of him, hands in his pockets. "You give all this up. In return you get Phil and I to help you figure out what's going on."

"Figure what out?"

"Why death is so weird on this server. Why the server god is so interested in the going ons. Maybe even how to stop what's going on with you." Techno hears Dream's sharp inhale as he speaks.

"How do-"

"I have my ways." Techno leans down so he's more eye level with Dream. "So what do you say? This is a one time deal."

Silence hangs in the air for a long moment. Techno can almost feel the gears whirring in his head as Dream tries to figure out if he can be trusted. But Techno knows Dream doesn't have as much time as he wants. The Revival book is eating away at him, bit by bit.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Dream finally asks. "I've still got a whole favor to use."

"I know. And this would wipe the slate clean. Besides, wouldn't you rather have the Blood God and the Angel of Death on your side over Punz?" Techno can't help but sound a little offended at the idea. He, Dream and Phil make a good team. Much better than Punz who can't offer him anything. "If its being safe then we'll keep you safe."

"What about Tommy?"

"Forget him. Tommy is easy enough to distract. Give him his disks and he'll cave." Techno says with a shrug.

Speaking of which, he can hear the two of them making their way up the side of the mountain now. "Dream, listen. I know you want everything to go back to the way it was. But Pandora's? You're not going to figure it out there locked up. We both know that even if you're gone everyone will keep on fighting."

Dream doesn't say anything at first. He doesn't even say anything as Tommy and Tubbo get up to them. He can hear them being surprised behind him, asking Techno what he's doing there. Techno ignore them, watching instead as Dream turns, heading back up to the jukebox.

"You really think that Techno?" He finally asks, pulling one of Tommy's discs from his inventory. He watches as Dream puts it on, Mellohi playing out across the landscape.

"I know so." Techno says, ignore the two behind him making a scene. He watches Dream take a deep breath. He can imagine Dream closing his eyes as he thinks.

"Alright Tech. I'll take that deal." He says, jumping back down to Techno's level. He holds his hand out. "You promise you can do this?"

"Of course." Techno takes his hand, shaking it. "To the start of a wonderful partnership."

[freeuselandonorris]

dando 21

wow my daniel voice is rusty lmao.

if you have no clue what a slink is or how to visualise the toy they’re using, here you go!

The box is fucking massive. Lando had paid for the upgrade to Express Post and takes great delight in letting Dan answer the door, shuffle back in clutching a box half the size of his own torso, sliders slapping against the wood floors.

“I’m guessing this was you,” Dan says, squinting at the address label. “Since it’s addressed to Ricky Bobby. Very original.”

Lando beams, makes grabby hands without moving from his position on the squashy leather sofa, feet propped up against the edge of the coffee table.

“Dare I ask?” Dan says, as Lando gets a thumb under the tape and tears it off in one satisfying strip.

He turns the box upside down. The Slink flops out like a tranquilised snake, bounces off his leg and hits the floor with a smack.

Lando looks at it, and then at Dan.

“What the fuck,” Dan says, without taking his eyes off it, “is that?”

*

Lando’s explanations are — well. Patchy at best, because he didn’t exactly give it a lot of thought or research before he hit Buy Now. But Dan relaxes once he’s established, quite firmly, that it’s not going anywhere near his arsehole.

“So, what?” he says, running the length of it idly through one hand. Lando tries not to shiver at the sight. “You’re gonna stick this whole thing inside yourself?”

Lando shrugs a shoulder, does his best to look nonchalant. “Well, you’re gonna stick it inside me, but yeah.”

“Huh,” Dan says. He reaches out and grabs Lando by the hip, rolling him onto his back and putting the toy onto his stomach, the base of it nestling just under his balls. The toy is vaguely sticky against the damp fabric of Lando’s swim shorts.

The tip of the toy reaches up past his navel.

“Huh,” Dan says again, and when Lando looks up at him, his eyes are blown dark. “That’s gonna. That’s gonna go right up there. Like — up there.”

“That’s the plan,” Lando says, and reaches for where Dan’s swim trunks are sticking out in front.

*

It takes forever to get ready, because Lando finally got round to reading the instructions on the website and realised he was gonna have to do a better job of cleaning himself out than his usual hot shower and hope for the best. He’s had no breakfast or lunch. He’s spent the best part of an hour locked in Daniel’s second-biggest bathroom with a fucking enema bulb, and missed going out on the dirt bikes. It better be worth it.

Dan’s unshowered, smelling ripe, just the way Lando likes him best. His muscle tee barely covers his nipples. Lando feels like he’s in some sort of porn, lying on a bath towel with his knees pulled up to his chest and four of Dan’s fingers fucking into him with increasingly squelchy sounds, lube everywhere already. It’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary for them, but it feels different, somehow. More obscene.

When Dan picks up the Slink, it almost skids straight out of his slippery hands and he swears, fighting with it briefly until he’s got one hand tight around the base and the other around the business end. Lando bites his lip to stop himself making a Steve Irwin joke.

“This is — I need three hands,” Dan complains, still wrangling. The toy is soft, flexible. Lando thinks about it going inside him, settling into the contours of his insides, and whines. He’s already leaning against his stomach, just from the thought of it.

When the lubed, pointed tip presses into him, it’s almost an anticlimax. Barely bigger than the width of Dan’s thumb, it slips inside him with no resistance at all. Dan had fucked him last night, opened him up again with impatient fingers earlier, so it makes sense that it’s easy to start off with. But still, a bit of him thinks: is that it? maybe this’ll be easy.

He keeps on thinking that until Dan feeds it maybe six inches into him, and then he stops.

“Okay, that’s — yep.”

Lando hadn’t been able to bring himself to say the words internal sphincter to Dan, not least because he wasn’t entirely sure how to pronounce them. So he’d simply said the instructions reckon you’ll hit a point where it’s like — another hole, but inside. So you have to go carefully, yeah?

It’s a weird sensation. He can feel it in his insides. Pressure, insistent and achy like a stomach ache but good, somehow. It does feel good.

Dan’s wearing his concentrating face, the frown lines between his eyebrows creased deeply as he nudges the toy forward, millimetre by millimetre.

They both gasp when it pushes inside. Into some deep part of Lando that he’s never even really considered before, just some vague confusing memories of diagrams from school he’d paid no attention to.

He makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a grunt. Dan glances up at him, worry in his features.

“It’s fine,” Lando says. He sounds breathless. “Go on, just — slow, yeah? Slow and careful.”

And that’s what Dan does. Slowly, carefully, he feeds the rest of the toy into Lando’s body. Until Lando’s soaking sweat into the towel beneath him, eyes screwed closed, breath coming out in quick little gasps. Jesus, he’s full.

“Nearly there,” Dan says, quiet and throaty. “Fuck, man, this is — fucking nuts.”

Lando tries to laugh. It comes out as a kind of strangled gurgle. The motion of it makes his insides shift about, and he can feel it. His guts being rearranged, literally, around the thick silicone twining through them. Fuck, fuck.

He barely registers the stretch in his hole as Dan pushes the toy past its widest point and settles it snugly into place. He’s too busy breathing. Feeling the way his ribcage expands with each inhalation and the knock-on effect it has, rippling all the way down.

“Do I, like…” Dan breaks off with a strained laugh. “Do I fuck you with it, or?”

Lando almost laughs before he remembers that Dan has no clue what this feels like. That he’s got no idea how impossible an idea that is, that Lando wants to lie very still and luxuriate in the fullness forever. “Nah, it’s not like that. I read that I can do it myself by like — squeezing?”

Dan makes an indistinct noise. He’s rubbing himself through his boxers, staring down at Lando.

“You know I can see it, right?”

Lando blinks sweat from his eyes. He can barely think straight. He experiments, one clench, and fights to stop his eyes rolling back in his head. “Oh my God. See what?”

Dan leans forward. Lando’s cock jumps against his lower stomach hopefully, but Dan bypasses it and presses the tight drum of his belly instead, breathing hard. “I can see it inside you.”

God. That’s. Lando lifts his head, craning downwards to check and — yeah. Dan’s right. A little unnatural bulge in his belly, pushing up against the tight muscles of his abs.

“Oh, fuck,” Lando says, wobbly.

Dan covers it with his hand, massaging gently. He’s got his other hand shoved inside his shorts now, moving in sharp jerks, upper lip glazed with sweat behind the moustache. He looks as far gone as Lando feels.

“Come on,” Dan says, rough and giddy. “Let’s see what you can do, baby.”

Lando’s eyes do roll back his head then, and not even because he’s cringing at Dan’s porno dialogue. He’s clenching hard around the base of the toy, over and over, feeling it shift inside his body, feeling the answering pressure of Dan’s hand, like he’s being fucked through his own skin.

“Oh my God,” he says again, gasping, breathless. His voice rises to a high whine. “This is — oh my God, Dan, fuck.”

The orgasm hits him from the inside first. His cock jerks, red and swollen, but he doesn’t come. He’s shuddering, rolling his hips, making guttural sounds. Dan rubs his stomach through it, shifting the toy inside him and sending fresh waves of pleasure up his spine.

“Dan,” Lando whines, and Dan swears.

His hand leaves Lando’s stomach, and there’s a brief second of nothingness until Dan presses his fingers against the flat base of the toy and pushes hard, vibrating it with his fingers like he’s rubbing a cunt. Lando makes a sound he will later deny is a scream and spurts all over his swollen belly. He barely notices Dan’s groan of release a few seconds later, soaking the inside of his shorts.

It takes Lando a long time to come back to himself. He jumps a little when Dan’s mouth crashes into his, kissing him hungrily, a little violently. He tastes like salt and adrenaline.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he says against Lando’s mouth. “Next time I wanna do that with my fist.”

[cheezbites]

Dating Ghost -- Part 4

✎: HAPPY NEW YEARS EVERYONE!! Ending 2024 off with a part 4 to my Ghost headcanons series!🤭

♡Summary: Headcanons of dating Ghost.

︵‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

Bf!Ghost lets you drag him along to parties. You received a last-minute invitation to this big New Year's party, and he already knew there's no way you'll miss it. He doesn't protest. In fact, he doesn't even mind. He found himself mildly enjoying the company of other people, picking up on bits and pieces of meaningful conversations such as their resolutions, hopes or big plans for the year ahead of them.

His attention, however, is almost entirely fixed on you. Whether you’re catching up with someone you know or heading off to grab another drink, his sharp eyes follow your every move, ensuring you’re always within his sight.

As the clock nears striking midnight, the big countdown begins and the room almost instantaneously buzzes with excitement and anticipation. Ghost gently pulls you into his arms, tuning out the raucous cheers and clinking glasses around you. He kisses you softly, his masked demeanor melting away in the intimacy of the moment.

“Guess you’re stuck with me for another year, eh? Don’t know how you do it.”

Bf!Ghost loves the idea of cozying up at home with you. The world outside is cheery and loud: groups of friends heading to or returning from clubs, the occasional firework bursting in the sky, and the distant hum of cars as people race to make it home before midnight. But his world—being you—is cozily inside with him. A bottle of champagne, your favorite cheesy sitcom playing on the TV, and a soft blanket draped over the both of you, making the moment so effortlessly perfect.

Bf!Ghost keeps in contact with you, no matter where he is, this man will find a way. His texts range from sarcastic remarks to just random snapshots of his day. He has this knack for making you laugh with his dry humour and cheeky quips.

"Guess what I had to deal with today? Idiots."

*(Attached: A photo of some destroyed expensive looking military equipment) "Just a bunch of idiots."

Or, out of nowhere, a photo of a random animal he saw, captioned: “This you?”

Bf!Ghost isn’t the type to sit down and plan New Year’s resolutions. It’s just not his thing—too much fuss over things he figures he’ll do anyway. But with you, it’s become a tradition. He always kept his short and practical, things like, “Stick to the training routine,” or “Get the truck serviced.” Straightforward. No fluff. But every single time, you'd make sure to add an impossibly unachievable one regarding Simon, like “Convince Simon to wear a ridiculous party hat.”

But little does he know, you’ve got your ways. It's not even February, but he’s sitting on the couch with a sparkly, oversized party hat perched on his head. He grumbles something about how you’re impossible, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that he can’t hide.

His biggest resolution this year is different, though. It’s more personal: “Learn to take a proper holiday with you.” He’s honest about it—years have gone by without him truly relaxing, and he knows he owes it to himself—and to you—to find that peace.

He secretly loves when you set a goal for the both of you, like planning a getaway or trying a new hobby together. Even though he pretends it’s all “your idea,” he’s all in from the start. It’s the kind of commitment he doesn’t say out loud, but you can see it in the way he clears his schedule, shows up on time, and puts his whole heart into whatever you’re doing. With Simon, even the smallest resolutions become something meaningful when it’s with you.

Bf!Ghost stares. A lot. But not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, and that's if you notice--most of the time you don't. When he zeroes in on you, it's like he's in a sort of daze and there's a softness that momentarily lingers in the creases of his eyes.

"Y'know, you always do that thing..." You mention whilst glancing over at him. He was leaning back on the couch, casually sipping on his drink with his eyes fixed on you.

"What thing?"

You tilt your head and a smile plays at your lips. "Stare."

He just shrugs like it's no big deal. But you can tell by the shift in his gaze that it means more. “I like looking at you,” he says, voice low and quiet, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Bf!Ghost keeps a picture of you in his wallet, hidden among the military IDs and mission cards. It's just a photo, after all—nothing to make a fuss over. But the way his fingers linger on it when he's pulling out his cards or the small smile that tugs at his lips when he sees it tells a different story.

Bf!Ghost holds onto little souvenirs from your outings and dates. The ticket from the first movie you saw together? It's in a safe place in his drawer. A napkin with a doodle you drew as you were chattering away with your friends on the phone, laughing about silly gossip? That's tucked into his wallet, next to your picture.

Bf!Ghost surprises you with these small, simple decorations when the New Year rolls around, like some dazzling fairy lights twinkling in the corner or some sparklers at night. When you asked him about him, he just shrugs with a nonchalant look and says, "Felt like it."

But deep down, you know it's because he loves seeing you get excited or surprised whenever he does something special, even if it's out of the usual for him. He's secretly a sucker for seeing you get all thrilled over new beginnings,

Bf!Ghost discovers you putting together a messy craft project, showcasing all your favourite memories from 2024. You've been in and out of rooms, running around to fetch a variety of creative supplies and being careful to not prick your foot with scissors or knock over an unscrewed glitter jar on your way back.

"What do we have here?" He asked, leaning against the doorframe and observing as you neatly trimmed a photograph to stick onto your collage.

"A time capsule, right? But make it *aesthetic*." You answer, still focusing on the right place to glue this photo of him (he didn't even realise you took it) onto your collage.

Stepping into the room, he watches you rearrange and readjust bits of paper as you searched for the perfect combination. He decided to make himself useful, sitting across from you and quietly helping with cutting things out for you or suggesting ideas. Every little thing he does makes the process a little smoother. He's there, helping you build something together—just like he’s always there for the bigger moments.

Bf!Ghost finally lets you paint his nails after what seemed like hours of pleading and begging--but just one, which was perfect for what you were trying to do, anyway.

You chose his thumb so you can have more efficient and visually representative thumb wars, of course. I don't know how this man does it, but every time he wins. His true competitive nature comes out in a good old fashioned thumb war. But it's also another excuse to hold your hand and hear you giggling as you thrash about and try cheating your way through getting his thumb cornered.

You carefully painted it black and added a tiny ghost doodle in white, refining all the details in black with a tiny and precise brush.

"Fits, don't touch think?" You teased, holding it up for him to inspect.

But you didn't want Ghost Jr. to feel left out, so you got a matching one. (But yours is pink, of course). Whenever you held his hand, you always dubbed them as 'best buddies' and pressed your thumbs together, making hand holding all the more special to you guys.

Masterlist

🌸Part One

🌸Part Two

🌸Part Three

✎: This one felt super short to me, but that only means there's more works to comeeesej!!😝 SHARE YOUR RESOLUTIONS IN THE COMMENTS I'D LOVE TO HEAR🩷 Mine's to stop perfectionism and procrastinating.. nasty habit of mine😭 hence the super long writing hiatus--but she's BACKK💕🫶 I missed you guys so much!!1!1!

[yeahtimesten]

a wedding to remember pt 1 - p.z

fake dating au, wedding guests, patrick zweig x reader

patrick zweig is desperate to prove to his parents he can make a commitment to tennis, by using you to show his parents he can commit, period.

multi parts, warnings - lots of cussing

Art Donaldson, Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig, and you all sat together in the Stanford dining call, the girls next to each other and the boys across. They all dug into their meals, making small talk, until:

“So, I gotta head out for practice,” Tashi said, gathering her things onto her tray and rising off of the booth. “Maybe later you two can meet us at our dorm and we can watch a movie or something.” She smiled at the two boys, as she traced her fingers down your hair.

“I actually have to head to my study group right now,” Art followed suit. “I’ll see you guys later.” The two walked out of the cafeteria together and the two of you remained seated, finishing your meals.

“What are you up to after this,” Patrick asked you, sliding his body across the bench to be face to face. “Got any plans?”

Patrick and you, within the two years you’d known each other, had never really hung out alone together. Usually, at least Tashi or Art accompanied you whenever Patrick came to visit. He wasn’t sure if he could consider you a friend, he mostly knew you as Tashi’s roommate, an acquaintance at best. You were sweet, you listened to his stories and told him your own. Whenever he came over, you had snacks that you knew he liked ready. Patrick knew your preferred choice of souvenirs were keychains and shot glasses, and he brought you some every time he came to visit from touring. But, they weren’t by any means close the way that Art and Patrick or Tashi and you were.

So, when Patrick asked you what you were doing next, you felt a bit awkward. Did he want to hang out or was he just being polite? Did he want something?

“I was just going to go back to my dorm and study,” you said plainly, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“I’ll walk you back,” he offered, with a small smile.

The two of you wrapped up your meals and headed out of the dining hall.

“So, what are your plans for this summer,” Patrick asked, biting the skin around his nails. He looked down the whole time, hoping not to catch your eyes.

“Um, well, I was going to go back home and find a full time job, I guess. Just save up money for next semester,” you shrugged. “What about you? Continuing your tour?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ve got a few trips planned for later in the season, more towards fall actually,” he sighed and put his hands in his pockets. “Actually, my sister is getting married in two weeks so after my match next week in Indian Wells, I’ll fly out there to attend.”

Your both approached your dorm and you invited in Patrick, who took a seat on your bed and you at your desk.

“Oh that sounds like fun, Patrick,” you smiled at him, before quickly clocking a face contorted and twisted with disagreement. “Or, no, not fun? I know you talk a lot of shit about your family and your parents but it can’t be that bad, can it?” He eyed the girl in front of him who was so naive and unaware of his dysfunctional family.

“You don’t understand, they’re fucking crazy,” Patrick sighed. He pulled his legs up to sit cross legged in your bed.

You started to flip through your notebook and set up to study. “Okay, well do you have a role in the wedding or something? Are you the best man or a groomsmen?”

He scoffed. “God, no.”

“Alright then, just go for the actual wedding,” you shrugged, not looking away from your notes. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be weird to bring Art along, then you could just pick up a bridesmaid and call it a day.”

“I already have a plus one,” he coughed, and started biting his nails yet again.

“Oh, who,” you inquired, still more focused on your papers.

A beat of silence. Patrick placed his hands in his lap and looked at you, with a deeper tone of seriousness. You turned his way and caught his face, still as a stone. He looked like he had just been carved from marble, he was so still.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your head cocked to the side. “Who?” You repeated, growing worried and confused.

Patrick swallowed hard, unsure how to go about his words. “You, I hope.”

Patrick had been acting weird all day, you had caught that. Someone who was normally loud, unfiltered, and extroverted was suddenly quiet, reserved, and seemingly anxious as soon as he had seen you this morning. You blinked rapidly, trying to process what he said.

“Me? What do you mean me?”

“I want to take you to my sister’s wedding,” Patrick said plainly, with newfound sturdiness. He sat back on his hands and continued to look at you, who had now turned your chair to face him.

“Okay, I get that,” you nodded. “But, why? What for?”

“Well, like you said, it sounds like fun,” Patrick lightly chuckled, eliciting a sigh from you.

“Patrick, be for real.” You leaned forward in your swivel chair. “Why me? Why not Art? Or Tashi, even?”

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Patrick regained his seriousness. “A huge favor.” You just looked at him with wide impatient eyes, your arms gesturing for him to continue. “I need you to come to this wedding with me… And pretend to date me.” He sighed as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time, the weight of the request off his shoulders at last.

But, your face just contorted in more confusion.

“What? What the fuck, Patrick?! What for?”

“It’s hard to explain-“

“Well, try!” Patrick opened his mouth again, but you cut him off. “I mean, I don’t see why you can’t ask Tashi. I’m not good at lying, and I’m not trying to say anything about Tashi, she’s my best friend, but she’d be much better at something like that than I am.”

“Tashi wouldn’t work, she wouldn’t sell it,” he muttered more to himself. “I don’t know why you, y/n. You are sweet and polite, but cutthroat when need be. You’re smart, determined, pretty. You tell all these stories about how great you are with your friend’s parents, selling them an illusion of safety for their children before taking them to parties or whatever the fuck, so you must be kind of good at lying.” What started off so sweet, turned accusatory, and you couldn’t brush past that.

“I never sold an illusion. We stayed safe and out of trouble, none of my friends ever got hurt or arrested, so I wasn’t lying,” you corrected. “Just to go to some house parties, by the way. Not like we were knocking down some liquor stores.”

“I recall a story you told us about you calling your friend’s strict mom posing as a teacher asking for consent for her son to stay late for an extra curricular event so you take him and your friends to a concert.”

“I didn’t say I was a teacher, I introduced myself as Ms. y/l/n, and that I wanted to him to participate in a concert as an extra curricular activity to enrich his knowledge in music. We were in choir together! I never lied,” she pointed at him. “But again, Tashi can lie and she’s all those other things you listed. Ask her, I’m sure Art wouldn’t mind, he loves your schemes even when he warns you against them.”

“I already said Tashi wouldn’t work,” Patrick grew exasperated. He knew there might be some pushback and didn’t think you would just say yes on a whim, even though that’s what he hoped. But he actually hadn’t planned out the conversation very well to convince you. “Listen, my parents aren’t big fans of me playing tennis. They want me to quit, or at least step back a bit for now, and give me a seat on their company board. They say I can’t take anything seriously and say I won’t amount to much and I’ll just end up a washed up athlete someday. Tashi is a tennis player and they know that and even though she is all of those things, it would just come off as biased. You could convince them that maybe tennis isn’t half bad and that I can take something seriously and commit and have children to pass on the family wealth and name. You can sell that in a way she can’t.”

Your stern look softened. You sympathized with him. No, you didn’t have the slightest clue of what it was like to have parents who didn’t support you, but you had plenty of friends who had similar experiences of wanting to go through with their dreams but were held back by unsupportive parents.

“So? Will you attend the wedding with me?” You stayed quiet, biting the inside of your cheek. “We’ll be there for a week, we’ll attend a few get togethers before the main event. We aren’t in the wedding party, we’re just guests. The food will be good, I’ll even take you into the city.” He was desperate, and he grabbed both of your arms. “Please?”

You looked up at him, deep into his pleading eyes. Your heart melted, feeling needed by him. It’s true, you’d had a crush on him for a long two years. It wasn’t painful or deep. You knew he was hot stuff, you loved the way he made you laugh, you loved the tidbits of undivided attention he’d give you when you told a story. You were looking for any excuse to say no.

“I’m not good at lying,” you reinforced.

“You don’t have to be, you can be yourself. Holding hands occasionally isn’t a lie. My parents will appreciate the lack of PDA otherwise. And they might try to get to know you, surface level stuff, but they won’t drill you. They stopped asking so many questions when they asked a girl I brought over how it was like growing up in the plains of Montana and she got offended because she thought they called her state ugly and boring.” You both shared a giggle in what was before such a serious conversation, which made Patrick feel all the more comfortable. “She got so worked up and said ‘Montana may not seem like much, but it’s far from plain. It’s my home and it’s beautiful.’” He did a poor impression of the girl, eliciting more laughter from you.

“Poor girl,” you joked. “But, honestly Patrick, I can’t afford a plane ticket. And I know it’s just a week, but I was hoping to get a summer job as soon as possible to save as much as I can. I don’t even have a dress to wear to a wedding.” You hated admitting that, even though it was true. It wasn’t an excuse, it was a valid reason. You didn’t want to say no. Even though Patrick’s parents sounded like a pain in the ass, it did sound fun to prance around a mansion for a week.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to pay,” Patrick laughed. “It’s my treat, the whole week. Any expense, I’ll take care of. You can even go dress shopping on my dime. I know this is a lot to ask of you, I’ll make sure that you’re compensated.”

“God, Patrick, if you insist,” you teased. “I won’t hear you beg any longer.”

He scooped you into a big hug. “Thank you, y/n, seriously.” He gave you a peck on the cheek, causing you to blush.

once i had a love - blondie

Finals were over, closing up another year of college. Tashi and you stood in the shared dorm, packing away bags for summer break.

“So, you’re going to pretend to be Patrick’s girlfriend for a week,” Tashi stated, but it was also a question.

“Yeah, I guess,” you shrugged.

Neither of you were facing each other. Both of your luggage was stacked on beds on opposite sides of the room.

“I just don’t understand why.”

“I don’t either. He said I’ll impress his parents and I guess make them more accepting of him playing tennis? I don’t know…”

“No I mean, I don’t understand why you said yes.” You continued folding clothes and cramming your suitcases.

“Because he asked, I guess? It’s not like I had anything better planned, to be honest.”

“You’re too nice, y/n,” Tashi sighed. “And Patrick is a pussy. If he really loved tennis, he’d take it more seriously and he wouldn’t care what his parents think, he’d just go for it.”

“I don’t know, Tashi,” you sighed back, with a tinge of attitude. “But, I already obliged and he already bought the ticket, so… Too late now, I guess.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Are you mad at me?” Tashi finally turned towards you. “I’m not talking shit, I’m just being honest. I’m just saying, maybe if he put in an effort and didn’t glide by on talent alone, maybe his parents would take him seriously and support him.”

You stopped mid shirt fold to meet Tashi’s face. “No, Tashi, I’m not mad. I get it. I’ve heard you and Art talk to him about getting a higher education, applying to go here and be guided by an actual coach and trainers. I don’t know anything about tennis but, I agree. And I don’t know what me being there will do to actually help. But like I said, I have nothing better to do… And honestly? I’m excited to see his house. I’ve never been inside a mansion before, or even to an actual wedding, besides when I was a little kid and I was the flower girl.”

“Ha, I bet you were such a cute flower girl,” Tashi said, shaking her head. By now, the two of you had resumed packing. “Hey, remember those photos I showed you from the party Adidas threw me after I won the junior open?”

“Yeah?” Tashi turned her head to look at you.

“Patrick’s house is bigger than that,” Tashi nodded, as you turned her head, jaw dropped.

“No fuckin’ way,” you scoffed. “That place looked huge. Even bigger than that?”

“That’s what Art told me.”

“What’s up with you and Art anyways? Like, what’s the move between you two?”

“Well, I’m not initiating the ‘what are we’ conversation. Nuh, uh. We’ve been fucking around, and I know he likes me, and I think I’ve made it apparent that I like him back. He’s just taking his sweet ass time making it official,” Tashi explained. “Like we are basically together, but I don’t run off assumptions. I like labels, sooo. I don’t wanna say I’ll drop him but I don’t want to wait around forever, you know. I deserve more than a nonchalant boyfriend thing.”

“Art is not nonchalant,” you laughed. “He’s so obsessed with you, he’s just shy. Maybe he’s trying to wait for the right time.”

“There is no time like the present,” Tashi said. “Well, I don’t think we’ll see each other all summer… So, we’ll see.”

a/n - praying to gawd that i actually keep up with this. reminder you don’t have to listen to any song i link or even canonize any outfits i may link, tbh. i do it for self indulgence

divider by @/chachachannah

[aviradasa]

The Lost boys main Hcs

Dwayne

Also i gave him an actual personality. Cause suprisingly, quiet people can have personality traits other that being a brooding,mature,book loving,parental, and having good dick.

Ok Well i kept these traits but added more to him cause i didn't see anyone else doing so.

Enjoy!!

(Ps this was hardly proof read. and written at 2 am so pardon how weird it may be)

Contrary to popular belief this man is just as crazy as the others. If not more.

Granted, yeah, he can be chill as hell but do not let that fool you cause just under that quiet persona is an actual sadistic asshole.

I mean damn.

To start off, this dude is brutal when it comes to feeding. I mean, he can give David a run for his money.

I mean did y'all see him during the bonfire scene??????

During that, he was honestly a bit rushed cause normally, he will keep his victims alive for a good long while before actually killing them, all while ripping them to pieces.

And cause he is smart as hell he knows the right places to tear into a person where it will take them longer to die from it.

What an asshole.

But when he's not being evil as fuck he is giving the others stupid ideas.

I mean honestly i think the whole taking Michael to the bridge thing was his idea.

He just snuck over to David and was like, "Hey, I have a wonderful idea." And David was like "hell yeah I like that"

Well, ok, that's not exactly how I went, but that's my dummed-down Disney villain version.

They had all hung off the bridge before, but Dwayne knew that that would probably freak Michael the fuck out more than anything, and he just wanted to watch that poor dude suffer.

On that topic he lowkey hated Michael at first.

So he just ignored him as much as possible. But at the same time, he also was just waiting for Michael to start some shit so he could fight him.

When Michael punched David, this man got so excited, only to have his dream crushed when he couldn't swing on him.

Poor dwayne.

The main reason we don't see much of dwaynes personality is cause Michael is around every time we see him and he does not fuck with him enough to grant him access to who he is as a person

Speaking of him and David, I, kinda see them as being evil scheming, besties not gonna lie. Like when Dwayne gets a fun little plan in his head to fuck with people, he's creeping up on David to tell him all about it. (And plant the seed in his mind)

Honestly, if you walk in when these two are talking you swear they both just look like this

Like honestly its just a back away slowly and forget you ever saw them situation 🤣

The best part for him is letting people believe it was David or one of the other boy's ideas so he doesn't get too much attention drawn to himself.

As much as this wannabe attention whore wants to, he will hardly take credit is his plans so as not to get Max on his ass. As much as he wants to be like, "Yeah, I made them do that, hahaha," he won't.

He's literally like a little puppet master.

But enough of him being a silent but deadly dickhead

This guy is amazing at so many things.

He's a bigggg car/ motorcycle guy. If you take him anywhere, like a car show or something, he's gonna be yapping with the owner of a fuckin 1942 Chevrolet Fleetline for 2 hours.

And he can and will spend HOURS, NIGHTS, even working on his bike. Does it need work? No. Does he just wanna work on it for fun? Yes.

Oh, and if the others mention even a slight tick coming from their bike, he's becoming the most insufferable know-it-all in the cave.

" oh well you know if the ticks coming from theirrrr you should already know it needs (blank)

They all hate when he does this but they still let him work on the bikes cause they know he enjoys it so much.

It's relaxing to work on stuff like that for him. He can just sit down, listen to his music, smoke a couple of cigarettes, and tune up the bikes all by himself.

And that's the way he likes to work.

He loves the other's company, but deep down, this man is introverted. He can go crazy and have fun but once his social battery is out, he is out, bye.

He will just disappear once he is done with people for the day. If he doesn't, he gets snappy and sassy, and it's just like "Damnnnnnn. Ok, sir ."

He will start clocking everybody's shit if forced to stick around.

But honestly, most of the time, he's cool. He's kinda like a cat, not gonna lie.

Shits gotta be on his terms or he don't wanna do it.

Ok ok I know I clowned on it but I do think he likes to read

And he does read ALOT.

He keeps a lil shelf of books in his area of the cave.

Aka, he took one of the big ass bookshelves from when the hotel collapsed, fixed it, and now stores all the books he loves on it.

He loves most genres, to he's not picky. From fantasy to westerns he readys whatever catches his interest.

While he reads he likes to listen to music that matches so once he was reading a sci-fi novel he had David Bowie BLASTING

They didn't even know he liked David Bowie. But hey, that's why we love Dwayne. He's full of surprises. And his music taste is the epitome of "I like whatever sounds good"

I could go on and on and on about this man but this might get long so if y'all want me to elaborate on any of these or make a part 2 let me know cause i WILL also if you want hcs of the other boys let me know! Night my little goblins 🖤🖤

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader (NSFW) - part2

Summary: New house, new life, new feelings

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: There's the second part :) Apologies for the mix up - we have SMUT here so, yeah ;)

Words for the chapter: 25 035 (even bigger oopsies)

Part 1

On your first morning at the house, you arrived armed with food—breakfast sandwiches, packed lunches, and a box of pastries. You remembered Bucky mentioning in passing that neither he nor Steve had much talent in the kitchen, and you figured feeding them was the least you could do.

When you walked through the door, the smell of coffee and eggs wafting in with you, both men lit up like kids on Christmas morning.

“This smells amazing,” Steve said, his eyes wide as he peeked into the bags.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Bucky said, though the grateful smile on his face said otherwise.

“Consider it fuel for the day,” you said with a laugh. “And if you’re nice, I might even teach you how to make some of this stuff yourselves.”

Steve grinned, already unwrapping a sandwich. “You’d be doing humanity a favor. Bucky burns toast.”

“I do not,” Bucky protested, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

After breakfast, Steve clapped Bucky on the back and gave you a small wave. “Alright, I’m leaving you two to it. This is your project, Buck. Don’t mess it up.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

As Steve left, munching on a chocolate chip cookie you’d packed, Bucky turned to you, his expression somewhere between excitement and uncertainty.

“Alright,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let me show you around.”

You took his hand without hesitation, the gesture feeling as natural as breathing.

---

Bucky’s plans for the house were detailed and thoughtful, and as he walked you through each room, his enthusiasm was infectious.

“I want to keep the brick,” he said, running his hand along the living room wall. “It’s part of what makes this place feel like home. But the floors… those need replacing.”

“That makes sense,” you said, nodding. “What about your room?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face. “I’m thinking I’ll keep it mostly the same. Just a new coat of paint, maybe some better lighting.”

As he spoke, his voice grew steadier, more confident. It was clear he’d been thinking about this for a while, and the fact that he trusted you enough to share it all made your chest ache with warmth.

“And the kitchen,” he continued, pulling you into the next room. “It needs a lot of work, but I think I can—”

“Hold on,” you interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You’re doing this all yourself?”

Bucky shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Steve offered to help, but… I want to do as much of it as I can. This place is mine. It’s my responsibility.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Well, I’m here now. So if you need an extra set of hands—two left ones, mind you—I’m your girl.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, and it was the happiest you’d ever seen him.

---

Later that afternoon, the two of you sat on the living room floor, eating sandwiches from the bag you’d brought. The sun poured through the dusty windows, painting the room in golden light.

Bucky pulled out a small stack of old photos from a box he’d found in the corner.

“These survived the move?” you asked, surprised as you sifted through the images.

“Not all of them,” he said softly. “But a few. Steve kept some, too. He said they were part of my past, and he couldn’t let them go.”

One photo in particular caught your eye—a sketch of a young Bucky, done in soft, careful lines.

“Steve did this?” you asked, your voice filled with awe.

Bucky nodded, chuckling. “Yeah, back when he thought he was gonna be an artist. I was more of the fixer, though—wiring, mechanics, stuff like that. His drawings were always better than mine.”

“You’re kidding, right?” you said, holding up a different sketch Bucky had done of a car. “My dad would’ve loved this. He used to tinker with cars all the time.”

Bucky laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He sounds like a good guy.”

“He is,” you said, smiling fondly.

---

By the time the day wound down, the two of you stood in the front yard, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting the house in soft, amber hues.

“Thank you for today,” Bucky said, his voice low and steady. His hand rested lightly on your elbow, grounding you in the moment.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, smiling up at him. “I’m just happy to see you like this. Happy.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on yours. Then, with a soft, deliberate motion, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice warm.

As you drove home, your hand brushed the spot where his lips had been, and you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. You felt like the luckiest person in the world.

---

The days that followed were filled with laughter, lighthearted teasing, and steady progress. You might not have been the most skilled handyman, but you’d never felt more content.

And every time Bucky smiled at you—those soft, unguarded smiles that made your heart stutter—you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were helping rebuild more than just a house.

---

The week had been a whirlwind of rebuilding, sanding, painting, and—if you were honest with yourself—Bucky trying very hard to keep you from hurting yourself.

“You weren’t kidding about those two left hands,” he teased one morning, watching as you struggled to keep a nail steady with the hammer. “Are you trying to hit your thumb?”

You huffed, glaring at him as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, that mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “I’m just getting the hang of it,” you grumbled.

Bucky chuckled, stepping forward and gently taking the hammer from your hand. “No offense, doll, but I think we’ll keep you away from sharp tools and anything with too much weight. I’d like to get through this project without a trip to the ER.”

You pouted for the rest of the morning, folding your arms dramatically every time he looked your way. But your resolve didn’t last long.

Later that day, as you were reorganizing paint samples on the table, he approached you, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “Hey, uh… I was wondering. Would you want to plan the kitchen?”

You blinked, turning to him in surprise. “Me? Really?”

He nodded, his gaze shy but steady. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with it, and… I trust you. You’ve got good taste, and I think you’d make it feel like home.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and before you knew it, tears were welling up in your eyes.

“Whoa, hey,” Bucky said, his brows knitting together in concern. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing softly as you wiped at your cheeks. “It’s just… you trust me. That means more to me than I can put into words.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek. “Of course I trust you,” he murmured. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

You’d noticed it more and more lately—how it was always him who reached for your hand, him who initiated those little touches. It was as if he was finally letting himself believe he deserved that closeness, that warmth. And you were more than happy to give it to him.

---

The week had been smooth, almost idyllic. Days of working on the house blurred into a rhythm of shared laughs, small victories, and the comforting sound of progress. It felt like you and Bucky had carved out a world of your own—a pocket of peace that existed solely within the walls of that house.

But peace is fragile, and the world outside has a way of creeping in.

The errand was supposed to be simple—a quick trip to the hardware store to pick up extra nails and browse paint colors for the kitchen. Bucky had seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, even leaving his cap behind. His bare head caught the sunlight as you walked side by side, his shoulders loose and his posture easy.

“I think we should go with something light for the walls,” you said as you pulled open the door to the hardware store. “Maybe a soft blue or cream? Something bright to—”

The words froze in your throat the moment you stepped inside.

The shop owner, a man in his sixties with a stern expression and deep lines etched into his face, had been wiping down the counter. His gaze lifted as the bell above the door chimed, and his eyes locked onto Bucky.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then the man’s face twisted into something ugly.

“You,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like the crack of a whip. “Get out.”

Bucky froze beside you, his body going rigid. The relaxed man who had walked in just moments ago was gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, controlled, but there was an edge to it that sent a chill down your spine.

“I said, get out,” the man repeated, louder this time. His voice carried across the store, drawing the attention of a few customers browsing nearby. “I’m not selling anything to a murderer.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, cold and cutting. For a second, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what had just been said.

But then you looked at Bucky—at the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, at the way he dropped his gaze to the floor—and something inside you snapped.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, putting yourself between Bucky and the shop owner.

“You listen to me,” you said sharply, your voice trembling with rage. “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

The man’s scowl deepened, but you pressed on, your words gaining momentum like a freight train.

“This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, your voice rising with each word. “He’s a national hero. A victim of war. A man who was tortured, brainwashed, and used as a weapon against his will. He has spent every day since then trying to atone for things he wasn’t even responsible for. So don’t you dare stand there and call him a murderer.”

The man blinked, but you weren’t done.

“What the hell do you know about war?” you demanded, your words trembling with fury. “About what it’s like to have your choices ripped away from you? To lose yourself and still have the strength to fight your way back?”

“Ma’am, I—”

“No,” you snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get to justify this. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know the first damn thing about the kind of person he is. He’s a survivor. He’s a good man. A better man than you’ll ever be.”

The shop had gone eerily quiet. Customers had stopped what they were doing to watch, their curious and wary gazes bouncing between you and the shop owner.

“You’re just a bitter, ignorant old man,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “And honestly? I feel sorry for you. Because you’ll never know what it’s like to stand beside someone like him—someone who’s been through hell and still finds a way to be kind. Someone who’s—”

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice was soft, his hand light on your arm, but it was enough to stop you mid-sentence.

You turned to him, your breath coming in uneven gasps, your eyes still blazing with anger. “What?”

“Let’s go,” he said gently. His voice was calm, but his eyes—the deep blue-gray of a stormy sea—held a quiet resolve that cut through your rage.

“But he—”

“Please,” Bucky murmured. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet weariness that made your heart ache.

The fight drained out of you in an instant. Your shoulders slumped as you let out a shaky breath, and with one last glare at the shop owner, you turned and followed Bucky out of the store

---

The walk back to the house was heavy with silence. The usual rhythm of your steps, once comfortable and in sync, felt disjointed. Bucky’s shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he stared down at the sidewalk. His jaw was set, but the tension around his eyes betrayed him.

You wanted to say something—anything—to break the quiet, to ease the weight that had fallen between you since leaving the hardware store. But every time you opened your mouth, the memory of the shop owner’s words slammed into you like a wall.

By the time you reached the house, your anger was boiling over again.

“Unbelievable,” you snapped as you stormed through the door. “The nerve of that guy. To say something like that to you! Who does he think he is?”

Bucky followed you inside, his steps deliberate but unhurried, and leaned against the wall. He watched quietly as you paced back and forth, gesturing animatedly as you vented.

“He doesn’t even know you,” you continued, your voice rising as the anger clawed its way out of your chest. “And he thinks he can just… just—ugh! What an absolute—”

Bucky called your name softly, but you were too worked up to notice.

“And another thing,” you went on, throwing your hands up in frustration. “If I ever see him again—”

Two long strides, and Bucky was in front of you. His hands came up, cupping your face with a gentleness that caught you off guard, and before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on yours.

The world tilted.

Your anger dissolved in an instant, melting into the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth moving against yours. Time seemed to stretch, the pounding of your heart filling the silence as his thumbs brushed lightly against your skin.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile that made your chest ache.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet gratitude.

“For what?” you managed to ask, still breathless.

“For standing up for me,” he said. “For… being you.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of emotion crashing over you. “Always,” you whispered, reaching up to rest your hands over his.

He kissed you again, slower this time, as though savoring the moment. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, grounding. It felt like an anchor, steadying both of you.

---

The kiss didn’t happen again. Not the next day, or the one after that.

You hadn’t realized how much you would miss it—the warmth of his lips, the quiet intensity of the moment—but you told yourself it was fine.

Because nothing had changed between you.

Bucky was still Bucky, still teasing you about your clumsiness one moment and thanking you softly the next. He still held your hand when you walked through the house together, still kissed your forehead like it was second nature.

And as much as you wanted more, as much as you missed the feel of his lips on yours, you decided you could survive. As long as he was happy, so were you.

---

Two days after he’d asked you to plan the kitchen, you approached him nervously with a set of technical drawings. They weren’t perfect—lines overlapped in places, smudges from an eraser dotted the corners—but you’d poured your heart into them.

“Hey,” you began, holding out the papers as you stepped into the living room where Bucky was sanding down an old chair. “I, uh, have something for you.”

He looked up, brushing sawdust from his hands before taking the drawings. “What’s this?”

“Kitchen plans,” you said, your voice a little too high-pitched. “I, um, asked my dad for help. He’s the one who actually drew them—I just told him what I had in mind. I didn’t tell him who it was for, though,” you added quickly, biting your lip. “I just wanted to make sure it looked good.”

Bucky studied the papers in silence, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the details. You watched him anxiously, your heart pounding in your chest.

When he finally looked up, his expression softened. A small, warm smile tugged at his lips.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal even though your cheeks burned under his gaze. “I didn’t want to mess it up. So… yeah.”

Bucky shook his head fondly, stepping closer. He set the drawings aside and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Warmth flooded through you, the gesture as tender as it was unexpected. You smiled shyly, looking down at your feet to hide the blush spreading across your face.

“You’re amazing,” he added, his voice soft.

You glanced up at him, your breath catching at the sincerity in his eyes. “So are you,” you whispered.

The moment lingered, charged with an unspoken connection that neither of you seemed ready to break.

---

Later that evening, as you sat on the porch with Bucky, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The day’s work had left your hands sore and your muscles aching, but you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a rare look of contentment on his face as he gazed out at the street.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He turned to you, his expression curious.

“I just wanted to say…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’ve been through so much, and I know it’s not easy. But I’m proud of you. For everything. For trying. For rebuilding. For… letting me be part of it.”

His gaze softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

“You’re part of it because you matter,” he said simply.

The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and grounding.

And as the night wrapped around you, you realized that whatever came next—whatever challenges or triumphs lay ahead—you wouldn’t trade this for anything. Because here, in this moment, with him by your side, you felt like you’d found something you hadn’t known you were searching for.

Home.

---

You spent the next hour going over the plans together, seated side by side at the dining table with the house’s blueprints spread out in front of you. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting golden light across the room and bathing Bucky’s face in warmth.

“I think this setup should have everything you need for cooking,” you said, tapping your pen against the placement of the appliances. “The oven and stovetop here, fridge there—it keeps everything within reach. And since Tony’s footing the bill, you should absolutely go for top-of-the-line equipment.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You’re really trying to turn me into a chef, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you teased, grinning at him. “I promised, didn’t I? And trust me, once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it. Cooking can be… therapeutic.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but amused. “Therapeutic, huh? We’ll see about that. But alright, doll, I’m holding you to it.”

You laughed, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Good. We’ll start simple—no soufflés or flambéed anything until you’ve mastered scrambled eggs.”

As the conversation went on, Bucky’s posture shifted, his body leaning closer as he grew more engaged. His eyes softened as he listened to your ideas, and every so often, he’d chime in with a small adjustment or suggestion. You could feel the weight of his attention, the quiet steadiness of him beside you, and it sent a warmth blooming in your chest.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Bucky stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He held out a hand toward you, his expression thoughtful.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and steady.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer right away, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “Just trust me.”

Without hesitation, you slid your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip was firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he led you upstairs.

He stopped outside a room you hadn’t paid much attention to before—a smaller space tucked toward the back of the house. He pushed the door open, revealing a cozy room with soft light spilling in through a single window that overlooked the backyard. The walls were bare, the wooden floor scuffed in places, and a faint scent of dust lingered in the air.

Bucky stepped inside, his movements slower now, as though he were treading carefully through the weight of his thoughts. He turned to face you, his hand still holding yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when you finish your articles,” he began, his voice quiet but steady, his gaze unwavering. “But for me… you’ve become someone so important. So precious.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs as his words settled into the quiet of the room.

“And I was thinking,” he continued, glancing around the room before meeting your gaze again, “if you’re okay with it… I’d like you to have this room. A place that’s yours. A place in my house.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your lips parting in surprise.

“It’s not much,” he added quickly, a hint of nervousness creeping into his tone. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture you’d come to recognize as one he made when he wasn’t sure of himself. “But… I want you to feel like this is your home, too. If you want it to be.”

The tears came before you could stop them, welling up and spilling down your cheeks as you clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, his brows knitting together in concern as he stepped closer. His hand came up, his thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tears. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing shakily as you lowered your hand. “No, it’s just… you have this habit of making me cry happy tears, you know that?”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You nodded, blinking back more tears. Your voice trembled as you said, “It’s perfect, Bucky. I’d love to make this my room.”

He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted. “Good,” he said simply, the word carrying more emotion than you thought possible.

Before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet certainty that made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of him, your own arms circling his waist.

As he held you, the room seemed to shift. It wasn’t just an empty space anymore. It wasn’t just walls and floors waiting to be filled. It was a promise.

And as you closed your eyes, you realized that this wasn’t just his house or his project. It wasn’t just a place to rebuild his past.

It was home. For both of you.

---

Two weeks in, the house had begun its metamorphosis. Once a husk of memories and neglect, it now breathed new life with every passing day. Fresh paint imbued the walls with a crisp brightness, floors gleamed after hours of sanding and polishing, and furniture, though sparse, stood proud in its newfound home. The air smelled of sawdust and paint, a strange mix of effort and hope.

The to-do list was still long, but you were ahead of schedule—thanks mostly to Bucky’s tireless determination. He had a knack for wrangling stubborn beams into place, coaxing even the most unwilling pieces of wood and stone to bend to his will. You admired that about him. Of course, admiration came with its own challenges.

Working with Bucky wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It wasn’t his teasing, though he was infuriatingly good at it. Nor was it his occasional bossiness, which, if you were being honest, was often justified. No, the real problem was simpler. It was him. Just... him.

Bucky Barnes was handsome—ridiculously so. You’d always known that. But knowing and enduring it on a daily basis were two very different things. Spending every waking moment with him, watching the way his muscles flexed under strain, the easy confidence in his movements—it was maddening. And then there was his arm.

You hadn’t been prepared for how mesmerizing that sleek vibranium arm would be, how the sunlight glinted off it like molten silver. It moved with such precision, every motion fluid and deliberate, as if it were an extension of his will. Your mind betrayed you far too often, conjuring scenarios you had no business entertaining: the feel of that arm pinning you to a wall, the chill of the metal against your skin, the impossible strength that could pull you closer with a single motion.

You scolded yourself endlessly. But no amount of internal reprimands could keep your traitorous gaze from wandering. Especially not today.

The weather had turned. The suffocating heat clung to the air, thick and relentless. Naturally, Bucky decided this was the perfect day to forego his usual work shirt in favor of a gray tank top. It clung to him in ways that felt unfair, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the way his biceps flexed with every movement. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, tracing lines down his neck and arms, and it was impossible to look away.

You tried to focus. You really did. But the more you sanded, painted, or hammered, the more your gaze drifted, stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You were wrong.

---

It started innocently enough—or so you told yourself. You were sanding the edges of a wooden shelf, the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of your hands lulling you into a daze. Bucky was across the room, lifting a heavy plank of wood onto his shoulder. The play of muscle beneath his skin was mesmerizing, a symphony of strength and precision that left you momentarily breathless.

You didn’t realize you were staring until you caught the smirk tugging at his lips.

“See something you like?” His voice was low, rich with amusement, and it jolted you back to reality.

Your cheeks burned as you scrambled for a response. “What? No! I—I wasn’t—”

“Sure, doll,” he drawled, the smirk widening into a grin. “Whatever you say.”

You ducked your head, returning your focus to the shelf as if it held the answers to the universe. Maybe if you worked hard enough, he’d let it go.

He didn’t.

---

The teasing only escalated.

The next day, you were handing him tools while he worked on the kitchen counter. It should’ve been a simple task, but every time he flexed his biceps or leaned forward, your brain short-circuited. You could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of sawdust and sweat, and it was all too distracting.

“You okay over there?” he asked, his tone casual, though the hint of a grin betrayed him.

“Fine,” you replied, too quickly, snapping your gaze away.

“You sure?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, his grin maddeningly smug. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Not distracted by anything, are you?”

Your scowl was immediate. You shoved a wrench into his hand with a bit more force than necessary. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, chuckling softly as he turned back to his work. “If you say so.”

---

And then there was the moment that nearly broke you.

He’d been crouched near the floor, adjusting something beneath the kitchen cabinets. You weren’t even sure what he was doing; all you could focus on was the way his jeans hugged his hips, the way his muscles shifted as he moved. Your gaze lingered just a second too long.

“You know,” he said without turning, his tone casual but tinged with mischief, “if you want a better look, you could just ask.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

Bucky stood slowly, brushing off his hands as he turned to face you. His grin was wicked, the kind that spelled trouble. “Caught you staring again, doll.”

“I wasn’t staring!” you protested, the heat rising to your face faster than you could contain it.

“Oh, you definitely were.” He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “First my arms, now my ass. What’s next?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his laughter warm and infuriating. Gently, he pulled your hands away from your face, his touch firm but careful. His gaze softened, a playful tilt to his head as he studied you. “Admit it—you like what you see.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

His smirk returned, though it was lighter now, almost teasingly affectionate. “Alright, fine. I’ll leave you alone—for now. But if you keep looking at me like that, doll, I might start to think you’ve got a crush.”

You sputtered, torn between laughing and crying, as he stepped back and returned to his work, his chuckle echoing through the room.

“You’re insufferable,” you called after him, though your voice lacked the bite you intended.

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he shot back, his grin audible in his voice.

You hated how much you liked it.

---

For the rest of the day, Bucky cranked up his 1940s charm to a level that was equal parts infuriating and intoxicating. He leaned into his words with a slow, deliberate drawl, his confidence radiating in a way that made your stomach flip—and your patience fray.

"Careful with that hammer, sweetheart," he teased as you struggled with a stubborn nail. The board beneath your hands refused to cooperate, and every tap of the hammer only worsened your frustration. Bucky’s voice, rich with amusement, drifted over your shoulder. "Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Not that I’d mind takin’ care of you."

Your hands stilled, the hammer dangling precariously from your grip as you whipped your head around to glare at him. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his smile smug and infuriatingly attractive.

“You’re lucky I like you, Barnes,” you snapped, though your voice held none of the heat you intended.

His grin widened. "Like me, huh?" He straightened, taking a step closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that why you’ve been staring at me all week?"

You fumbled for a retort, your face heating under his gaze. “I hate you,” you muttered instead, but the treacherous smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you.

"Sure you do," he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he returned to his work.

---

By the time the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the room in hues of amber and gold, you were a flustered mess. Every teasing comment, every smug grin, every subtle brush of his hand had worn you down. And Bucky? He looked like he was having the time of his life, his laughter ringing out every time he managed to get a rise out of you.

As you packed up your tools, your mind was racing. You shoved nails and screws into a box with unnecessary force, pointedly avoiding the tall, broad figure moving toward you. But he wasn’t one to be ignored.

“Good work today,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of the table, his tone so smug it made your teeth clench.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, not bothering to look up.

Bucky chuckled, and the sound was warm, a little too soft, and far too dangerous. Before you could move away, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your temple as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” His voice was lower now, quieter, and the change made your pulse quicken.

You froze, your breath catching as your eyes darted up to meet his. His gaze was steady, warm, and just a little too intense. And then, before you could say or do anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“See you tomorrow, doll,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he pulled away.

You stood there, your heart pounding and your cheeks burning, watching as he walked away with a confident swagger that made you want to scream.

And yet, despite the smugness and the teasing and the way he drove you absolutely insane, you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face.

Because, damn it, you did like him.

---

James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Son and Brother

There’s something that shifts in James Buchanan Barnes when he talks about his family.

The stoicism he wears like armor—the careful wall that keeps the world at arm’s length—melts away. His sharp features soften, his eyes taking on a warmth that reminds you of a fire burning low on a winter’s night. It’s as though, for a moment, the weight of his past slips away, and he becomes someone else entirely: a boy from Brooklyn, proud and full of love.

When he talks about his mother, his tone is reverent, tender in a way that’s rare for him. “She was the heart of everything,” he says, his voice tinged with quiet nostalgia. His lips curve into a faint smile, as though recalling a memory so vivid he can almost touch it. “She ran the house like clockwork. Always knew exactly what we needed—even when we didn’t.”

His eyes light up as he talks about her cooking. “Best roast chicken in Brooklyn, no contest. And her pies? God, she made this apple pie that’d make you weep.” He chuckles, his voice thick with affection. “She’d always sneak me an extra slice when she thought no one was lookin’. Said I needed it to keep up my strength.”

When the conversation shifts to his father, there’s a quiet respect in his tone, steady and unshakable. “My dad wasn’t a man of many words,” he says, his gaze growing distant. “But when he spoke, you listened. He worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Always made sure we had enough, even if it meant he went without.”

His smile grows softer as he talks about his sisters, the faintest edge of brotherly exasperation coloring his words. “Winnie was the quiet one—always had her nose buried in a book. But she was sharp. Smarter than I’ll ever be.” He pauses, shaking his head fondly. “And Rebecca? She was a menace. She’d steal my hat just to see me chase her around the house. She drove me crazy, but I loved her to pieces. Still do.”

When he talks about holidays at the Barnes house, his voice takes on a wistful note. “Ma went all out for Christmas,” he says, his expression softening further. “The whole house smelled like cinnamon and pine. Winnie and Rebecca would string popcorn for the tree, and I’d help Dad chop firewood for the stove. It wasn’t much, but it was home. And it was perfect.”

In these moments, you see the man behind the soldier—the boy who once laughed and loved and dreamed in a small house in Brooklyn. You see the brother, the son, the protector.

James Barnes isn’t just the Winter Soldier. He isn’t just a man haunted by shadows and ghosts.

He’s James Buchanan Barnes, and he’s extraordinary.

---

When you handed the article to Bucky, his reaction was immediate. His lips quirked into a soft smile as he read the first few lines, his blue eyes scanning the page with quiet intensity. You watched him carefully, your heart thudding in your chest. There was something about seeing him so focused, the way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his thumb brushed absently against the edge of the paper, that made it impossible to look away.

By the time he finished, his expression had shifted into something deeper, more contemplative. He set the pages down gently, almost reverently, as if they were something precious.

“This is… really good,” he said finally, his voice low and sincere.

Relief flooded through you, and you leaned back against the table, your shoulders relaxing. “I’m glad you think so. I was a little nervous about this one.”

His brows knit together slightly as he tilted his head. “Why?”

You shrugged, feeling the weight of your own words before you spoke them. “It’s personal. I wanted to do it justice.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze meeting yours, steady and unwavering. “You did,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made your chest tighten.

There was a pause, a moment that stretched between you like a taut thread. Then his expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “But you’ve been working on these articles nonstop,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Helping me with the house all day, then staying up late to write… You’re going to burn yourself out.”

You waved him off with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m fine, Bucky. Really. I write when I feel like it—it’s not as bad as you think.”

He didn’t look convinced. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than they should have. But he let it go. For now.

---

That evening, you lost track of time.

The house had gone quiet, the sounds of hammering and sanding replaced by the hum of cicadas outside the window. The soft golden glow of the desk lamp illuminated the pages scattered in front of you, and you worked in a steady rhythm, the scratching of your pen the only sound in the room.

When you finally glanced at the clock, the numbers seemed to blur in front of your tired eyes. You groaned, leaning back in your chair and rubbing the back of your neck. The ache in your shoulders reminded you of how long you’d been sitting there, hunched over your work.

“I guess I should head home,” you murmured, more to yourself than to anyone else, as you began to gather your things. But when your gaze flicked to the window and you saw just how dark it was outside, you hesitated. The shadows were deep, the kind that made the quiet countryside feel a little too still, a little too lonely.

“Actually…” you said, trailing off as you glanced over at Bucky. He was across the room, carefully organizing the tools you’d both been using earlier, his broad shoulders silhouetted by the faint glow of the kitchen light. “It’s kind of late. Maybe I’ll just stay here tonight.”

He froze, his movements halting for just a fraction of a second before he straightened and turned to look at you. “You, uh… you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, your tone casual even as your heart began to pick up speed. “It’s not like I haven’t crashed here before.”

“Right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting to the floor. “It’s just… there’s only one bed right now. The other beds and couches don’t come until the end of the week. We threw the old ones out, remember?”

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a freight train. “Oh.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offered quickly, his words tumbling out like they’d been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“No way,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “This is your house. If anyone’s sleeping on the floor, it’s me.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he said, his voice taking on that low, commanding tone that always made your breath catch.

“Well, neither are you,” you shot back, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

The two of you stood there, locked in a silent standoff. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing his next move. Finally, you sighed, rolling your eyes. “We’re both adults, right? We can share the bed. It’s not a big deal.”

Bucky looked like he was about to argue, his mouth opening slightly before he shut it again. He hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the door to the bedroom. Then, to your utter disbelief, the corner of his mouth quirked up into a crooked grin.

“You sure you’ll be able to keep your hands off me, doll?” he teased, though there was a faint edge of uncertainty in his voice that made your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes, determined not to let him see the heat rising to your cheeks. “Get over yourself, Barnes. Let’s go.”

---

The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the thin curtains and casting silver shadows across the walls. The bed—just a simple mattress on a sturdy frame—sat in the center of the room, looking both impossibly large and far too small at the same time.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders tense. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the faint light.

“You take the left side,” you said, breaking the silence as you dropped your bag onto the floor. “I’m a right-side sleeper anyway.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he settled on his side, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of breaking something. You slid in on the other side, keeping a respectful distance between you, though the proximity still felt electric.

The room fell silent, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound: the rustle of the sheets, the soft inhale and exhale of breath, the faint creak of the floorboards as the house settled around you.

“You comfortable?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and rough, the sound of it cutting through the stillness like a blade.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your heart was racing in your chest.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You stared up at the ceiling, the faint outline of the beams above blending into the shadows, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quite pin down.

And then, just as your eyes began to grow heavy, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for… y’know. Everything. The article, the house… putting up with me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the outline of his profile in the moonlight. There was something vulnerable about the way he lay there, his face turned toward the ceiling, his expression open in a way you rarely saw.

“You don’t have to thank me, Bucky,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then he turned his head, his gaze meeting yours, and the weight of it made your breath catch.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

And as you lay there, the warmth of him just a few inches away, you couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind losing a little sleep tonight.

---

You fell asleep quickly, the exhaustion of the long day pulling you under like a heavy tide. The bed was warm, and Bucky’s steady breathing beside you was oddly comforting, a quiet rhythm that soothed the tension in your muscles. But sometime in the night, a faint sound stirred you from sleep.

It started as a murmur, low and unintelligible, growing into fragmented whispers and uneven breaths. You blinked into the darkness, the moonlight casting faint silver shadows across the room. Turning your head, you saw him.

Bucky was restless, his brow furrowed, his lips moving soundlessly. His fists clenched the sheets, the vibranium arm flexing with a metallic whir as his body jerked suddenly, a soft, strangled sound escaping his throat.

“Bucky,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively to shake his shoulder. “Bucky, wake up.”

Before you could process what was happening, his body moved on instinct. His hand shot out, pinning you to the bed with a grip that was firm but not painful. The weight of him hovered over you, his metal hand curling around your throat—not tight, but enough to send a shiver of fear and adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“Bucky,” you said again, louder this time, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused, his chest heaving as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. For a moment, he didn’t seem to see you, his grip faltering as panic overtook him. Then recognition dawned, and he scrambled away from you, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Oh God,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed himself against the far wall. His hands trembled, one flesh, one metal, both visibly shaking as he looked at you in horror. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I would never—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted softly, sitting up and rubbing your neck where his hand had rested. There was no pain, only the lingering ghost of his touch. You moved toward him cautiously, like approaching a frightened animal. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“It’s not okay,” he said, his voice sharp and raw. His shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for a blow, and his eyes were glassy with shame. “I could’ve hurt you. I—”

“You didn’t,” you said firmly, cutting him off before he could spiral further. Crawling across the bed, you reached for him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

His head shook, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. “You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “I could’ve killed you. In my sleep. Like it was nothing. I—”

“Stop,” you said, your voice soft but commanding. Carefully, you slid your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffened at first, but you didn’t let go, pressing your cheek against his shoulder and squeezing just a little tighter. “You didn’t. You won’t. Do you know why?”

He didn’t respond, his body still rigid beneath your touch.

“Because you’re a good man, Bucky Barnes,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his shoulder. “Even in your worst nightmares, you didn’t hurt me. That’s who you are.”

For a moment, he was silent, his breathing slowing just enough to let you know he was listening. Then, without thinking, you pressed a kiss to the cool vibranium of his arm, tracing the etched lines with your fingers. The metal was cold against your skin, but somehow, it felt warm beneath your touch.

“Honestly,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could stop them, “it was kind of hot.”

His head jerked up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. And then, to your utter shock, he laughed—a soft, breathless sound that was almost foreign coming from him. It was rough, unpracticed, like he hadn’t done it in years, but it was real.

“You’re something else,” he said finally, shaking his head as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, and then, in one smooth motion, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft, tender, full of unspoken apologies and quiet gratitude. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and for the first time that night, you saw something like peace in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Instead, you pulled him back to bed, wrapping your arms around him as he rested his head on your shoulder. His body was still tense, but as the minutes passed, he began to relax, his breathing evening out until it matched yours.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky slept through the night.

---

When morning came, something was different.

Bucky wasn’t distant, exactly, but the teasing remarks, the soft smiles, the casual touches—all of it was gone. He worked in silence, his shoulders hunched as though carrying an invisible weight. His eyes, usually so sharp and alert, were distant, staring past you to something only he could see.

You tried everything to bring him back. You cracked jokes, deliberately messed up measurements just to hear him scold you in that exasperated tone, and even ordered pizza from that questionable hole-in-the-wall place he loved. The grease-stained box sat untouched on the table, and the half-hearted smile he gave you didn’t reach his eyes.

By evening, your patience had worn thin.

When Steve stopped by to check on the house, you pulled him aside, your voice low and urgent. “Steve, what do you do when Bucky gets like this?”

Steve’s expression softened, a familiar sadness flashing across his face. “I leave him alone,” he said quietly. “Sometimes he just needs space to work through it.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “That’s it? You just let him sit there and brood until he feels better?”

“It’s not about letting him brood,” Steve said gently. “It’s about giving him time. He’s been through more than anyone should ever have to endure. Sometimes space is the best thing you can give him.”

You nodded reluctantly, though the answer didn’t sit right with you. Giving him space might work for Steve, but it wasn’t going to work for you. You cared too much to sit idly by.

---

That evening, an idea struck you. It was impulsive, maybe even a little absurd, but you didn’t care. Pulling out your phone, you made a quick call, cashing in a favor with a contact from your journalism days.

A private cinema room. Short notice. But it was perfect.

By the time you had everything set—junk food packed into a bag, drinks shoved into a cooler—you found Bucky sitting on the porch, his arms resting on his knees as he stared at the horizon. The fading light painted his face in soft oranges and golds, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story.

“Come with me,” you said, holding out your hand.

He looked up at you, his brow furrowing. “Where?”

You smiled, refusing to let him shut himself off again. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a soft sigh, he stood, slipping his hands into his pockets as he followed you to the car.

---

Bucky didn’t say much during the drive. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed out the window as the twilight deepened into night, the city lights painting faint streaks of gold and white across his face. Every so often, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to piece together where you were taking him, but he didn’t ask.

Still, you could feel his curiosity growing the closer you got to your destination. When you finally pulled up outside the private cinema, his head tilted slightly, his lips parting in faint confusion.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing the bag of snacks from the backseat and gesturing for him to follow.

The small building was unassuming from the outside, but as you led him through the door, the cozy warmth of the space unfolded. Soft, ambient lighting illuminated the intimate room, which held just a handful of plush seats and a screen that stretched across the far wall. The faint smell of popcorn lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of countless movie nights past.

A staff member greeted you quietly, handing over a sleek remote for the projector before slipping away, leaving the two of you alone in the private space.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room. His confusion melted into something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“You did this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” you said, setting the bag of snacks on the small table near the seats. “You’ve been a little… off today, and I thought this might cheer you up.”

He blinked, his expression unreadable at first. But then, slowly, the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips—the first real one you’d seen all day. “What movie?”

“One from your list,” you replied, grinning as you sank into one of the seats and patted the spot beside you. “It wasn’t easy to track down, but thankfully, they had it.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the back of the nearest chair as he stared at you. Finally, he sat down beside you, his posture stiff at first but gradually relaxing as the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life.

When the opening credits began to roll, something shifted. He leaned back into his seat, his shoulders losing some of their tension as his gaze fixed on the screen.

---

Halfway through the movie, the quiet settled comfortably around you, broken only by the occasional sound of a chip crunching or a faint laugh from the film. It was nice, easy in a way you hadn’t felt all day.

But then Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low and raw.

“Last night scared me.”

The words were soft, almost hesitant, but they struck like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the calm. You turned to him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability etched into his face.

“I was so close to hurting you,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the screen but unfocused, as if he were looking straight through it. “So close to losing you. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop… going over it in my head.”

“Bucky,” you said gently, reaching out to touch his arm. His vibranium fingers twitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” he said, his voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You shouldn’t have to wake up wondering if I’m going to—”

“Hey,” you interrupted firmly, squeezing his arm to draw his attention. His head turned toward you, and the anguish in his eyes made your heart ache. “You didn’t hurt me. Even in the middle of a nightmare, you didn’t hurt me. Do you know what that says about you?”

He shook his head, his jaw tight as if he were trying to hold something back. His fists clenched on his lap, the metal hand gleaming faintly in the light from the screen.

“It says you’re an incredible man,” you continued, your voice steady and sure. “A man who’s been through hell and still manages to be kind and thoughtful and good. You’re allowed to have nightmares, Bucky. Everyone does. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, heavy and full of unspoken words. Then, slowly, his hands relaxed, his fingers uncurling as his breathing evened out.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you left,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost fragile. “You make everything feel… normal. Easy. And I don’t deserve that.”

The pain in his voice made your throat tighten, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you.

“You deserve all of it, Bucky,” you said firmly. “And more.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours for something you weren’t sure he even knew he was looking for. Then, as if a dam had broken, he leaned in, his hand lifting to cradle the back of your head.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t soft or tentative like before. It was fierce, desperate, full of all the emotions he couldn’t put into words. His fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand settling on your waist as he pulled you closer, as if afraid you might slip away.

You kissed him back just as fervently, your hands sliding into his hair, your heart pounding as the rest of the world faded into nothing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile—the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

You smiled back, threading your fingers through his. “Come on. Let’s finish the movie.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, as he leaned back in his seat. His hand stayed in yours, his fingers laced with yours as the movie continued to play.

And as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at the faint, contented smile on his face. The weight that had pressed on him all day seemed lighter now, the shadows in his eyes not quite as dark.

In that moment, you made a silent promise to yourself. Whatever it took—whatever he needed—you would do it.

Because seeing him like this, peaceful and at ease, was worth everything.

---

The Heart of a Soldier

James Buchanan Barnes is a man of contrasts.

He is strength and vulnerability woven together into something impossibly complex. A ghost of the past, trying to carve a future out of the rubble. A man who carries more pain than most of us could imagine, yet still somehow puts others before himself, time and time again.

When you first meet him, you see the strength. It’s impossible not to. The broad shoulders, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the vibranium arm that gleams like a badge of survival and sacrifice. He moves with a deliberate grace, each step purposeful, every motion controlled. Even when he says nothing, his presence commands the room.

But if you spend enough time with him, you’ll start to notice the cracks. The subtle moments that betray the weight he carries. The slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for his morning coffee. The way his jaw tightens at the mention of the Winter Soldier, like the very name wraps around his throat and squeezes. The distant look in his eyes when the room gets too quiet, too still—when the ghosts of his past come creeping in to haunt him.

James Barnes is a man haunted. By memories that feel stolen. By faces he can never forget. By a ledger he believes can never be wiped clean, no matter how many lives he saves or how much good he does.

And yet, despite everything, he cares.

He cares with a fierceness that is both breathtaking and heartbreaking.

I’ve seen it in the way his blue-gray eyes scan a room, always vigilant, always watching for potential dangers that no one else has even considered. I’ve seen it in the way he talks about his past—not with bitterness, but with guilt so heavy it weighs down his every word, as if the things done to him were somehow his fault. And I’ve seen it in the way he puts everyone else before himself, even when he’s quietly falling apart.

There’s a fragility to James Barnes, but it’s not the kind born of weakness. It’s the fragility of a man who has been shattered and pieced back together more times than he can count. It’s the fragility of someone who knows exactly how easily those cracks can form again.

But there’s also a resilience in him that takes your breath away.

Because no matter how many times he’s been broken, no matter how often he’s been knocked down, he gets back up. He keeps fighting—not just for himself, but for everyone who needs him. For his friends. For the world. For people who will never know his name or what he’s sacrificed for them.

James Barnes doesn’t see himself the way others do. He doesn’t see the incredible strength it takes to wake up every morning and choose to keep going. He doesn’t see the courage it takes to face a world that has judged him unfairly and still stand tall.

But I see it.

I see it in the way he carries his pain like a shield, always trying to protect the people he loves from the weight of it. I see it in the way he clings to his humanity, even when the world tried to rip it away from him. I see it in the way he cares—so deeply, so unconditionally—even when he believes he doesn’t deserve to.

James Barnes is not perfect. He’s messy, flawed, and so deeply, painfully human. But that’s what makes him extraordinary.

He is proof that even in the face of unimaginable pain, there is still room for love. For kindness. For hope.

And that is the heart of James Barnes—the soldier, the survivor, the man who refuses to give up.

---

The next morning, you handed the article to Bucky, your heart pounding as he took the carefully printed pages from your hands.

He didn’t say anything at first. His blue-gray eyes moved steadily over the words, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. You watched him carefully, noting the way his brow furrowed, then smoothed, then furrowed again. The faint twitch of his lips hinted at something—whether a smile or a grimace, you couldn’t tell.

When he finally set the paper down, his hand lingered on it for a moment, his thumb brushing against the edge as though he wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

“This is…” he began, his voice low and a little unsteady. “It’s beautiful. But…”

“But you’re not ready for it to be out there,” you finished for him, your voice calm and understanding.

Bucky nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t think I ever will be. Not with this one.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to place your hand over his. The warmth of his touch felt steady, grounding. “What I said the first day still stands, Bucky. You’re in control of this. If you want me to burn it, I’ll burn it. If you want to keep it for yourself, I’ll hand it over, and the world will never know.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he reached for the pages again, folding them carefully with the precision of someone handling something precious. Without a word, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting the fabric lightly as if to reassure himself they were safe.

“I think I’ll keep it,” he said quietly. “At least for now.”

“Take all the time you need,” you said gently, your smile never faltering.

His eyes lifted to meet yours then, and the weight of his gaze made your breath catch. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite name—gratitude, certainly, but something deeper too. Affection? Trust? Whatever it was, it made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” you replied.

And as the morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft golden glow across the room, you felt the weight of his trust settle over you like a promise. It was fragile and precious, something you would protect with everything you had.

Because James Buchanan Barnes deserved that. And so much more.

---

Bucky Barnes was a tease.

Not the innocent kind, either. No, this man had decades of charm sharpened by a 1940s sense of confidence and an uncanny ability to get under your skin. And the more comfortable he got around you, the more his teasing side seemed to flourish.

It started subtly—offhand comments, little smirks whenever he caught you staring too long. But lately, it had escalated to a level you could only describe as weaponized flirtation.

And you were not okay.

The sweltering summer heat wasn’t helping. On the hottest days, Bucky had taken to ditching his shirts altogether while he worked on the house renovations. He’d claim it was a practical choice, muttering something about how it was “too damn hot for anything else,” but the smug look he wore every time he caught you sneaking a glance told a very different story.

“Enjoying the view, doll?” he’d ask, his voice dripping with amusement, lips curling into that maddeningly perfect smirk.

You’d roll your eyes, muttering something about how he needed to get over himself. But the truth was, you were enjoying the view. How could you not? The man looked like he belonged in a sculpture gallery, every muscle flexing with purpose as he lifted beams, sanded down furniture, or hammered nails into place.

And Bucky knew it.

It wasn’t just the shirtlessness, either. Oh no, he liked to test your patience in other, more creative ways.

One afternoon, you were in the makeshift kitchen—a chaotic but functional space you’d thrown together while waiting for the new appliances to arrive—stirring a pot of sauce. Bucky sauntered in, his presence so effortless it sent a ripple of awareness through you.

“Excuse me, doll,” he murmured, leaning over you to grab something from the shelf above your head.

His chest brushed against your back, the cool vibranium of his arm resting lightly on the counter for balance.

Your breath hitched. You froze, spoon suspended mid-stir, as his warmth pressed against you. “You, uh… you need something?”

“Just the pepper,” he said, his voice casual as he reached for the container and stepped back.

When you turned, his grin was positively wicked.

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, glaring at him as the heat rose to your cheeks.

“And you’re adorable when you blush,” he shot back, winking before strolling out of the kitchen like he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. The man was going to be the death of you.

---

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of work, you decided you both deserved a break. The house renovations had consumed your lives for weeks, and the weariness clung to your body like an old coat you couldn’t shake off. On your way over to the house, you grabbed a bottle of wine, figuring it would be the perfect way to unwind and steal back a moment of normalcy.

“I brought reinforcements,” you announced as you stepped through the door, holding up the bottle with a triumphant grin.

Bucky looked up from where he was crouched on the living room floor, fiddling with the legs of a coffee table he’d been assembling. His hair was tousled, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead, and his hands were smudged with wood stain. When his eyes landed on the bottle, one brow arched in curiosity.

“Wine, huh?” he said, rising to his full height and wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s the occasion?”

“Surviving another week,” you quipped, kicking off your shoes. “And I don’t feel like writing tonight, so I figured we could celebrate.”

His lips curved into that warm, easy smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. He tossed the rag onto a nearby chair and walked toward you, his movements unhurried but deliberate.

“You know what?” he said, his voice softening. “I like the way you think.”

---

A few minutes later, you were both settled on the worn but comfortable couch, two glasses of wine in hand, a classic movie flickering on the new TV in the background. The first glass went down smoothly, the wine melting the tension from your shoulders and loosening the knots in your mind. Conversation flowed easily between you, punctuated by bursts of laughter and playful jabs as you recounted the day’s mishaps.

It was the second glass, however, that emboldened you.

You weren’t sure exactly when it started—maybe it was the way his arm brushed against yours as he reached for his glass, the heat of his skin lingering longer than it should have. Or maybe it was the way his smile lingered too, his gaze dipping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. Whatever it was, the subtle shift in the air between you was impossible to ignore.

Your hand drifted to his thigh, resting there lightly as you turned to ask him a question about the movie. The warmth of his leg seeped into your palm, grounding you, and though he didn’t say a word, you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he glanced down at your hand. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn’t move to stop you.

A few minutes later, you found yourself leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder. The scent of him—wood shavings, a hint of sweat, and something that was purely Bucky—filled your senses, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

“You comfortable there, doll?” he teased, though his voice had softened, the usual edge replaced with something gentler, more affectionate.

“Very,” you replied, your fingers absently tracing small, lazy circles on his thigh.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but the tension in his body shifted, a subtle crackling like static electricity sparking in the air between you.

When he turned his head to look at you, his blue-gray eyes were darker than usual, the light from the TV casting soft shadows across his face. His gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back up to meet yours.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft, tentative, testing the fragile line between friendship and something far deeper. But the moment he responded—his hand sliding to your waist, his lips pressing more firmly against yours—the kiss deepened, unraveling every ounce of restraint you’d been holding onto.

His vibranium hand found the back of your neck, the coolness of the metal a sharp contrast to the heat of the moment. You shifted, straddling his hips without even realizing you’d done it, your hands moving to his chest, trailing slowly downward as your mind blurred with the feel of him beneath you.

But just as your fingers began to wander lower, he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and a little breathless.

You blinked at him, your cheeks flushing as you realized what you’d been doing. “Sorry, I—”

He shook his head, a soft smile spreading across his face as he cupped your cheek. “Don’t apologize. Trust me, it’s not that I don’t want to…”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m still a gentleman,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again, this time slower, sweeter, his lips lingering against yours. “And if we’re going to do this, I’d like to take you out first. A proper date.”

His words sent your heart tumbling into a freefall, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and you felt the sincerity in his words settle warmly in your chest. “What do you say?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

His chuckle was soft, almost disbelieving, as though he hadn’t entirely expected you to agree so quickly. He pulled you into another kiss, this one unhurried and tender, the kind that made your toes curl and your pulse race.

When you finally pulled back, you rested against him, your head on his chest as the sound of his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as the movie played on, its faint dialogue a distant murmur neither of you paid attention to.

His fingers found yours, lacing them together with a quiet intimacy that made your chest ache in the best way.

And as you lay there, wrapped in his warmth, you couldn’t help but think that this was the start of something wonderful. Something neither of you had planned for but both of you had been waiting for.

Because with Bucky, everything felt right.

---

Bucky couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

He’d faced Hydra assassins, alien armies, and the demons of his own past. He’d stared death in the face more times than he cared to count. But somehow, planning a date—one simple evening—felt like the most terrifying thing he’d ever done.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself. It was just that he had no clue where to start. The world had changed so much since the last time he’d done anything remotely romantic. What did people even do on dates these days?

Dinner and a movie? Too cliché. A trendy rooftop bar? That didn’t feel like him at all. A fancy restaurant? Too formal, too stiff, and way too far outside his comfort zone.

He spent an entire morning agonizing over it, pacing back and forth across the freshly polished floor of the house like a man on trial. By the time lunch rolled around, he admitted defeat: he needed help.

Unfortunately, his options were… limited.

Tony? Absolutely not. The man would never let him live it down. Steve? He considered it for half a second before dismissing the idea. Steve’s idea of romance was still stuck somewhere in 1943, and while the simplicity of “dancing to some old tunes” was charming, it wasn’t the vibe Bucky was going for. Clint? Off the grid with his family, and his only response to Bucky’s text had been: "Figure it out, Barnes. I’m on vacation." Natasha? The thought of asking her for advice was enough to make him shudder. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

That left… Sam.

Bucky grimaced as he picked up his phone. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Sam answered on the second ring, and the teasing began almost immediately.

“You’re asking me for dating advice?” Sam’s grin was audible through the phone. “Man, this is too good. Hold on, let me get my phone. Gotta record this for posterity.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Bucky growled, his tone low and threatening.

“Alright, alright,” Sam said, still laughing. “Look, here’s my advice: don’t overthink it. She likes you, Barnes. You don’t need to impress her with some big, elaborate plan. Just keep it simple, keep it natural.”

“Simple,” Bucky repeated, nodding slowly.

“And don’t forget the flowers,” Sam added, clearly still enjoying himself. “Ladies love flowers. You’re welcome.”

Before Bucky could respond, Sam hung up, leaving him standing there with the distinct feeling that he’d just walked into a trap.

---

Armed with Sam’s advice and a determination to make the evening perfect, Bucky got to work.

The newly finished living room became the centerpiece of his plan. He strung up soft, twinkling lights around the ceiling beams, their golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance over the room. He wasn’t exactly an expert decorator, but he knew enough to keep it simple. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center of the coffee table—elegant and understated, just like you. Around the vase, he placed a few flickering candles, their soft light dancing across the surface of the polished wood.

He ordered food from a place he knew you loved, something comforting and familiar but still special enough for the occasion. The kind of meal that didn’t scream “fancy” but felt meaningful, thoughtful. There was wine, of course, and though Bucky wasn’t much of a drinker, he figured it would help set the mood.

When he stepped back to survey the room, he felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension. It wasn’t perfect—he’d never been one for frills or extravagance—but it felt like him. Honest. Simple. And, more importantly, it felt like you.

---

By the time you arrived, Bucky was a bundle of nerves, though he did his best to hide it.

The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, pausing for half a second to take a steadying breath before opening it.

You stood there, smiling, holding a small box of pastries in your hands. “I brought dessert,” you said cheerfully, your eyes lighting up as you looked at him.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile back, his nerves easing just a little. “Good,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “I’ve got the rest covered.”

When you stepped into the living room, your eyes widened slightly as you took in the scene. The twinkling lights, the candles, the flowers—it wasn’t over-the-top, but it was thoughtful, intimate. Perfect.

“Bucky…” you said softly, turning to look at him. “You did all this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah. I, uh… wanted to do something nice. For us.”

Your smile widened, and he felt the last of his nerves melt away.

“It’s perfect,” you said, setting the pastries down on the table and stepping closer to him. “You’re perfect.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” you said, your voice warm and sincere.

The evening unfolded like a dream. You shared the meal on the couch, the plates balanced on your laps as you laughed and talked, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. The soft glow of the candles bathed the room in warmth, and the tension of the day melted away with every stolen glance, every shared smile.

At some point, the food was forgotten, and the two of you were curled up together on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder as his arm draped loosely around your waist. The warmth of his body against yours felt grounding, steadying, like coming home after a long journey.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. “Thank you for saying yes,” he replied, his voice low and rough with emotion.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. Slowly, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft and unhurried, a promise wrapped in tenderness.

When you pulled back, your smile was radiant, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin in return.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing, “Sam was right about the flowers.”

You laughed, the sound light and musical, and pressed another kiss to his lips.

And as the evening stretched on, the two of you tangled together on the couch, the twinkling lights casting shadows that danced across the walls, Bucky felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time.

---

You felt nervous. It wasn’t the kind of nervousness born from inexperience—you weren’t a virgin, and this wasn’t your first time exploring intimacy. But something about this—about being with Bucky—felt so different, so intense, that it left you momentarily paralyzed.

Your heart raced as you sat curled up against him on the couch, the movie on the screen now nothing more than a blur of colors and sound. It had been forgotten long ago. All of your focus had shifted to him—to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him—woodsy, clean, and entirely Bucky. The way his arm rested lightly around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, sent sparks down your spine.

You wanted more.

You wanted to hear his voice, soft and low, saying your name. You wanted to see him lose that careful restraint he always carried. You wanted to feel him—his warmth, his strength, the raw intensity you knew he was holding back.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize your hands had a life of their own.

Your eyes remained blankly fixed on the screen, but your hand drifted downward, almost instinctively. It started small, innocent, just a gentle graze against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. But the sensation sent a thrill through you, and you didn’t stop there. Slowly, tenderly, your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing against the bare skin of his abdomen.

His skin was warm, firm, the muscles beneath taut and solid. You let your fingertips trace the faint ridges of his abs, moving lower to the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Your touch grew bolder, more deliberate, your movements both curious and deliberate.

You felt his breathing shift before you heard it—a quickened inhale, soft but unmistakable.

Bucky froze for half a second, his chest rising and falling just a bit faster now. At first, it seemed like he was surprised by your touch, caught off guard. But when realization dawned on him, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed still, letting you explore, letting your hands roam freely.

He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stay calm, to not ruin the moment. He wanted this—God, he wanted this—but he was terrified of moving too fast, of scaring you off. So he stayed quiet, curious and eager to see what you would do next.

But you didn’t know that.

When he didn’t react right away, you hesitated, your confidence faltering slightly. Was he not enjoying this? Did he not want you like you wanted him? The thought made a flicker of doubt creep into your mind, and without thinking, you let your nails rake softly across the skin of his stomach, testing his reaction.

The quiet hiss that escaped his lips was all the answer you needed.

A rush of boldness surged through you. You raised your head and kissed the side of his neck, your lips brushing against his skin in soft, feather-light touches. His scent overwhelmed your senses, and you felt a shiver run through him as you trailed your kisses downward.

When you reached his collarbone, you nipped at the sensitive skin there, your teeth grazing just hard enough to leave a faint mark.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a jolt of heat through your body. “You’ll leave a mark.”

You smirked against his skin, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Good,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry. “They’ll know you’re mine.”

Your words sent a chill down his spine, a spark of something primal and unrestrained roaring to life within him. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant, the careful control he always held snapping like a rubber band.

Before you could react, he turned, his movements swift and fluid as he pushed you down against the couch. The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as you found yourself beneath him, his body hovering over yours, his hands braced on either side of your head.

Your eyes widened, your pulse racing as you stared up at him. His breathing was heavy now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch.

They were darker than you’d ever seen them, a storm of want and need swirling within their depths. He looked at you like you were his entire world, like nothing else existed except for you in this moment. And there was something else there too, something primal and possessive that sent a thrill through you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat pooling low in your belly, the unmistakable ache building between your thighs. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but not afraid. No, fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

What you felt was something entirely different.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze flicked to your lips, and for a moment, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he were holding himself back. But then his resolve broke, and he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.

It was hungry, desperate, and full of a passion he could no longer contain. His hand cupped your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing closer to yours.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your touch. His weight pinned you to the couch, grounding you, anchoring you to him as your kisses grew more heated, more frantic.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged as he struggled to regain control. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch soft and reverent in stark contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, your fingers trailing up his arm to rest against the cool vibranium of his shoulder. “Good,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his in a teasing kiss.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “You don’t know what you’ve started, doll.”

“Then show me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

And with that, Bucky’s control shattered completely.

With a strong yet tender motion, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, fitting perfectly against him as though you belonged nowhere else.

“Don’t you dare let me go,” you whispered, your voice soft with laughter, though your words carried a quiet plea.

He kissed your neck, the brush of his lips sending a shiver down your spine. His chuckle was warm, rich, and laced with something deeper. “I’m never letting you go,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears, like a sacred promise.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, revealing the sanctuary within—a simple space, bare but comforting. The bed, the only real bed in the house now, beckoned like a haven. He lowered you both onto the soft mattress, his movements careful, as if afraid to break the moment. His metal arm supported him as he leaned over you, the faint gleam catching the dim light. His long hair fell in a cascade around you, strands tickling your face like a silken veil.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or ravenous. It was soft, achingly tender, and filled with so much love that your chest tightened, the emotions welling up in your throat. You’d never been kissed like this before, as if every touch of his lips were a vow. His hands began to explore your body, slow and reverent, as if learning every curve by heart.

“Can I?” His voice was hushed, his fingers grazing the edges of your dress, a question lingering in the air. Between his gentle hands and the feather-light kisses he pressed against your throat and lips, you felt utterly unraveled.

Words escaped you, but you managed a nod, giving him the silent permission he craved. Yet that wasn’t enough for him. “I need to hear you say it, sweetheart,” he whispered, his teeth grazing your neck in a way that stole your breath and sent sparks dancing along your skin.

“And who’s leaving marks now?” you teased, your voice breathy as you tugged lightly at his hair.

His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “I only return what’s given,” he replied, his fingers tracing the hem of your dress, teasing and testing.

“You can, Bucky,” you said, your voice steady despite the rush of heat coursing through you. “You can do anything to me.”

For a moment, he stilled, the weight of your words sinking in. He swallowed hard, his dark eyes softening as if the trust you’d given him meant more than he could express. Then, a slow, confident smirk tugged at his lips.

He kissed you again—brief, a teasing peck that left you wanting. Sitting up slightly, you reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. It fell to the floor, forgotten. You were left in nothing but your underwear—a dark blue set you’d picked on a whim, something prettier than your usual, though you’d never guessed it would matter so much tonight.

His gaze swept over you, lingering, darkening with desire. His nearly black eyes burned as if memorizing every inch of you. The slight hitch in his breath was all the confirmation you needed.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe, his eyes tracing the contours of your body as though committing you to memory. The way he looked at you made you feel like more than beautiful—it made you feel like art, something to be cherished and admired.

His lips traveled down your neck, their warmth leaving a trail of fire that seeped into your skin. Gentle, reverent, and yet charged with an intensity that set your nerves alight, his kisses carried a heat that no blanket could rival. Despite the sweltering summer air pressing against the room, you craved this heat, welcomed it, especially when it came from him.

His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every touch. One hand cupped your breast, the other tracing lazy circles along your ribs before his lips replaced his fingers. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch. Pleasure bloomed under his care, sharp and exquisite, like the first taste of forbidden fruit.

With a deft motion, he pushed the fabric of your bra aside, baring your breast to his hungry gaze. His lips descended, soft yet searing, as his tongue flicked over your nipple, exploring and tasting like a man starved. The sensation sent a shiver through you, your body responding with a quiet moan when his teeth grazed the sensitive peak.

His free hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as if proximity alone could express what words could not. In a swift, practiced motion, he unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his movements fluid and precise. On any other night, you might have teased him for his efficiency, but now, all you could do was revel in the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good,” you breathed, the words tumbling from your lips unbidden. His skilled tongue danced across your nipple, teasing and biting, while his hand lavished attention on your other breast, kneading it with gentle care. The contrast between the sharpness of his teeth and the softness of his touch created a perfect harmony, leaving you gasping.

“I’m not planning to stop,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough with promise. His hand began its descent, trailing down your body with an almost worshipful attention. He didn’t rush, savoring every curve, every hollow, as if memorizing the map of you. His fingers lingered on your waist, your hips, your stomach, their touch igniting sparks that made you squirm beneath him.

As his lips followed the path his hand had taken, his tongue left a scorching trail across your skin. Every kiss, every caress, unraveled you further, leaving you whimpering and gasping for breath. The sounds that escaped you were raw and unfamiliar, born of a pleasure so intense it was almost terrifying—and yet, you craved more.

Your hands found his arms, the corded strength beneath your fingers grounding you even as you floated in a haze of sensation. When you opened your eyes, a pout formed on your lips as you realized he was still fully clothed.

“This feels unfair,” you murmured, pushing him gently away with a playful shove. With a burst of determination, you straddled him, reversing your positions. His brow arched at the shift, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he allowed you to take control.

“It feels unfair to see you still dressed,” you continued, your voice sultry as you tugged at the hem of his shirt.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as his hands moved to help. But you swatted them away, shaking your head. “That’s my job,” you said, your words teasing but firm.

Slowly, you began unbuttoning his shirt, taking your time with each one. The deliberate pace wasn’t for efficiency—it was for the sheer joy of revealing him inch by inch, watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. His skin was warm, taut, and irresistible.

As you worked your way down, you leaned in, pressing soft kisses along his neck, down his collarbone, and across his chest. He let you guide him, his head tilting back, his lips parting in a quiet exhale of pleasure. When the last button was undone, you pushed the fabric aside, baring him completely to you.

For a moment, you just looked at him, marveling at the way he seemed both strong and vulnerable beneath you. And then you leaned down, letting your lips explore his skin, savoring the salt and warmth of him as your fingers traced the hard lines of his body.

Quickly, he shrugged off his shirt, tossing it carelessly in the same direction as your discarded dress and bra. The fabric landed somewhere forgotten, but the man before you was anything but. Though you’d seen him shirtless before, this time it was different. This time, you didn’t have to avert your eyes, pretending you weren’t staring when you were. Now, you could let your gaze roam freely, drinking him in the same way he devoured the sight of you, his eyes lingering on your bare chest.

And there was so much to take in.

He was shaped like a god—broad shoulders that seemed built to bear the weight of the world, a tapered waist most would envy, and muscles that moved beneath his skin like poetry in motion. But it was the scars that captured you. They told a story, a painful testament to everything he had endured. They marked him, not as broken, but as someone who had survived battles most could never comprehend.

Your expression softened as your eyes traveled over him, and you leaned in, pressing your lips gently to the first scar you saw—a smaller one near his collarbone. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sound raw and unguarded, as if no one had ever dared to touch him there, let alone kiss him. He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten that particular scar.

You moved slowly, reverently, your lips tracing each jagged mark, each uneven line etched into his skin. With every soft kiss, you felt the tension in his body begin to melt away. At first, he seemed unsure, his muscles taut beneath your touch, but as you continued, he relaxed bit by bit, surrendering to the tenderness you offered so freely.

To him, those scars had always been grotesque reminders of his past—of pain, loss, and things he’d rather forget. But here, now, with you lavishing them with love, they felt different. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel ugly or ashamed. He felt... cherished.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He didn’t care if you saw it, because he knew—he knew—you wouldn’t judge him. You’d only love him. You’d love him the same way you always had, patiently, quietly, steadfastly.

And you did.

You hadn’t said the words yet; they felt too monumental for this fragile, burgeoning moment. You understood that Bucky needed to take things one step at a time, and you were okay with that. Because even without the words, he showed you how he felt. In the way he always thought of you, the little things he did. How he ordered from restaurants he didn’t particularly like just because you loved them. How he listened to you ramble about your day or sing off-key to your favorite songs without complaint. How he sat through the “essential” 21st-century movies you made him watch, even the ones he found ridiculous.

Bucky wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of actions.

When your lips found that scar where flesh gave way to metal, his breath hitched again. This scar was different. It was rawer, harsher—a jagged edge where his humanity ended, and the cold, unyielding metal began. It was a scar he hated, one that still ached on bad days, a reminder of what he had lost.

But you kissed it as if it was no different from the rest of him, as if it was just another part of his story, of him. Your lips lingered, pressing warmth into the unfeeling metal, and he closed his eyes. More tears slipped free, unbidden, but they weren’t just tears of sadness. They were something more profound.

It wasn’t just love he felt from you; it was acceptance. Complete, unconditional acceptance. Of who he had been. Of who he was now. And most importantly, of who he was becoming.

“Let me take care of you, James.”

The sound of his given name on your lips made his eyes snap open. The way you said it—softly, reverently, as though it was the only name that mattered—set something off inside him. When he looked at you, he saw the universe in your eyes. No one had ever looked at him like this before, like he was everything. Like he was your everything.

And he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He pulled you to him, his hands firm but trembling with restraint, and kissed you as though the world were ending. As though you were the only thing worth saving in the wreckage. His lips claimed yours with an intensity that spoke of hunger, of longing, of love so raw it scared him. He kissed you like you were the best damn thing to ever happen to him—because you were.

When he finally pulled back, his chest rising and falling heavily, he gave you a smile that nearly undid you. It was soft and full of a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. His eyes, deep pools of love and trust, held you captive, saying more than words ever could.

That look was all you needed before leaning down, starting your slow, deliberate journey down his body.

Your hands trailed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles and scars with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. You scratched lightly around his ribs, your nails dragging in a way that sent shivers through him. Your tongue flicked playfully at his nipple, teasing him with a warm, wet touch before nipping it lightly with your teeth.

He groaned, his body shifting on the bed, a mix of surprise and pleasure flashing across his face. He looked down at you, a half-hearted glare in his darkened eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Deep down, he didn’t want you to stop. The sharp sting of your bite was a pleasure he hadn’t known he could enjoy, because he knew it came from you. And with you, he trusted completely.

His eyes fluttered closed as your hands drifted lower, deftly undoing his belt. Slowly, deliberately, you opened it, savoring the moment while your tongue continued its exploration of his chest, down his stomach, tracing every ridge and hollow. You took your time, drinking him in like a work of art, tasting him as though he were your favorite flavor.

When his hips lifted to help you slide his pants down, your breath caught in your throat. The sight of him, bare and ready for you, made your mouth water. You didn’t bother hiding your hunger. You’d thought about savoring the moment, teasing him, but tonight your patience was nowhere to be found.

“Can I taste you, Sergeant?”

Your voice was sultry, and the smirk that curled your lips was wicked. You watched his cock twitch at the sound of his rank on your tongue, and it thrilled you. His eyes snapped to yours, darker than you’d ever seen them, devoid of the usual gentle blue hues. There was no innocence left in his gaze—just unbridled desire.

“Can I suck this beautiful cock?” you purred, your voice dripping with want.

His breath hitched, and just when he thought you couldn’t surprise him more, you reached for his left arm—the metal one. The arm that had brought so much fear to others and yet made you look at him with awe. Gently, you guided it over your head, locking his gaze.

“Will you show me how you like it?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky Barnes was speechless. You, with your teasing smirk and bold confidence, had rendered him completely at a loss for words. He stared at you, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Finally, he nodded.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy. Smirking, you mimicked his earlier words, tilting your head. “I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your belly. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just hard enough to remind you that while you were in control for the moment, he could take it back whenever he wanted. The hold was firm but careful, his touch a perfect blend of dominance and care, leaving you breathless.

When a moan slipped from your lips at the pressure, he nearly lost it. The sound of your pleasure, the sight of you beneath him, drove him to the edge. He swallowed hard, his voice rasping when he finally spoke.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want with me, doll,” he breathed, his words like a prayer offered to a goddess.

Then he pulled you into a kiss—rough, passionate, claiming. His teeth caught your lower lip, biting down just enough to draw a groan from you, the sound vibrating against his mouth. 

You pulled away from him, your hands firm but teasing as you pushed him back onto the bed. His body yielded to you easily, his left hand still tangled in your hair, the grip soft and almost reverent now. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, stayed locked on yours, watching your every move as if he couldn’t bear to look away.

Settling yourself on the bed between his legs, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the taut muscles of his stomach. Slowly, deliberately, your tongue traced a path downward, tasting the salt of his skin. When you reached his navel, you circled it lazily, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you.

Your hand came to rest on his thigh, steadying yourself as you lowered your head further, your lips skimming along the base of his hardening length. Without breaking eye contact, you nipped at the sensitive skin just beneath his base, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His hand twitched in your hair, his grip tightening ever so slightly, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t pull you away.

He wouldn’t stop you.

He wouldn’t dare.

When you pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock, he twitched again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about the ways he might die, but now he was certain of one thing: it would be your tongue that would end him. Definitely your tongue.

That very tongue was now dragging along his length, from tip to base and back again, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch. He was growing harder under your touch, and you relished the way his breath grew ragged with each lick, each kiss. When you lapped up the bead of pre-cum at his tip, you hummed softly, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

“I can’t wait to taste you for real,” you murmured, your voice thick with promise.

He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever words he’d planned to say vanished the moment you lowered your head and took him fully into your mouth. The guttural moan that escaped him sent heat pooling between your thighs, your body responding to the raw, sinful sound of his pleasure. You could have come undone just from his voice alone.

At first, your movements were slow, your head bobbing gently as you adjusted to the weight and feel of him. Your tongue flattened against the underside of his cock, teasing the sensitive ridge as you hollowed your cheeks. His hands tightened in your hair, guiding you without forcing, but when you spoke again, your words set something alight in him.

“I want you to show me, Sergeant,” you said, your voice sultry and daring. “Use me however you want.”

His eyes widened, the dark blue of his irises nearly swallowed by black. The sultry tone of your command, paired with the sheer want in your gaze, made something snap in him. He didn’t need to be told twice.

“Good girl,” he breathed, his voice rough as his hands guided your movements, his fingers tightening their hold in your hair. You moaned around him at the praise, and the vibration sent a shudder through his entire body.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his words spilling out between breaths. His head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving. “Such a good girl for me.”

You whined softly at his praise, the sound muffled but unmistakable. His lips curved into a grin, even as his body betrayed how tightly he was holding onto his control. “Look at that,” he said, his tone both teasing and affectionate. “Someone’s kinky.”

Your hum of affirmation sent another jolt of sensation through him, pulling a ragged moan from his throat. His hips bucked slightly, but he restrained himself, letting you keep the pace. For now.

But as your movements quickened, your enthusiasm matched only by the need burning in your eyes, he realized he wasn’t going to last much longer. 

&&&&&&&

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last much longer,” he murmured, voice husky and strained. His head fell back against the pillow, lips parting to say more, but the words died on his tongue when your pace quickened, your determination unwavering. The heat of your mouth, the soft press of your lips, and the way your hand cupped and squeezed him—it was all too much.

A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, holding you as though letting go would shatter him entirely. His hips lifted instinctively, his body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure as he spilled into your mouth. "Oh, god, right there, baby," he groaned, the sound rough and unfiltered, pure bliss etched into every syllable.

When the waves of release finally ebbed, his grip lingered in your hair, unaware until your gentle touch coaxed his hand free. "Sorry," he whispered, voice hoarse and apologetic as his fingers brushed over your scalp soothingly.

You leaned up to kiss him, your lips warm and soft against his. But his response surprised you—hungry, fervent, as if tasting you wasn’t enough, as if he needed you closer, deeper. He pulled you into his arms, his hold reverent yet possessive, and the kiss left you breathless.

“You are the most amazing woman ever,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t help but laugh, settling yourself over his stomach, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You’d tell that to any woman who’d suck you off,” you teased, your smile playful.

His hand cupped your cheek gently, halting your laughter. The tenderness in his eyes was staggering, like he could see through every wall you’d ever built.

“No,” he said, voice low and steady, each word sinking deep into your soul. “I care for you more than I thought I had it in me to care about someone. You’ve become so important to me, so fast, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. Because I can’t imagine my world without you.” His thumb stroked your cheek, his touch grounding. “So, no, doll,” he added, the nickname a soft caress on his lips. “I wouldn’t say that to anyone else. There’s no one but you.”

His kiss was sweet this time, unhurried, filled with a quiet kind of passion that made your heart ache in the best way. But as your hips shifted against him, you felt him stir beneath you, his body reacting with a swiftness that sent heat pooling in your belly.

A moan escaped you when you felt his growing arousal press against your core, his readiness unmistakable. His hands moved to your hips, grounding you as his fingers curled into the waistband of your underwear. You lifted just enough for him to slip the delicate fabric down, tossing it aside without a second thought.

“Today’s about you, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his in a feather-light kiss. “I want to show you how amazing you are, how you make me feel, and how much I…” You faltered for a moment, your vulnerability catching up to you. Swallowing, you smiled softly. “How much I care for you.”

Before he could respond, you guided him to your entrance, the heat of him against you making your breath hitch. Slowly, you sank down onto him, a shared moan escaping as he stretched and filled you completely.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips firmly, though not harshly. His gaze was locked on you, watching the way you moved, the way your body welcomed him. “So perfect. Such a good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver through you, your walls fluttering around him in response. “Bucky,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest. “You’re so big… feels so good!”

He grinned, a wicked edge to his smile, and thrust up into you with a controlled strength that stole the air from your lungs. “I’m not stopping, doll,” he rasped, his voice laced with promise.

Before you could fully comprehend, he shifted you effortlessly, rolling you onto your back. Now he towered over you, his body a protective shield, his movements precise and powerful. His lips brushed your ear as his hand trailed down your stomach, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“There she is,” he murmured with a chuckle, his fingers teasing your clit just enough to make your toes curl.

The combination of his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you and the delicious friction of his fingers had you seeing stars. Your cries filled the room, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his movements unrelenting, yet careful in a way that spoke of his care for you. “So perfect for me. God, I could do this forever.”

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the intensity of it all—the connection, the pleasure, the raw intimacy. It wasn’t just sex; it was something deeper, something that felt like home.

As his pace quickened, you felt the tension building within you, every nerve ending alight. “Bucky,” you cried out, clutching at his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that felt like a vow. His voice was low, rough with emotion, as he whispered, “I need you to cum for me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, a soft, breathy "Bucky—" on your lips, but then his fingers found your clit again, moving in that maddeningly skilled way that turned your thoughts into static. The tension inside you unraveled with explosive force, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body trembled, your head falling back, and you felt like you were floating, like he’d untethered you from reality itself.

“God,” you managed to breathe, your eyes fluttering open as you tried to thank him. But before you could form the words, his hips surged forward, and he was moving inside you again, drawing a startled cry from your lips.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your own. “So perfect for me.” His mouth descended on yours, capturing your gasp in a kiss so deep it felt like he was stealing the air from your lungs.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, the praise falling from his lips like a benediction. The way your body responded to his words made him chuckle, a low, wicked sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “You like that, huh? You like being my good girl.”

Before you could reply, his pace quickened, his fingers expertly teasing your clit once more. His mouth traveled down, capturing your nipple between his lips, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to draw soft, helpless moans from you. The warmth of his mouth, the steady thrust of his hips, and the relentless circling of his fingers sent another wave of pleasure building within you.

“I’m close, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “But I need you to cum for me again. One more time, doll. Just one more.”

No man had ever made you feel the way Bucky did. No one had ever cared to learn your body like this, to make you feel so utterly cherished, so thoroughly undone. You shook your head weakly, overwhelmed. “I can’t, Bucky,” you gasped. “I’m still—”

“Yes, you can, babygirl,” he growled, cutting you off. His hands tightened on your hips, grounding you as he drove into you with a force that left you breathless. “I know you can. You’re my good girl, and you’re gonna cum for me.”

The commanding edge to his voice sent a thrill racing through you, and the coil of pleasure tightened in your belly once more. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Come for me. Now,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly demand that sent you spiraling over the edge.

You cried out his name, your body shuddering beneath him as your orgasm tore through you. Your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint, reddened trails, but if he felt the sting, he didn’t care. The moment your walls clenched around him, he let go, his movements turning erratic as he spilled into you with a deep, guttural groan.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were your labored breaths, the quiet hum of the world beyond forgotten in the aftermath of your shared release. Bucky’s body was warm against yours, his weight a comforting presence, though he somehow managed to hold himself up just enough not to crush you.

After a moment, he rolled to the side, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He turned to you, his eyes wide, his expression suddenly serious.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow. His reaction made your stomach twist, but before you could say more, he sat up abruptly, his gaze darting around the room nervously.

“I…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I came inside you.” His voice was laced with guilt, and he looked at you as though he’d committed some unforgivable sin. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

Realizing what he meant, you reached for him, your hand cupping his cheek gently. “Bucky, it’s okay,” you said, your voice soft and reassuring. You tilted your head toward the small scar on your hip, showing him the faint outline of your IUD. “I’m covered. You don’t need to worry.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, but his brow furrowed again. “Still, I should have asked. I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off with a kiss, tender and full of affection. “You’re the sweetest man ever,” you murmured, your fingers brushing against his cheek. Your smile was the one you always gave him when you wanted to chase away his doubts. “But you don’t need to worry. I wanted you to.”

His eyes softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he let out a shaky breath. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “In that case,” he said, a hint of his usual playfulness returning, “you were amazing, doll. Absolutely amazing.”

“So were you,” you replied with a grin.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “For going on that date with me.”

Your heart melted at the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in his world. Was it those old-fashioned 1940s charms, or was it just Bucky? Either way, it made your chest ache with something too big to name.

“The best date of my life,” you told him, meaning every word.

He smiled at that, his hand finding yours. “C’mon, doll,” he said, his tone soft but warm. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

And as he led you to the bathroom, his touch gentle and his eyes full of adoration, you couldn’t help but think that this—this connection, this feeling—was worth everything.

---

After the night you spent together, something shifted between you and Bucky.

It wasn’t dramatic or earth-shattering, but it was there—this quiet, unspoken understanding. It hung in the air between you like the faint scent of rain, subtle but impossible to ignore. You were together now, bound by something deeper, something that needed no words to define. Every teasing glance, every soft touch, every shared smile—they carried a gravity that hadn’t been there before, a kind of sacred weight that made your chest ache with warmth.

The house, too, seemed to reflect this change. In just three weeks, you and Bucky had breathed life into what had once been little more than a forgotten relic. Dusty floorboards now gleamed, rooms once choked with cobwebs now felt open and full of promise. Of course, most of that transformation was thanks to Bucky—his strong hands, his quiet determination, his uncanny ability to make even the most daunting task seem simple. But you liked to think you’d helped in your own way, even if it was just by being there—keeping him company, making sure he didn’t forget to eat, or distracting him with your clumsy attempts at “helping.”

One evening, as you stood in the doorway of the now-finished kitchen, you couldn’t help but marvel at what the two of you had accomplished. The counters sparkled in the golden light of sunset, the new appliances gleamed, and the faint, clean scent of fresh paint lingered in the air.

“This place looks incredible,” you said, your voice soft with awe.

“Not bad for three weeks,” Bucky replied, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His voice carried a note of pride, though his expression was as relaxed and easy as always.

“Not bad at all,” you agreed, smiling at him. But then you couldn’t resist adding, “Though I think I deserve at least half the credit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into that irresistible smirk that always made your knees feel just a little weaker. “Half? Doll, you almost took out the drywall with a hammer on day two.”

“Details,” you said with a wave of your hand. “I was the emotional support. That counts for something.”

His laugh was low and rich, the sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He crossed the room, his presence filling the space as he stopped in front of you. “Yeah, it does,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart stutter, and you barely had time to catch your breath before he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

---

As amazing as things felt between you, there was still a secretive edge to it all.

The decision to keep your relationship quiet had been mutual, though it wasn’t without its complications. It wasn’t shame or uncertainty that kept you silent—it was the weight of Bucky’s world. His life had always been lived under a microscope, every move dissected and analyzed by those who cared for him. His friends meant well, but they had a way of meddling, of poking and teasing and offering unsolicited advice. And so, for now, you both chose to hold this fragile, perfect thing close, safe from prying eyes.

One evening, as you sat together on the porch, the horizon blazed with the deep oranges and purples of a dying sun. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of pine, and the world felt perfectly still. You were leaning against him, your head resting on his shoulder, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice low and tinged with something heavy.

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised. “For what?”

“For not telling anyone,” he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as if he were bracing himself. “For asking you to keep this between us.”

“Bucky…” you began, your heart twisting at the guilt in his voice.

He shook his head, his blue eyes finally meeting yours, filled with a vulnerability that stole your breath. “You deserve better,” he said, the words raw and quiet. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to hide how they feel about you.”

Your fingers found his, threading together as you held his gaze. “I’m not hiding,” you said softly. “I’m just waiting. And I’m okay with waiting—for you.”

His breath caught, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. The air between you felt charged, every unsaid word passing through that space, heavy with meaning.

“Are you sure?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll tell them. Until then, I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension in his frame melted away, his shoulders sagging with relief. He pulled you close, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss that felt like a promise.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

“Always,” you replied, letting your eyes slip closed as you leaned into him. Together, you sat in silence, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded into twilight, the stars beginning to blink awake one by one.

In that quiet, sacred moment, you knew without a doubt that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. And that, more than anything, was enough.

---

Keeping your relationship with Bucky a secret had seemed like the right decision.

It wasn’t about hiding. It was about holding onto something precious, something new and fragile, just a little while longer. Bucky needed time to adjust—to let himself believe that happiness wasn’t fleeting, that this bond between you was real and wouldn’t be taken away. You understood that, so waiting felt like a small price to pay.

But there was one thing neither of you had accounted for: Sam Wilson.

Sam had an uncanny ability to read people. He wasn’t nosy, but once he noticed that Bucky had returned from your date with a rare, unguarded smile, the wheels in his head started turning. It was only a matter of time before he connected the dots—and naturally, he spilled the news to Steve Rogers. And the thing about Steve was that while he was the embodiment of loyalty and good intentions, he wasn’t exactly subtle.

---

The celebration started off perfectly.

The small party you and Bucky hosted to mark the near-completion of the house had everything: good food, warm laughter, and a sense of accomplishment that filled the air like the smell of fresh paint. The living room buzzed with chatter as your friends admired the transformation.

“It’s amazing,” Natasha said, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Didn’t think Barnes had it in him to pick out curtains.”

“Those were my contributions,” you replied with a grin, earning a small chuckle from her.

In the kitchen, you and Bucky worked together to set up the drinks. He was pouring whiskey into glasses with practiced ease while you arranged a platter of snacks, sneaking a glance at him every so often. The way the soft, golden light from the kitchen window played on his features made your chest tighten. This felt right—building something with him, being part of his life.

And then Sam walked in.

“Well, well, well,” he announced loudly, a grin splitting his face as he leaned against the doorframe. “Look at the happy couple!”

The room fell into a stunned silence, like a record scratching to a halt. For a beat, no one moved. Then, as if a dam had burst, the chatter shifted into excited whispers and laughter.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back with enough force to make him stagger slightly. “Knew you had it in you, pal,” he said, grinning like a proud older brother.

Tony, never one to miss an opportunity to stir the pot, raised his glass in a mock toast. “About damn time, Barnes. I thought you were going to let this one slip through your fingers.”

Natasha smirked from her spot in the corner, her knowing gaze flicking between you and Bucky like she’d figured it out long ago.

Bucky’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his body went rigid beside you. His jaw tightened, and his hand, which had been resting on the counter, curled into a fist. His expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his blue eyes as he turned to face Steve and Sam.

“You told them?” His voice was low, laced with simmering anger.

Steve raised his hands in defense, his wide-eyed expression betraying his guilt. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Bucky snapped, cutting him off. His words were sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Sam, ever the unapologetic instigator, shrugged with an infuriating grin. “Come on, man. It’s not like it was a big secret. We all saw it coming. We’re happy for you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning cold and cutting. “It wasn’t your story to tell. It’s my life. My choice.”

The hum of conversation that had begun to pick back up quickly died again, leaving an uncomfortable, heavy silence in its wake. All eyes turned toward Bucky, the tension in the room palpable.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your hand brushing against his arm, hoping to anchor him.

He glanced at you, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened. But the hurt and frustration in his eyes didn’t fade. “I need some air,” he muttered, his voice tight and clipped.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sound of the back door closing behind him echoing like a final note in an unfinished song.

You stood frozen for a moment, torn between following him and facing the room.

Your gaze landed on Sam and Steve, and a sharp wave of frustration surged through you. They looked guilty enough—Steve with his sheepish frown, Sam with his slightly deflated bravado—but that didn’t stop the words from spilling out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you demanded, your voice low but firm enough to cut through the awkward silence.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting on his hips. “We didn’t mean to upset him,” he said, his tone apologetic. “We’re just… happy for him. For both of you.”

“That’s not the point,” you snapped, your frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t about you. Do you have any idea how hard it was for him to let me in? To trust that this could be something real?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Look, we get it. He’s been through hell. But we’re his friends. We’re on his side.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to decide when he’s ready to share this with the world,” you shot back, your tone sharp. “You might think you were doing him a favor, but all you did was take away his choice.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged, guilt written all over his face. “We were out of line,” he admitted quietly. “We didn’t think about how much this would mean to him.”

“No, you didn’t,” you agreed, your voice softening just slightly. “He’s angry, and he has every right to be.”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. We messed up. I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I’ll handle it. Just… give him some space.”

---

You found Bucky on the back porch.

He was leaning against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in soft shades of lavender and gold. His shoulders were tense, his hands gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles were white.

You stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against your skin as you closed the door behind you. “Hey,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He glanced at you, the tension in his face easing slightly. “You don’t have to be out here,” he muttered. “Go back inside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said gently, stepping closer. “Bucky, I’m sorry. They shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault,” he interrupted, his voice rough. He turned to face you fully, his blue eyes filled with frustration and hurt. “I just… I wanted this to be ours for a little while longer.”

“It still is,” you said, reaching out to take his hand. “What we have doesn’t change just because they know.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his grip tightening slightly. “It feels like it does,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like it’s not just ours anymore.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Then let’s make them understand. This is your life, Bucky. No one else gets to decide how you live it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as he pulled you into his arms. “I’m lucky to have you,” he murmured into your hair.

“You always will,” you replied, your voice steady and sure.

And in that moment, as the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, you knew you’d face whatever came next—together.

---

Title: Just James

James Buchanan Barnes is not an easy man to define.

For decades, the world has known him by his titles: The Winter Soldier. Hydra’s Ghost. The Soldier with a Shattered Mind. For a long time, those labels seemed to stick, as if they were the only things he’d ever been or could be.

But spend a little time with him, and you’ll find that James Barnes is so much more than his past.

When you meet him, the first thing you notice is his presence. It’s not the commanding kind—it’s quieter, steadier, like the deep roots of an old oak tree. He doesn’t need to say much to make an impression. It’s in the way he moves, the way he listens, the way he watches everything and everyone with a quiet intensity that speaks of someone who has seen too much but still manages to care.

Caring is, in fact, at the heart of who James Barnes is.

He is the kind of friend who will notice when you’re having a bad day and quietly make it better without ever drawing attention to himself. Maybe it’s a warm cup of coffee placed in front of you without a word, or a small fix to something broken that you didn’t even know he’d noticed. He doesn’t make grand gestures; he makes small, thoughtful ones that linger long after they’re done.

James Barnes is also a man who, despite everything, has a surprisingly sharp sense of humor. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it—a dry comment here, a teasing smirk there. He doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it’s the kind of laugh that makes the room feel warmer.

And then there’s the charm.

He’ll deny it if you ask, but there’s no mistaking the trace of 1940s Brooklyn ladies’ man still lingering in his DNA. It’s in the way he leans against a doorframe, arms crossed, with that faint, lopsided grin that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s in the way he says “doll” like it’s second nature, with a teasing edge that somehow feels both old-fashioned and timeless.

But beneath the charm, beneath the humor, lies a vulnerability that few people get to see. It’s in the way he sometimes hesitates before opening up, the way he gets quiet when the conversation drifts too close to old wounds. James Barnes is a man carrying more weight than most of us could imagine, but what makes him extraordinary is the way he still manages to move forward.

He doesn’t see himself as a hero, but in many ways, that’s exactly what he is.

James Barnes is the friend who will drop everything to help you. He’s the man who will put others’ needs above his own, even when he’s struggling. He’s the kind of person who makes you believe in second chances, not just for him, but for yourself, too.

He’s funny, and thoughtful, and maddeningly stubborn. He’ll tease you relentlessly, but if anyone else dares to so much as look at you wrong, they’ll regret it. He’ll hold your hand when you’re scared, fix things you didn’t know were broken, and somehow make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who truly matters.

James Barnes is not defined by his past. He is not the Winter Soldier. He is not a title or a label or a ghost of what once was.

He is a man. A man who deserves love, happiness, and everything good this world has to offer.

And for those lucky enough to know him, he’s so much more than that.

He’s James.

And that’s enough.

---

Title: A chance to live

James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

It’s not because he doesn’t want it or wouldn’t welcome it—it’s because he doesn’t believe he deserves it. For so long, the weight of his past has felt like a life sentence, something permanent and unchangeable. Every scar on his body, every memory forced into his mind, every name he can’t forget—they’ve all told him the same thing: that he is broken, irredeemable, and unworthy of anything good.

But James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

What he asks for is something simpler, something quieter, something more human: a chance to live.

When you spend time with Bucky, you see the effort it takes for him to move through the world. The way he still flinches when someone approaches him from behind. The way his hands tremble just slightly when he’s surrounded by too many people. The way he avoids mirrors, as if afraid of who—or what—he might see staring back at him.

But you also see the will.

The will to keep going, even on the days when the past feels too heavy to bear. The will to change, to be better, to be someone he can look in the eye and not hate. The will to laugh, to connect, to open up—even when it scares him.

James Barnes doesn’t want to be a hero. He doesn’t want to be remembered for his deeds or honored for his sacrifices. He doesn’t want a statue or a medal or a parade.

He just wants what so many of us take for granted: a life of his own.

He wants to wake up in the morning and not dread the day ahead. He wants to walk down the street without feeling like a ghost. He wants to sit on the porch of his house—the house he’s worked so hard to rebuild—and feel the warmth of the sun on his face without worrying about what might be lurking in the shadows.

He wants to love and be loved in return.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t expect the world to forgive him. He doesn’t expect to erase the past or undo the harm that was done. But he hopes—quietly, desperately—that the world might let him try. That it might give him the space to rebuild himself, to find something worth holding onto, to create a future that isn’t defined by the horrors of his past.

And maybe, just maybe, if the world can give him that chance, he can begin to forgive himself.

Because beneath the layers of guilt and grief, beneath the scars and the shadows, is a man who wants nothing more than to live.

And James Barnes, for all that he’s been through, for all that he’s endured, deserves that chance.

He deserves to live.

---

The evening was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

The soft golden glow of a single lamp illuminated the room as you handed Bucky the articles. Your hands trembled slightly, though you tried to mask it, and your heart raced with a nervous anticipation that made your chest ache. He took the papers from you with a small, curious smile, his calloused fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Then, he sat down, the weight of the moment settling heavily in the air.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint rustling of the paper as he turned the pages. Each sound was magnified, echoing in your ears like the ticking of a clock. You watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes moved across the words, his expression flickering between concentration and something softer—something almost fragile.

These articles weren’t just words on a page. They were pieces of your heart laid bare, fragments of everything you saw in him: his strength, his resilience, his capacity for love, even after all the pain he had endured. They were a mirror, reflecting the man he had become, not the man he feared he was.

When he finally finished, he placed the papers down on the table with deliberate care. He didn’t look up immediately, and your stomach twisted with doubt. Had you said too much? Was it too personal? Too raw?

But then he looked at you, and the breath caught in your throat. His blue-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears, the kind he rarely let anyone see. The vulnerability in his gaze made your chest tighten, and you suddenly understood that this wasn’t just about the articles. This was about him confronting a version of himself he wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The silence felt like a taut string, ready to snap, and your heart pounded with every passing second.

Then, finally, he broke it.

“This… this is incredible,” he said, his voice low and steady, though it trembled slightly at the edges.

Your cheeks flushed, and you gave him a small, shy smile. “I’m glad you think so. I just… I wanted people to see you the way I see you.”

He stared at you as if he couldn’t quite believe the words you’d spoken. His expression was raw and unguarded, the kind of openness he rarely allowed himself.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “How you make me feel like this—like I’m more than what I’ve done. Like I’m worth something.”

“Because you are,” you said simply, your voice soft but firm. You reached out, taking his hand in yours.

The warmth of his touch, the way his fingers instinctively tightened around yours, felt like an unspoken promise. He held your gaze, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet glow of the room.

Then, he spoke again, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and beautiful. He said them as if he was testing their weight, as if he wasn’t entirely sure they would hold. But the way his hand tightened around yours, the way his eyes searched yours, told you he meant them.

“I love you,” he said again, more certain this time, his voice steady. “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say that again. But I do. I love you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you leaned forward. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing lightly over the faint stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He pulled you into his arms then, his hold firm but gentle, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. His lips found yours, and the kiss was slow, tender, and filled with all the things he couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t just an expression of love—it was an affirmation, a quiet acknowledgment of everything you had built together.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hands stayed on your waist, anchoring you to him, as if he needed the physical connection to keep himself grounded.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft and sincere.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For giving me this,” he said simply. “For giving me a chance.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You gave yourself that chance, Bucky. I just helped you see it.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression shifting to something resolute, something stronger.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he said quietly. “But… I think I’m ready. If you want to publish this—if you think the world should see it—then let’s do it. Let’s tell them.”

Your heart swelled with pride and love, and you leaned forward to kiss him again, your hands still cradling his face. The kiss was softer this time, but no less meaningful.

When you pulled back, you searched his eyes for any hint of doubt, but all you saw was determination. “Are you sure?” you asked, your voice trembling with emotion.

He nodded, his expression steady and sure. “Yeah. I’m sure. I want them to know the truth—not just about what I was, but about who I am now. About the people who’ve helped me get here.”

A lump formed in your throat as you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over his skin. “Okay,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “We’ll do this together.”

He smiled then, a small but genuine smile that lit up his face in a way that made your heart ache. “Together,” he echoed, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.

And as you sat there, holding each other in the quiet glow of the room, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever storms you had to weather, you knew you’d face them side by side. Together, you were unstoppable.

---

Over the next week, your series of articles began to roll out, one by one, like chapters in a story that needed to be told.

Each piece was a love letter to James Buchanan Barnes—not just the man you loved, but the many versions of him that had existed before. Each article revealed a different facet of his life, weaving together a tapestry of pain, perseverance, and quiet triumph.

The first article painted a picture of a boy from Brooklyn, a boy who loved fiercely and laughed loudly. You wrote about the way Bucky had adored his mother’s homemade meals, the nights spent teasing his sisters, and the way his father’s old stories had sparked his sense of adventure.

The next article delved into his role as a best friend. You described the steadfast loyalty he’d shown Steve Rogers, the skinny kid from Brooklyn who had a fire too big for his frame. Bucky had been his anchor, his protector, and his brother in every way that mattered.

Then came the soldier. You recounted his bravery in the field, the unwavering courage with which he faced danger, not for glory but for the men standing beside him. But you didn’t shy away from the darkness. You wrote about his fall, the horrors inflicted upon him, and the years he spent as a ghost—a weapon, stripped of identity and choice.

Yet, you balanced the shadows with light.

You wrote about the man you knew now: the way his lips curved in a rare, genuine smile when he found a stray cat or fixed a squeaky hinge; the way he cared for his friends with an understated tenderness, always putting others first even when it cost him. You wrote about his quiet resilience, his determination to rebuild his life, and his courage in confronting his demons.

And above all, you wrote about his humanity—the small, everyday moments that revealed his heart. How he’d pick up your favorite snacks without being asked. How he could spend hours tinkering with a broken toaster just because it mattered to someone. How he was learning, slowly but surely, to let himself be loved in return.

---

The response was immediate and overwhelming.

Emails, comments, and messages poured in from readers around the world.

People who had felt unseen, misunderstood, or broken wrote to say they saw themselves in his story. Veterans shared their own struggles with identity and purpose, thanking him for his honesty. Survivors of trauma found hope in his resilience. And countless others simply marveled at the raw courage it took to lay his soul bare for the world to see.

One letter, in particular, stood out. It was from a young woman in Kansas who wrote:

"I’ve never known how to tell my family about my struggles, about the things that haunt me. But reading about Bucky—about how he faces his past with so much strength—it’s inspired me to try. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to keep trying even when it feels impossible."

You read her words aloud to Bucky one night as the two of you sat together in the quiet comfort of your living room. He listened in silence, his hand resting over yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“Do you see now?” you asked softly, your voice thick with emotion. “Do you see what you mean to people?”

He didn’t reply right away. His gaze was fixed on the letter in your hands, his expression a mix of wonder and disbelief.

---

For Bucky, the most profound response came from within.

Each evening, he would sit quietly and read your articles. At first, it was difficult. The words felt too raw, too vulnerable, like staring at an unflinching mirror. But as the week went on, something began to shift.

The boy who loved fiercely, the best friend who stood unwavering, the soldier who fought bravely, the man who was shattered and rebuilt piece by piece—they were all him. Not ghosts. Not shadows.

Him.

And for the first time in a long time, he began to believe it.

He no longer felt like a relic of the past, a man defined only by his mistakes and the damage done to him. He began to feel whole, as if the fragments of his life were finally coming together to form something stronger, something true.

One evening, as he finished the last article, he closed his laptop and turned to you. His blue-gray eyes were clear, steady, but there was a softness there too—a quiet peace you hadn’t seen before.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice filled with a sincerity that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “For what?”

“For showing me the parts of myself I couldn’t see,” he murmured, his arm wrapping around you. “For believing in me when I couldn’t. For reminding me that I’m more than what I’ve done.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you held them back, your voice steady. “You’ve always been more, Bucky. You just needed to see it for yourself.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there as if drawing strength from your presence. “I see it now,” he said quietly. “For the first time, I really see it.”

And in that moment, as the soft hum of the world outside faded into the background, you knew that he wasn’t just healing—he was becoming. Not the Winter Soldier. Not a hero or a villain. Just Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

A man who was no longer defined by his past but by the love and resilience that would carry him into the future.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he deserved it.

[sequinsmile-x]

Kallos

[καλός, ˈkal.los] Origin: Greek, Noun

good, beautiful, noble.

Whenever she had thought of her wedding dress when she was growing up, she never considered that she’d wear something she’d bought off the rack.

AKA - the one in which Emily and Aaron elope.

A one shot in my series of unrelated kissing prompt fics

-x-

Hi besties,

What better way to start the New Year than with a very fluffy, soft thing where they just love each other a whole lot?

This is one of the prompts from my kissing prompt series, and fulfils the 'forever mine kisses' prompt.

As always, please let me know what you think!

-x-

Warnings: None, so sweet I recommend flossing afterwards to prevent cavities.

Words: 3.1k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily hums to herself as she steps back to look at her reflection in the mirror, a soft nursery rhyme she never remembered the name of filling the air around her as she inspects her outfit. She runs her hands over the satin material of her dress, her smile as soft as the material flowing over her skin. She’d never thought too much about her wedding dress growing up. She always thought that she’d have little choice in it, that she’d have little choice in anything to do with her wedding. She assumed she’d marry someone rich, whom her parents approved of, and never escape the society she’d never quite belonged in. 

Whenever she had thought of her wedding dress when she was growing up, she never considered that she’d wear something she’d bought off the rack. The thought of her mother’s reaction to it when she finds out, when she sees pictures of her daughter in a simple white dress instead of a made-to-measure designer gown, makes her smile and she’s sure Aaron would joke that’s part of the reason she’d insisted they elope in the first place. 

The worst part was, he wasn’t entirely wrong, but it wasn’t the only reason. 

A crackle comes over the baby monitor, followed by Aaron’s voice, the soft tone he used for her and the kids washing over her as she listens to him speak to their daughter. He’d insisted on getting Alice ready this morning, his smile soft as he kissed her cheek and said he’d give her time to get ready herself as he fed and dressed their 8-month-old. 

“You look so beautiful princess,” he says, and she can picture his smile as he looks at Alice, “Usually you tie top place with Mommy for the most beautiful girl in the world, but today she might just have you beat, she deserves to be the most beautiful in the world on her wedding day.” 

Emily presses her lips together to suppress a smile, her joy almost overwhelming as her cheeks ache with it. Aaron had proposed just before they found out she was pregnant, and she’d been insistent that she didn’t want to be a pregnant bride. Planning a wedding was stressful, especially if her mother tried to take control of most of it like Emily was sure she would, so she didn’t want to put herself through it, not when her pregnancy was already high risk because of her age. Then Alice was born, and she’d never been happier, and time slipped through her fingers like sand. She couldn’t believe her little girl was 8 months old already, that she was growing every day, her personality forming in front of her eyes, and somehow it had almost been two years since Aaron had proposed and they were nowhere closer to getting married. 

She’s the one who suggested going to city hall, just the two of them and the kids, and more than once Aaron had asked if she was sure. It made her love him even more, if that was possible because she knew he would do whatever she wanted. That he’d have the big, over-the-top, wedding she always thought she’d have growing up if that’s what she wanted, or that he’d be happy with something smaller and intimate. She told him one night recently when they were snuggled up in bed, that all she wanted was to be his wife. It seemed to be the final assurance he needed that she was serious about eloping. 

She knew their friends would struggle with their decision, and her mother would too, so they decided to keep it a secret until the deed was done - putting her lifelong rule of ‘it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission’ to good use.

A knock on the bedroom door pulls her attention away from her reflection, and it’s followed by Aaron’s voice.

“Can we come in?” 

She smoothes her hands down the material of her dress again and turns to the door, “Come in.” 

He pauses when he walks in, his hold on Alice in his arms tightening as he looks at Emily, his breath caught in his chest as he takes her in. She was beautiful all the time, her smile something that had always drawn him in, but somehow she always managed to outdo herself. The first time they woke up together and he’d seen her in amongst his sheets, her hair curled from their shared shower and her skin bare, she was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. When he proposed, the smile on her face was bright and he saw his future shining in it and she was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. When she had Alice, when he watched her as she watched their little girl, she’d never been more beautiful. All tired eyes and tear streaked cheeks as she listed off all the features on their daughter’s face as if she wasn’t where Alice got them from. 

Right now, as she stood in their bedroom, her hands nervously straightening out the dress she’d marry him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as they stare at each other, he knew he’d never seen her more beautiful. 

“Em…” he chokes out, clearing his throat as he trips over her name, “You look…”

“You too.” She takes pity on him and steps forward, straightening out his tie needlessly, letting the red silk of it rasp between her finger and thumb. He’d asked her if she wanted him to buy a tux or a new suit for the wedding, but she’d said no, that she wanted to marry him in one of the suits he’d worn when she fell in love with him. Alice coos, reaching out for Emily, who takes her gladly, kissing her temple as she settles her on her hip, “You look beautiful, sweet girl,” she says, smiling to herself as she looks at the rose-covered dress Aaron had put her in. Her smile turns into a smirk as she looks up at her husband, “Like the second most beautiful girl in the world.” 

Aaron freezes, his eyes wide as he looks over at the baby monitor, “You heard that huh?” 

She hums and kisses his cheek, “I did,” she replies, stamping her lips against his, “Although I think she’s the prettiest girl in the whole world,” she tickles Alice’s belly, smiling when it draws a giggle out of her, “But I did make her so I might be biased.” 

“Like I said, usually you’re tied for first place, but it will be her turn when it’s her wedding day.” 

She groans at the thought, holding Alice a little closer as she kisses the top of her head, “Please, I can barely think of her being old enough to walk by herself, let's not marry her off just yet.” 

He smiles knowingly, but is cut off from saying anything as the door flies open and Jack runs into the room, his tie lopsided and grin wide. 

“Mom, you look so pretty!” he exclaims, reaching out for Alice’s hand. His smile becomes impossibly wider as she wraps her hand around his finger. “You too, Lissy.” 

Watching Jack become a big brother had been one of her favourite things since Alice had been born. He’d been excited from the start, even more so when they found out they were having a girl, and he’d been fascinated by every little thing about his little sister. He helped in whatever way he could, and was impatiently waiting for her to be old enough to play ‘properly’ with him. Emily on the other hand wanted time to slow down a little so she could enjoy this time with her children when they still needed her as much as they did, forever worried about a day when they’d try and run away from her instead of towards her. 

“And what about me?” Aaron asks, making a point of straightening out his cuffs, and Jack laughs, leaning against Emily’s side as she wraps an arm around him. 

“You’re very pretty too, Dad,” Jack says, and Emily smiles and nods, running her fingers through his hair. 

“He really is isn’t he? We all are,” she says, winking at her soon to be husband as he lovingly rolls his eyes at her, “We should get going.” 

Jack nods, his excitement palpable, the room filling with it until it sneaks under all of their skin, “Yes, we have to go get married.” 

Emily chuckles and smiles at Aaron, “You heard him, let's go get married.”

___

She can’t help but smile as Jack sighs and rests his head on her shoulder as if he had the weight of the world on his. She turns her head to kiss his temple and wraps her arm around him, You okay, kiddo?” 

“Getting married is more boring than I thought it would be.” 

“It’s our turn next,” she replies as she runs her fingers through his hair, and she turns to exchange a smile with Aaron as he paces back and forth with a fussy Alice in his arms, “Do you want me to take her?” 

Aaron shakes his head and adjusts his hold on Alice, making sure she’s comfortable on his hip, “We’re okay, aren’t we princess?” 

“Applicants Hotchner and Prentiss.” 

Jack jumps up the moment he hears the judge’s voice, “That’s us!” 

Emily stands up too, her hand on Jack’s shoulder as she stops him from going into the judge's chambers, “Is it okay if the kids come in?” 

“Of course,” she replies and she smiles at Jack, “I’m Judge Davis, what’s your name?” 

“Jack!”

“And is it your mommy and daddy who are getting married today?” Judge Davis asks, and Jack nods enthusiastically. 

Even though Jack had called her Mom for a while now, Emily still wasn’t used to it. There were times when it would take her breath away, when her chest would stutter because she was his mom. It felt like an honour in an entirely different way from how it felt to be Alice’s mom. She hadn’t raised him since he was a tiny little thing, she hadn’t felt him kick and turn inside of her. She’d earned his love and trust as a friend first and she would have happily been his Emmy for the rest of her life, but being his mom was more than she could have ever hoped for. 

“Yes,” Jack replies, he turns and points at Alice, who Aaron had just strapped back into her stroller, “And that’s my little sister Alice.” 

Judge Davis exchanges a smile with Aaron and Emily as she leads them into her chambers and then turns her attention back to the little boy, “Well you’ve got a really important job of looking after Alice whilst I help Mom and Dad get married, okay?” 

He nods enthusiastically and stands next to Alice’s stroller. She grunts in frustration when Aaron steps away and Jack tries to shush her, “Lissy, we’ve got to be quiet whilst Mom and Dad get married.” 

“Here,” Aaron says, pulling his phone from his pocket and handing it to the little girl, “This should keep her distracted.” 

Emily chuckles and raises her eyebrow at him as he walks over to her, “What happened to the no screen time apart from educational cartoons rule?” 

He winks at her and reaches for her hand, “If it keeps her quiet for a few minutes I think it’s worth breaking the rule this once.” 

“Are you two ready?” Judge Davis asks and they take a moment to look at each other. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, the rest of the world slowing down around them as Aaron squeezes her hand, a look in his eyes that tells her that if she’d changed her mind, if she really wanted a wedding with all their friends and family that they could leave now and he wouldn’t mind. It makes her fall in love with him all over again, her cheeks warm and skin fizzing with it as she squeezes his hand back, her thumb skimming over the finger she was about to slip a ring onto. 

“We’re ready.” 

Aaron hands Judge Davis the paperwork, and despite the almost clinical nature of it all, the way Judge Davis looks over their driving licenses and marriage license and passes them back, the way she double checks their middle names as she says their names whilst she has them repeat lines back at her, it’s romantic. It’s them and their love for each other, and the sound of their children in the background, and neither one of them could imagine doing this in any other way. 

They exchange their rings and vow and a kiss, and when they pull back to press their foreheads together it’s like nothing and everything has changed all at once. It’s a kiss they’d exchanged countless times. Soft and quick and the kiss they’d usually use to say goodbye or hello. But it’s also a promise of forever. A way for them to claim that they belonged to each other for the rest of their lives, forever each other’s as companions in love and life. 

Emily is brought back to earth by Judge Davis stamping their paperwork, the sound of it breaking the small bubble they’d formed in her office. She hands the paperwork over, her smile kind, with an efficiency to it that reminds them she has an appointment after them.

“I need you to sign these,” she says, handing each of them a pen. Emily holds Aaron’s right hand in her left, finding herself more grateful than ever that he’s left-handed as they sign the paperwork without breaking away from each other, the thought of not holding his hand almost a ridiculous notion. “According to the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia, I now declare you husband and wife.”

Emily leans in to kiss him, but it’s more of a smile pressed against another smile as Aaron cups the back of her head, both of them keen for this moment to last as long as possible. 

“Are they married now?” Jack asks from the corner of the room, and all three adults laugh and nod.

“Yes, Jack,” Emily replies, squeezing her husband’s hand, “We’re married.” 

___

Emily tilts her head downwards to double check Alice is asleep against her, and she smiles at the sight of her. She takes it all in, and makes a point of remembering every single thing about her because she knows she’ll carry on growing far too quickly. She looks at her closed eyes and long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, her cheek squished against her chest and her open mouth. The slope of her nose that she’d never seen the beauty in until she saw it on her daughter’s face. 

She lays Alice down in her crib, making sure to kiss her head first, whispering words of love in every language she knew against her skin. She leaves the nursery as quietly as she can, and makes sure to step over the creaky floorboard outside Jack’s room so she doesn’t wake him up. She loved her children, she really did, but she wanted some time alone with her husband, wanted to sit on the couch and share a glass of wine with him and just be them for a couple of hours. Aaron and Emily the newlyweds, not Aaron and Emily the mom and dad. 

She finds him on the couch, a glass of wine on the coffee table in front of him. She leans over the back of the couch and kisses his cheek, smiling as he turns to look at her. She’d changed since she took Alice upstairs to bed, she was wearing a t-shirt of his and a pair of leggings. She smiles as he squeezes her thigh when she sits next to him and she curls into his side, her hand cupping his head as she runs her fingers through his hair.

“I know it’s not exactly what you’d expect your wife to wear on your wedding night-”

“No,” he says, squeezing her thigh again as he leans in to kiss her, “You’re beautiful. More beautiful than ever.” 

She chuckles, “You always say that.” 

“And I’m always right,” he leans in to kiss her again, “I have to show you something.” 

She hums curiously as he picks up his phone and unlocks it, “You haven’t booked a vacation or something have you?” 

“Not yet,” he replies, opening up his photo gallery on his phone, “I was looking at the photos the receptionist took of us all, and I found this.” 

He hands his phone over to her and starts to play a video. She smiles and huffs out a laugh as she’s met with her daughter’s face, a close up of Alice as she babbles to herself, her grip on the phone tight as now and again her thumb blocks the camera. Emily notices the wallpaper from Judge Davis’s office.  

“What’s this?” She asks, and Aaron loops his arm around her shoulder, “This is from today.” 

“She must have accidentally started filming it when she had my phone earlier,” he says, kissing her temple, “She filmed the whole ceremony.” 

Emily gasps, the sound catching in her chest somewhere between a sob and a laugh and she reaches out to touch Alice’s face on the screen, her four tiny teeth visible as she laughs. Jack leans in, his face visible for a second before he whispers to Alice.

“Mommy and Daddy are getting married,” he says, “That means we’ll all be together forever.” 

She blows out a slow breath and half buries her face in Aaron’s shoulder, her tears making his shirt stick to his skin, “They really are beautiful aren’t they.” 

He hums and kisses the top of her head, “They really are,” he replies, “Just like you.” 

She tilts her head up to look at him and she cups his cheek, something that makes him smile with the press of both of her rings against his skin, and she kisses him. They lose themselves in it for a moment, in the simple beauty of it. 

“And you,” she says as she pulls back, kissing him again before she looks at the video again, “You’re beautiful too,” the video comes to a stop and she presses play again, giggling as it loops and she wipes tears from her cheeks as she listens to Jack talk quietly to Alice as they watch them watch them get married, “Do you think if we showed the team and my mom this video the cuteness will undo any anger over us eloping?” 

He laughs and then kisses her cheek as he tightens his hold on her, “Not a chance sweetheart. Not a chance.” 

[chil-aglia]

This probably was already tackled about but still I want to talk about this:

Even though that came out of blue (no pun intended), it was established that Splinter knew Leo has potential of leader ever since Many Unhappy Returns. Well I have to disagree. Not the part of Splinter not see a potential in Leo as leader, but when he acknowledged that. Why do ask? Well it's because of this:

At first I brushed it off, but after reading some fanfic of the scene of confused Leo of Splinter giving the Hamato ninja garb first, something clicked on me as well. Why Splinter gave the ninja garb to Leo first and not Raph? Isn't Raph the leader? Why Splinter then didn't gave those to Raph first? It's because he already thought of Leo as leader type. He established it that earlier than we thought, probably ever since from episode Ancient Ninja Art of Hide and Seek or maybe even earlier ever since he was a tot. In minisode Turtle Tots he was only one who quickly adapted and didn't fumble with weapon (until Donnie hit him with bo staff) and let's not forget that before odachi his original weapon was a katana

And from what I heard from another TMNT interpretation (a.k.a. the 2014 movie with Meghan Fox, sorry if that's wrong but you probably know what I'm talking about) that katana is weapon of a leader.

So in other words Splinter knew Leo has potential as leader ever since beginning, but didn't consider about it until later (and because decided to be leader as he is the oldest brother). Literally in last minute after Shredder's defeat without consulting with sons first 🤦 (another thing in common he has with Leo, planning ahead but forget to tell or explain others until last minute).

But what do you think?

I can see your viewpoint for sure and have to agree. But here’s my lil take on it.

Yes, Leo showed excellent potential of being a leader even as a child as I strongly believe that Leo is the type to take charge on doing something (maybe that lil lemonade stand he and Raph made when they were kids in that one episode) and everyone else just hopped on board with his ideas.

In the show, we do see Leo sometimes taking on a more leadership and serious side in the background whenever Raph is lost, someone is injured, or when his bros are feeling unmotivated, etc.

Years went by and everyone grew to be their own person. Leo, while still showing great leadership qualities, was still immature and childish that Splinter didn’t straight away give the title of leader to him and gave it to Raph instead. But Splinter was probably using Raph as a temporary leader until he sees more potential and a mature side to Leo.

When Splinter finally acknowledges Leo, he gives the title of leader to him. Aaaaand that’s my lil take on the whole leader situation thing.

[criswritessometimes]

it's always been there

contents - friends to not friends to lovers, stages of life, gn reader, cuddling, kissing

author note// ok, this was the piece that was keeping me from posting fanfiction for a while, she's big, but I had so much fun with this one! dividers by @cafekitsune !!

you first ran into charlie in your calculus class in senior year of high school. “hey, is this seat taken?” you asked some boy who had an open seat next to him. “um, no, it’s not.” he stammered looking up at you through his glasses and watched you take a seat. the class started, and your teacher informed the class that a lot of the in-class assignments and each semester-long project were partner-based and that she had your partners picked out for the year already. you rolled your eyes because you wanted to work with your sarah as she came in a few minutes after you and sat behind you. “when i say your name, please raise your hand so you and your partner know each other.” she stated. “(y/n),” you raise your hand, “you’re with charlie for the year.” the kid next to you raises his hand. you internally scream, you didn't want to be stuck with this nerd for the rest of the year. he smiles over at you as you both put your hands down and you smile back politely. the lesson starts talking about graphing as a refresher from over the summer and algebra 2. for the last 15 minutes of class, the teacher lets you start on the project for the semester with your partner. “ok how good at math are you, charlie?” you ask, not wanting to beat around the bush. “pretty decent, i guess.” he answers, scared he’s going to have to do the whole project alone. after a few minutes of discussing your strengths and weaknesses in math, you had a plan for the rest of the semester, “ok, if we divide the project like this,” you show him the paper of topics that were split, “we should have a pretty good shot of getting a 100 on this.” “i'm gonna start on the data collection from the word problems tonight.” this shocked you, “that’s not due until the end of the month.” “yeah, i never said i was going to finish them tonight.” he joked, making you laugh. he liked the sound of your chuckle and wanted to hear it more.

the days turned into weeks as you and charlie slowly became friends. he leaned over to you in class, “hey, did you finish the graph?” “yeah, i threw it in the drive along with the data points.” he gives you a thumbs up as he focuses back on the lesson. the bell rings before you’re allowed to check in time with your partner, so your teacher tells the class to get in contact with them before the next class. you wave bye to charlie as he packs his book and notebook into his backpack. you and sarah leave the room to walk with your friend maxine before walking to the cafeteria. “hey (y/n), are you coming over tonight?” maxine asks. before you’re able to answer, sarah answers for you. “they’re not; they’re going over to charlie’s tonight.” she says in a singsong voice. “charlie? isn't that the kid in your math class? why are you hanging out with him?” maxine asks as you find a seat in the cafeteria. “well, we’re working on the project for mrs. young and both of us are free tonight so i was gonna go over and work on it with him.” you explained to your friends as they looked confused. there’s a silence in the group for a minute before you speak up again, “y’know, he’s actually really funny once you get to know him; he’s just shy.” “yeah, i know, he’s a part of the av club.” sarah sneeres. she and maxine laugh as you get up to join the line to get something to eat. before you know it, lunch is over, and the three of you part ways to your last class of the day. you walk to your history class, which is fairly uneventful, until you get a text from charlie. 

from: charlie to: (y/n) are you still coming over after school?

you feel the buzz and shimmy the phone out of your pocket, texting him under the desk.

from: (y/n) to: charlie yeah, is that still cool if we work on the project tonight?

from: charlie to: (y/n) yeah, of course, my mom was just wondering if you were staying for dinner.

you smile at your phone but quickly put it away before getting caught. with the amount of time you’ve spent with charlie, you’ve become good friends in the few months you’ve known him. you always enjoy his company and are always really excited to see him in class. there was even one time where the two of you hung out outside of sch- “(y/n)? are you with us?” your teacher snaps you out of your trace. you blink to focus on her, “i am, yes ma’am.” “great what’s the answer to number 15 in the book?” she asks, testing you. you scan the book and look for the question. you find it and exhale. looking up in confusion, you answer, “the french?” “correct.” she confirms.

the class ends 10 minutes later, and you scoot out to find charlie. you see him sitting on a bench near the front door and walk up to him. he is working on his laptop when you ask, “ready?” he lights up when he sees you. “yeah!” he puts his laptop in his backpack and throws his bag over his shoulder. “thanks again for driving me home, crushed to the bus.” he laughs at the end. “it’s no problem, thanks for inviting me over. oh also, is it ok if i stay for dinner? I know it’s later than when you originally asked.” you tell him as you make it to your car and put your bags in the backseat, then settle into the car. “oh totally, i’ll just text her to let her know, she loves you.” charlie reassures as he takes his phone out and texts his mom. you smile at the last part. on the way to his house, you catch him up about the happenings in your creative writing club that you co-lead with your friend sarah. he catches you up with drama happening in the av club, which was honestly more than you thought. “wait so evan is dating vincent to get back at becca?” you ask, pulling into his driveway. “yeah because vincent and becca went out on like two dates and make it everyone’s business like last year.” he explained as you parked. “no wait, i thought that was alison and vincent.” you ask, getting out of the car and grabbing your bag. charlie mirrors you, “it was.” “wait so then was vincent seeing alison and becca at the same time?” you clarify as you walk to the front door with him. “the jury’s still out on that one but samson and i got bored one day and made a timeline and things are overlapping.” he implies, unlocking and opening the door for you. you’re stocked; maxine didn’t even have drama as good as this; your jaw drops at charlie’s bombshell. “hey, you’re gonna catch flies if you do that,” the fake concern coming from his tone, “mom!” he yells into the house “(y/n) and i are gonna be in my room working!” the two of you walk into his room. you immediately jump on his bed; that was a boundary that was overcome a while ago. “your bed is so comfy charlie.” you state, lying on your back. “hey, get up, we gotta work.” he says, sitting at his desk and turning his computer on. “i will work,” you prop yourself up on your elbows, “but in a minute.” charlie scoffs at you knowing your procrastination problem. you pull your laptop out, log on to google drive, and just stare at it for a minute. your eyes glance over to charlie, whose back was facing you as he was putting more data points into the main graph for the project. the thoughts you had from your history class were coming back. you smile at him before speaking up, “hey charlie?” he turns to you, “do you wanna keep hanging out after this project is over? i don’t know if mrs. young is gonna assign us new partners, but you've been fun to be around.” he gives you the same smile back, “yeah that’d be super fun.” you can see a faint blush come up his cheeks. the both of you return to your work as you start creating the google slides while charlie finishes the last detailed graph. “hey charlieeee,” you start; he makes a noise to show he’s listening, “have you finished your application for champlain?” you ask. “yeah i submitted it like 3 days ago. why?” he replies. “just curious, it’d be fun to go to the same college.” you sigh, hoping it will happen. charlie and you had conversations about college, as seniors in high school do, and there was some overlap in the schools the two of you were applying to. he was interested in media production, and you were interested in writing and publishing. champlain college had programs for both of you, why not apply? 

you and charlie said yes to champlain college because you both liked the program and the course offering, no other reason, oh and you thought the campus was pretty but no other reason besides those two. “are you there yet?” you complain to him on the phone as you and your parents drive to move in day from your hotel. “uhh i think? are you in hill or lyman? i think i’m at lyman.” he says, you giggle at his confusion. “we’re both in lyman, bozo.” you remind him. “we’re pulling up to hill, just follow us to lyman.” you hang up your phone. you show your parents where charlie’s car is and see him standing outside talking with his parents. you park and roll your window down. “hey stranger.” you greet him with a smile and say hi to his parents as well. charlie’s face lights up when he sees up; he’s just happy the both of you are in this together. “lyman’s down the road, just follow us.” you smile as the car pulls out and drives 3 minutes down the road. as you park, charlie parks right next to you and the both of you get out of your respective cars. you walk over to your trunk to pop it. before you can start unloading, charlie attacks you from the side and engulfs you in a hug. “hi.” you wheeze as all the air gets squeezed out of you. “charlie, i saw you on wednesday.” “don’t care.” he replies, hugging you harder, and you hug back with just as much energy. it was all smiles and good times as the both of you moved it. “oh hey,” he pauses, “we’re three doors down from each other.” he smiles and looks over at you. you have a content smile as you realize that charlie isn’t going anywhere.

as the days turned into weeks, the first semester was going really well for both of you. your roommate was fine, but you found yourself hanging out in charlie’s dorm more and more. his roommate was a part of the hockey club, and between practices and going out, he was never in his room with charlie. this also led to sleepovers you and charlie had; yeah, your dorm was three doors down, but it was so far away. “(y/n) you have class in a few hours, go back to your dorm and go to bed.” charlie would tell you late at night. “if i leave i cannot guarantee i won’t collapse in the hallway from exhaustion.” you were lying on the floor since he didn’t have room for a couch. he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “fine just take jared’s bed then.” “charlie, i don’t know your roommate like that to sleep in his bed.” you tell him, sitting up. he helps you up as you sit in his desk chair and lean against his raised bed frame. “do you wanna share my bed?” he asks nervously. your tired face lights up a little, “oh yay! like a sleepover.” “yeah sure a sleepover.” he agrees. charlie pulls back his covers for you; you climb in, scooting closer to the wall. you pull the covers up, feeling your eyes grow heavier. “gotcha go take a shower and brush my teeth.” charlie whispers and rubs the side of your shoulder. you nod wearily, snuggling into the smell of his sheets and pillow; it smelt like him.

you hear him grab his shower caddy, shut the lights off, and leave his room. it didn’t feel that long before you felt the bed dip and heard him put his glasses on his desk next to him. you start to sit up and move before charlie shushes you. “shhh, it’s just me. go back to sleep, you need rest (y/n).” he said in a gentle and calming voice. you roll over to face him and put your head into his chest to cuddle with him. the action takes him by surprise, and he’s stocked before he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer to him. his head rests on top of yours, and he also falls asleep. these nights would happen more and more throughout the rest of your first year, and sometimes you would still be awake and feel him press a kiss into the crown of your head.

nearing the end of freshman year, charlie and you were still close and wanted to live around each other for the next school year. so, you moved into the same hall; however, you were one floor above him this year. for move-in this year, you and your new roommate, alex, met up and drove alongside each other to the dorms, excited to move in and start the next year. you remember seeing charlie nearing the end of the day; he was still busy moving in, so you decided to meet up with him later. “so how was your summer? i feel like i didn’t see you a lot.” charlie started as he sat on your couch. “it was good, i actually got a job at northern virgina doing editorial passes on their travel stuff so even though i was in town, i was suppppper fuckin’ busy, i should’ve told you instead of falling off the face of the planet.” you explain as you sit and face him on the couch. “i mean i’m a little sad that we didn’t get to hang out, but that’s super exciting! my mom reads northern virginia.” he tells you. “hey! that cool, maybe she saw my name in there, but how was your summer?” you ask. “it was fine, worked, worked on youtube stuff.” he started. the both of you continued to talk and laugh about your summers until your roommate came out of her room and said she was going to bed. charlie took that as his cue and left. you both promised to hang out more during the semester than in the summer; that didn’t seem too hard. 

hanging out wouldn't be that hard since you saw him in a writing for tv elective you both wanted to take the following morning. you see him sitting near the front of the class and walk over to him. “i didn’t know you got into this class, i thought it was full.” you sit next to him. “yeah i didn’t know they let shakespearean nerds in this class.” he shot back. you chuckle at his comment, “ok just because hamlet and twelfth night are two of my favorite plays doesn’t make me a ‘shakespearean nerd’ as you put it.” he giggles at your reply as the professor starts the class. you missed hearing his giggle. as the class picked up, as well as both of your other courses, both of you were at each other's places to work and hang out, so much so that alex asked if you and charlie were dating. “no but dude, do you see the way he looks at you.” she passionately says. “no?” you’re confused, “he’s one of my best friends.” “he looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ the stars and the moon (y/n).” she said. you’re taken aback for a minute. you know you look at him like that, but was he looking at you the same way? spring semester started, and you and charlie were settling into your classes for your majors more. it was sad that you wouldn’t see him in at least one of your lectures, but at least he still lived in your building. however, you were barely in the building since most of your time was spent in the library in the wee hours of the morning writing research papers for a class you wanted to drop but couldn’t. the class was challenging, but you were getting so much out of it. you would scan back into your dorm building at 1 am more regularly and sometimes see charlie in the common area with some of his other friends. he would always look up at you and wave. you would meet him with a tired smile and a small wave back as you headed to your room to sleep for a few hours. 

by the end of sophomore year, you were tired of hearing music until 5 am during finals week. you moved into your own one-bedroom apartment off campus. it was nice having your own space, plus the school’s library was an 8-minute walk away. when summer rolled, around and everyone was moved out, you texted charlie to update him about your place.

from: (y/n) to: charlie hey! i moved out and have my own apartment now!! if you ever need to visit the mountains, or me, in the summer, lmk! i have a couch with your name on it haha

from: charlie to: (y/n) yooo! congrats, that’s awesome! idk what i’m doing this summer but if i’m free, i’ll come see you : )

you smile and put your phone away as you start cooking dinner for the night. for the rest of the summer, you were working in vermont and charlie was busy in virginia with his summer job and youtube channel and was unable to see you in the summer. at the start of junior year, the only classes you took were writing or finishing up your last english courses. you were thrilled to have more friends from your major, and you hosted small dinner parties for those friends. your space was warm and filled with joy. however, part of you was missing charlie. you weren’t sure if you were just holding onto your past, but it just felt off. you heard from a friend of a friend that her new boyfriend, charlie, and she were going camping for the weekend, which is why she couldn’t come to your new writing for the press club you started. the next meeting you held, her phone went off and you side-eyed her phone when you saw someone that looked like charlie on her lockscreen; it was him. guess charlie had a girlfriend now. between your schedules and how much of yourself you were dedicated to the new club and your studies, you and charlie seemed to miss each other for the rest of the year.

for your last summer in vermont, you stayed at your apartment. you got an internship for another magazine company in food reviews that lasted until the winter holiday. charlie had told you about his youtube videos, and you watched them occasionally. he was still as funny as he was in senior year of high school, making you laugh so hard you fell off his bed. charlie would apologize and help you get up when your side crashed into his floor. you promised him that you were ok, but that didn’t stop him from getting an ice pack and holding it against your arm for 20 minutes. you smiled into your screen at the memory and took a break from your work to check on his channel. your senior year went by, and you and charlie didn’t see or hear from each other the whole time. you knew he was busy with youtube and his capstone project, and you were just as busy managing your club and working on your capstone project. during graduation, you hear his laugh and look to your left, and his eyes catch yours. your eyes locked, but neither of you made a move. you offered him a soft smile as a form of goodbye and thank you for your friendship over the last few years. he gave you a smile back, wanting to run to you and make up for the past three years of seeing you less and less and finally kiss you. until he lost his chance as you and your mom walked with your dad to dinner.

after a few jobs in vermont and one in new york, you were finally where you wanted to be. writing for the los angeles times and living in california. you had already made friends out here and moved in with one of your friends from champlain from your writing club, dillion. you felt so free as if the pieces were finally falling into place. you were working on an article about a movie that just came out when you got a text on your phone.

from: (213) 555- 8763 to: (y/n) oh my god! (y/n) i saw your name on the l.a. times! that’s insane!!

you look at your phone in confusion as you don’t recognize the number. flipping your phone over, you decide you’ll deal with this when you get home. you continue working for the day, leaving around 5. you drive back home, and the traffic isn't too terrible. it wasn't great, though; it's Los Angeles.

from: (y/n) to: (213) 555- 8763 thanks! sorry, who is this? i don’t have your number on my phone

the text was immediately read.

from: (213) 555- 8763 to: (y/n) it’s charlie from high school and champlain, i know we haven’t spoken in a few years but i still had your number, in my phone and wanted to congratulate you.

from: (y/n) to: charlie charlie!! why didn’t you say so! my god, i’ve missed talking to you. sorry, i deleted your number from my phone lol

from: charlie to: (y/n) it’s no problem, again i know it’s been a few years. i know this is weird but i’m going to a party tonight with some friends and i was wondering if you wanna come with? again, i know this is really weird, but i really wanna see you

you blush at the last few words. he wanted to see you? you?? didn't he have a girlfriend? it had been harder to keep up with him on youtube and social media as your job took up more of your time. you quickly text him back that you would love to join him. charlie asked for your address so he could meet up with you and travel with you. it turns out the party was a 15 minute walk from your apartment. he says he’ll be over by 8, which gives you plenty of time to eat dinner and get ready. you look in the mirror one last time before you leave, messing with your hair a little. there’s a knock on the door, and you look at your watch. 8 on the dot. you exhale, calming yourself before opening the door. it’s charlie, its really him. his eyes light up when he sees you, and a wide smile grew on your face. before you can even say hi, he flings himself into you, pulling you into a deep and tight hug. you hug him back like you did during freshman move-in. “hi.” you croak out. he pulls away, but you can tell he wants to linger. “hi, sorry, i’m just really excited to see you again.” he explains as you step outside and lock your door. “I’m really happy to see you too charlie.” you smile at him, unable to think of the works to tell him how grateful you are to see him. 

the two of you walk and chat, it’s like no time has passed. you can understand each other’s humor well and quip back and forth. once or twice on the walk over, you were laughing so hard you had to take a breather to catch your breath, and once you did, just looking at charlie, you started laughing manically again. there's a brief moment before you arrive at the party, "wait, what happened between you and sadie?" you asked. "oh we dated for like 10 months then i found out she was cheating on me with some random fuck." he told you. you frown at this statement, "i'm sorry charlie." "its alright i was too distracted in that relationship anyways." he says. your head tilts in confusion, but right as you're about to ask more about that, his friends are calling him, and by extension, you, into the circle they've created.

as you walk up to the group, you see the lights inside flashing and hear the bass booming; you’ve been to a few house parties, so that shouldn’t be a big deal. charlie introduces you to a few of his friends before everyone goes in. the lights are much brighter than you thought, and the bass is booming more than you thought. you really tried to be in the moment with charlie and his friends, you just got him back in your life, why would you leave? charlie begins to notice that you’re starting to become more overwhelmed as the minutes pass and only give a polite laugh or a few-word answer to the group when he knows you would joke or go on tangents given the chance.  all you could really focus on was trying not to get too overstimulated. you feel a tap on the back of your hand; you look down to see charlie’s hand, then back up at him and meet his eyes. he leans into your ear so you can hear him and says, “i’m going to the kitchen to get some water, do you wanna come?” he pulls away to see you nodding your head. he takes your hand in his and leads the both of you to the kitchen. the house was so densely packed that your chest was just about touching his back. he pulls a door open for you and pushes you in so other people won't see the door open and join you. “how’d you know where the kitchen was?” you ask, leaning against the countertop. “i’ve been here before, it’s a friends house.” he grabs two glasses and fills them with tap water then hands you one. you take it, slowly sipping on it. “you alright?” he leans in closer, rubbing your arm up and down. “yeah i think, just when a while since i’ve been to a house party, not super used to the bass in my chest yet.” you chuckle at the last part. “well,” he sits his glass down, “we can hang out in here as long as youd like.” you smile at the offer, “i really appreciate it charlie but i don’t want to keep you from hanging out with your friends.” “i wanna hang out with you tonight. i see those guys like 3 times a month. last time i saw you was at graduation and i never thought i would see you again.” he confesses. you're stuck in your spot and can’t form words as he looks at you with fear creeping into his eyes that he misspoke. “please says something.” he whispers. you put your glass down and reach for the side of his neck as you lean in to kiss him. charlie relaxes his arms wrap around you, keeping you close. your other hand comes up to hold his cheek. you pull away, and both of you are left breathless, and your cheeks turn pink. “better then kissing the top of me head during sleepovers freshman year?” you tease. his eyes widened, “oh my god, you remember that?”

[littlelamy]

Incoming letter from Pope 💌

Hey,

Alright, I’m just gonna get straight to the point because I really hate beating around the bush. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and honestly, it’s been bugging me for longer than I care to admit. So, here it goes—how would you feel about going on a date with me?

Look, I know what you’re probably thinking. Pope Heyward? The guy who’s always got his head in the books, who tends to overthink everything, and doesn’t exactly have the greatest track record when it comes to... well, talking to people. Yeah, I get it. I know I’m not the most obvious guy to ask someone out, and maybe that’s why I’ve been holding back, but here’s the thing—life’s too short to keep waiting for the “perfect” moment. It’s not like I have some kind of flawless game plan for this. I don’t have some elaborate speech planned out, and I definitely didn’t rehearse this in front of a mirror or anything... no, I swear I didn’t do that. But I guess what I’m trying to say is, I think you’re worth the shot.

You know, sometimes people don’t see things right in front of them, and they’re too busy focusing on other crap. You’d think that after all the crazy stuff I’ve been through, I’d have a better handle on this, but no—this whole asking you out thing? It’s messing with my head, and that’s saying something because I like to think I’ve got a pretty solid grip on things. But I don’t know, there’s just something about you that makes me want to take that leap. And maybe it’s stupid, but I’m willing to risk it. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? You say no? Okay, cool. At least I’ll know. But, if you say yes? Well, that’s when things could really get interesting.

I’m not trying to pretend like I’m some smooth talker. Hell, I’d probably say something awkward and stumble over my words. It’s just who I am, you know? I mean, I could try to come up with some clever way to ask you out—say something profound, maybe even try to charm you—but the truth is, I don’t have any fancy lines. So, I’m just gonna be honest and say that I’d really love to take you out sometime. No gimmicks, no act. Just me, you, maybe some pizza, and hopefully a decent conversation. Sound like something worth trying?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kind of suck at putting myself out there. I mean, I’ve had some opportunities before, and I’ve kind of just... let them slip by. Part of me feels like I should’ve just asked earlier. I know I should’ve, but then I get caught up in overthinking and second-guessing myself. I mean, I do it all the time. I think I’ve spent way too much time imagining different scenarios in my head, so much that I’ve worked myself into a nervous wreck even thinking about it. But here’s the thing: I’m not getting any younger, and I sure as hell don’t want to look back and regret not giving this a shot. So, here I am, hoping you’ll just give me a chance to prove I’m worth it. You’ve got nothing to lose, right?

Now, I know what you might be thinking—what makes me think I’m the right person to ask you out? And honestly, I get it. But I’ve been around enough to know what I want, and what I want right now is to get to know you better. Sure, we’ve hung out here and there, and yeah, I’ve probably made a fool of myself a few times already. But here’s the thing—I’m not perfect, and I don’t expect you to be either. We all have our flaws, and I think we could really learn a lot from each other.

So, I’m just gonna put it out there. I’m not trying to force anything or rush you into a decision. Hell, you don’t even have to give me an answer right away. But just think about it, alright? Maybe you could give me a shot to show you what I’m about. We could do something simple, like grab a drink or check out that new restaurant you mentioned. Nothing too crazy. Maybe I’ll even let you pick where we go. I promise, I won’t drag you into a weird, over-the-top date that makes you want to bolt for the door. I mean, I’ll try my best not to, anyway.

But hey, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just crazy for thinking you’d want to go out with me, or maybe you’re sitting there wondering if this whole thing is just some weird joke. It’s not, though. This is real, and I’m not messing around. I’m honestly trying to put myself out there and take a chance because I think you’re amazing. So, that’s where I’m at.

If you say yes, then great. I’ll probably be a little nervous (okay, a lot nervous), but I promise I’ll do my best to make it worth your time. If you say no... well, I’ll respect that. But I’ll still be glad I asked. I won’t hold it against you, and I’m not going to be awkward or weird about it, I swear. I’m just trying to do something that feels right, even if it’s a little terrifying.

Anyway, I don’t want to drag this out too much longer. You probably get the gist of it by now. I’m asking you out because I think you’re worth it, and I’d like to see where things could go. No pressure, though. Just... think about it.

So, what do you say? Want to go grab some pizza with me sometime?

Pope

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