#and at least two of them aren’t in English

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader - part1

Summary: You want to tell a story no one has told before—not of the Winter Soldier, but of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

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 in 2nd chapter. So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: I have been writing it for a while... having this idea in my head for over a year or so... I hope you guys like it reading at least as much as I loved writing it <3 Because the story is too long (ooopies) I need to divide it into two chapters, so apologies, but blame Tumblr, not me ;)

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

The city’s symphony hummed through your half-open window—a blend of car horns, distant chatter, and the rustle of wind against skyscrapers. Beneath it all, the low, smoky cadence of jazz from your turntable added a timeless rhythm to the scene. You sat at your desk, eyes drawn to the framed black-and-white photograph perched on its corner: your great-grandfather, uniform sharp as his gaze, shaking hands with Captain America.

The photo was more than a relic. Its corners were frayed, the edges softened by years of proud display, but its essence remained undiminished—a talisman of duty, an unspoken promise that had been passed down with every new generation. To you, it was more than a family heirloom. It was a call to action.

Maybe that’s why the Avengers had always felt less like strangers in capes and more like a cause you were meant to champion. You weren’t just drawn to them; you were tethered to their story, defending them when no one else would.

Your career in journalism hadn’t begun with dreams of fame or Pulitzers. No, it had been born out of something far simpler and more profound: a sense of responsibility. The day Tony Stark stood at that podium and declared, “I am Iron Man,” the world had turned on him faster than it had celebrated him. One moment he was a hero; the next, a reckless billionaire with a penchant for self-destruction. The headlines were ruthless, tabloids voracious in their takedowns. But you? You saw something else.

Instinct, or maybe that familial debt, told you there was more beneath the bravado. With a press badge still warm from the printer and a recorder borrowed from your college newsroom, you wrote your first piece. It wasn’t perfect—raw around the edges, maybe a little too earnest—but it defended Tony Stark in a way no one else dared to.

To your astonishment, it caught his attention. Months later, you found yourself in the legendary Stark workshop, an organized chaos of brilliance and madness. Tony, tinkering with a half-finished contraption, had barely glanced up when you entered.

“Nice piece,” he said, his tone as dry as the scotch he usually favored. “Didn’t expect anyone to actually get it right.”

You fumbled for a response, somewhere between awe and intimidation. “I just… wanted to tell the truth.”

He finally looked at you, a glimmer of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Well, aren’t you noble?”

That was the beginning. Over the years, you became a fixture in Tony’s world—not a friend exactly, but a constant presence. The one journalist he could count on to navigate the blurred lines between heroism and humanity without sensationalism. You stood by him through scandals and triumphs, from his bold experiments to the fallout of the Sokovia Accords.

“You’re one of the only people who doesn’t make me want to throw my drink at the TV,” he once told you at one of his infamous parties, raising his glass with a smirk. “That’s high praise, by the way.”

Your relationship with Steve Rogers was different. Where Tony was sharp edges and biting wit, Steve was all steadfast resolve and quiet strength. You first met him at a charity gala, where he lingered at the edges of the room like a man still learning how to fit into this new century. When you mentioned the photograph of your great-grandfather, his expression softened.

“Thank you for your family’s service,” he said, shaking your hand with sincerity that left a lasting impression.

Steve earned your trust slowly, just as you earned his. There was no pretense with him, no theatrics. He respected your work—even when it challenged him—and you, in turn, respected his unwavering moral compass. That respect brought you to his Brooklyn apartment one crisp autumn morning, your notebook clutched tightly in your hands.

Steve greeted you at the door, his hair slightly mussed from an early run, dressed in the kind of casual simplicity that made him seem all the more unassuming. He waved you inside with a curious smile.

“What’s this about?” he asked as you settled onto the worn couch.

You hesitated, knowing the weight of what you were about to say. “It’s about James Barnes.”

His expression hardened, his guard rising instinctively. “What about him?”

“I want to tell his story,” you said, keeping your tone steady but earnest.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiff. “Why?”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” you replied. “Right now, all they see is the Winter Soldier—a weapon, a killer. But that’s not who he is. It’s not who he was. I want to give him a chance to tell his side, to show the world the man beneath the headlines.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Steve stared at a spot on the floor, the weight of your words sinking in. Finally, he looked up, his gaze filled with both caution and hope.

“And you think an article will fix that?” he asked softly.

“It’s a start,” you said. “Let me interview him. Let me write a series that goes beyond what he’s done—to who he is. Let people see him as more than his past.”

Steve exhaled slowly, the conflict evident in his furrowed brow. “Bucky doesn’t trust easily,” he said at last. “And I don’t blame him. What you’re asking… It's a lot.”

“I know,” you said, leaning forward. “But I believe in him, Steve. And I think you do, too.”

For a moment, the room felt heavier than the two of you. Then, Steve nodded, his resolve softening. “I’ll talk to him. But it’s his decision. If he says no…”

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

As you stepped out into the brisk fall air, your chest felt lighter, the ache of doubt replaced by the spark of determination. This wasn’t just another story. It was a chance to rewrite the narrative, to shed light on the shadows Hydra had left behind.

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

The kitchen in the Avengers Compound was unusually still, save for the soft hiss of the espresso machine steaming milk. Early sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching motes of dust in its golden glow. Steve Rogers sat at the island, his hands wrapped around a glass of water. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm against the countertop, betraying the careful composure of his expression. He was rehearsing his words, running through the conversation he was about to have—one he knew wouldn’t be easy. But then again, when did anything involving Tony Stark ever come without complications?

The sound of footsteps broke the quiet. Tony breezed in, tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee mug in the other. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a faded logo of a band whose prime was decades past, hung loose over a pair of well-worn jeans. His mismatched socks peeked out as he moved, their carelessness somehow perfectly in character.

“Cap,” Tony greeted without pausing, setting his coffee down with a deliberate clink. “You’ve got that look. What is it this time? End of the world? Time travel? Or did someone touch my lab without leaving a thank-you note?”

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Tony. It’s not that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony drawled, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Serious to you usually means catastrophic to the rest of us, so go ahead. Lay it on me.”

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “It’s about Bucky.”

Tony stilled mid-sip, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly before he set the mug down. “Of course it is,” he said, his tone sliding into mock exasperation. “Alright, what’s going on with Barnes this time? And don’t tell me this is where you ask me to bankroll his therapy bills. I will, but only because I’m a masochist.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitched—a shadow of humor undercutting the still-fresh scars of their shared history. Years had softened the rift between Tony and Bucky, but some wounds lingered like phantom pains, waiting for moments like these to ache.

“It’s not that,” Steve replied, shooting him a sharp look. “This is… different. Someone wants to help him.”

Tony’s brow arched, skepticism flickering in his dark eyes. “Someone? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you mean her—our resident do-gooder with a press badge.”

Steve nodded.

Tony whistled low, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to hand it to her. Girl’s got guts. And a death wish if she thinks she can crack open that vault of suppressed trauma Barnes is carrying.”

“She’s not just doing this on a whim, Tony,” Steve said firmly. “She wants to tell his story. The real story. Not just the headlines or the conspiracy theories.”

Tony tilted his head, his lips quirking in thought. “I’ll give her this: she’s got a way of spinning truth into something people can stomach. Hell, if it weren’t for her, the world would still think I’m just an egomaniac with a God complex. Not that they’re entirely wrong.” He grinned briefly before sobering. “But Barnes? That’s a mountain of baggage even she might not be able to unpack.”

“She can handle it,” Steve said, unwavering. “If anyone can, it’s her.”

Tony ran a hand over his face, the humor ebbing from his expression. “Alright, Rogers. Sell it to Barnes. But if he snaps and puts another dent in my walls, you’re footing the repair bill this time.”

---

In the compound’s gym, the rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the space. Bucky Barnes was relentless, his punches driving into the heavy bag with the precision of a man who had fought too many battles to count. Sweat slicked his brow and clung to his shirt, but he didn’t pause. The steady impact was the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay.

“Bucky,” came Steve’s voice, quiet but firm, from the doorway.

Bucky stopped mid-swing, his breath heavy as he turned. Steve approached slowly, hands in his pockets, his expression calm but resolute—the way he always looked when he was about to say something he knew wouldn’t go over well.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, reaching for the towel draped across a bench.

Steve leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “It’s about someone who wants to talk to you. Someone I trust.”

Bucky frowned, suspicion tightening his features. “Talk to me? About what?”

“Your story,” Steve said simply. “She’s a journalist. Someone who’s been with us since the beginning. She’s defended Tony, stood by me… she understands what it means to fight for the truth, even when it’s hard.”

Bucky scoffed, tossing the towel aside. “What truth is there to tell, Steve? The world doesn’t want to hear it. They don’t care about who I was—they only see what I’ve done.”

“That’s exactly why she wants to do this,” Steve countered. “To show people who you are now. Who you were before Hydra. To give them a reason to look beyond the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gaze falling to the floor. “You think one article will fix everything? That people will forget the blood on my hands?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. “But it might make them see the full picture. And if anyone can get it right, it’s her.”

Bucky was silent, the weight of Steve’s words pressing down like the memories he tried so hard to suppress. Finally, he looked up. “Why her?”

“Because I trust her,” Steve replied. “And if you can trust me, then trust this: she won’t make you regret it.”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll meet her. But I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I need,” Steve said, a hint of relief softening his voice.

---

As Steve left, the gym fell back into its familiar stillness. Bucky sat on the bench, staring at the floor. The idea of sharing his story—letting a stranger into the labyrinth of his past—felt impossible. But he owed Steve. And maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself too.

He resumed wrapping his hands, his movements slower this time. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the doubt and the fear, a small flicker of hope sparked—a fragile ember, but an ember nonetheless.

---

The gym at Avengers Tower was still, an expanse of silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. The sharp tang of leather, sweat, and faintly metallic cleaning agents lingered in the air. You arrived earlier than planned, your footsteps soft against the polished floor as you took in the emptiness of the space. It was better this way. You’d asked Steve to let you handle this alone—not out of pride, but because this conversation required something unspoken, something delicate.

This wasn’t just about Bucky Barnes. It was about trust, a foundation that could only be laid between the two of you.

The door creaked open, and a shadow spilled across the floor. Bucky stepped inside, his movements deliberate, shoulders broad and heavy with tension. His dark T-shirt and track pants clung to a frame honed by war and survival. His long hair framed his face, softening features etched by years of conflict. But it was his eyes—those stormy blue-gray eyes—that hit hardest. They swept over the room, sharp and assessing, before landing on you.

You felt the air leave your lungs. Steve had warned you about Bucky’s presence, the way he carried himself with a silence that could fill a space, heavy and unyielding. But standing there, facing him, it wasn’t just his silence—it was the weight of his past, worn like a second skin.

He lingered by the doorway for a moment, the hesitation subtle but unmistakable, before crossing the room. His steps were quiet, almost predatory, his body language cautious but not unkind. Without a word, he sank to the floor in the far corner of the gym, his back to the wall, knees bent, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over stone.

“So are you,” you replied with a soft smile, easing yourself to the floor across from him. You kept the distance respectful but not distant—close enough to bridge, far enough to let him feel in control.

The silence between you stretched, taut and uneasy. You could feel it radiating off him—the tension, the readiness to retreat or fight if the moment called for it.

“I appreciate you meeting with me,” you began gently, your tone steady but warm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Bucky’s lips twitched—a flicker of dry humor that barely creased his face. “You’d be right.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light, unobtrusive. “Fair enough. Let’s make a deal, then—if you want me gone, just say the word, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze pinning you. “Steve said you’re stubborn.”

“He’s not wrong,” you admitted, your smile widening slightly. “But I promise I’m not here to push you into anything. This is just a conversation.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment, the weight of his stare pressing down like a physical force. Then, with a reluctant nod, he gestured for you to continue.

You introduced yourself, offering your full name. “I’m a journalist. Though, I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I’ve been writing about the Avengers for years. My first piece was about Tony, back when he announced he was Iron Man.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Tony Stark. Bet that was something.”

“It was,” you said, laughing softly. “He thought I was some starry-eyed rookie—and, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. But over time, I guess I earned his trust. I’ve been writing about the team ever since. I don’t take sides. I just try to tell the truth.”

Bucky leaned back, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “And Steve? How’d you meet him?”

“My great-grandfather,” you said, your voice softening. “He was in the 107th. Steve saved him during the war. There’s a picture of them shaking hands—it’s been in my family for decades. When I met Steve, I told him about it. I guess that’s how it all started.”

Something flickered in Bucky’s eyes—recognition, curiosity. He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Your great-grandfather… William, right? Had the weirdest way of talking I’ve ever heard.”

You froze, your breath catching. “You… remember him?”

Bucky nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I do. He was a good man. Brave. Had this sharp sense of humor that could catch you off guard. You’ve got his eyes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the connection unexpected and profound. You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat, managing a quiet, “I didn’t think you’d remember him. That means… a lot.”

Bucky shrugged, but there was a warmth in his expression now—a subtle thawing of the guarded lines around his mouth and eyes.

Clearing your throat, you reached into your bag and pulled out a stack of printed articles, sliding them across the floor. “These are some of the pieces I’ve written. About Tony, Steve, the team. I thought it might help if you got to know me a little better.”

Bucky picked up the stack, flipping through the pages. His eyes moved over the headlines, lingering on a photograph of Steve. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, not looking up.

“Because I believe in second chances,” you said simply. “And because the world only knows one side of your story. I think it’s time they saw the whole picture.”

Bucky set the articles down, his jaw tightening. “And what if I don’t want them to?”

“Then that’s your choice,” you replied. “If you tell me no, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. But all I’m asking is for a chance. Let me tell your story—with your permission, on your terms. Nothing gets published without your approval.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp and probing. “You’re putting a lot of faith in someone you don’t know.”

“I am,” you admitted, holding his stare. “But sometimes, the people who don’t think they deserve faith are the ones who need it the most.”

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, a swirl of conflict and curiosity. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Relief bloomed in your chest, but you kept it tempered. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you for hearing me out, Bucky. That means more than you know.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and offered a small smile—unguarded, honest.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. It wasn’t pity or fear—it was something he hadn’t seen in years. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something crack through the armor of his guilt.

It terrified him.

---

The morning light spilled through your apartment window, golden and soft, stretching across the room in fractured beams. It casts a gentle glow over your desk, illuminating the scattered notes, books, and the faint ring left behind by your coffee mug. You sat motionless, fingers poised above the keyboard, your laptop’s screen glowing faintly in the quiet.

The cursor blinked, mocking your hesitation. Words had always been your refuge, your weapon, but this was different. This wasn’t just about telling a story—it was about trust, about reaching into the shadows of someone else’s life and hoping they’d let you in.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. You adjusted the blanket draped over your shoulders, feeling its weight settle around you, a comforting barrier against the uncertainty creeping in. Finally, you exhaled a long, slow breath and began typing.

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

Thank you again for meeting with me the other day. I know how much it cost you to be there, to sit across from a stranger and let your guard down, even for a moment. I don’t take that lightly, and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate your time and your willingness to listen.

As I mentioned before, I want to approach this project carefully and with the respect it deserves. I’m not interested in sensationalism or rehashing the narratives that have already been written about you. The world has enough stories about the Winter Soldier. What I want to do is different—I want to tell the story of the man. The friend. The brother. The soldier who existed long before the shadows ever found you.

I’ve been thinking about how to begin, and I wanted to share a rough outline of the first article with you. This isn’t a finished piece; it’s just a concept, a foundation I hope to build with your guidance, your voice, and your trust.

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

Before the world whispered his name in fear, James Buchanan Barnes was simply a boy from Brooklyn. Born to a city that thrived on resilience, he was shaped by streets where laughter mixed with the roar of trains and kindness could be as fleeting as the breeze off the East River. He was the boy with the quick grin and sharper wit, the teenager who walked with a quiet confidence and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved.

He became a soldier, not for the glory but because it was the right thing to do. His sacrifices were not grandiose; they were quiet and deeply personal, offered not to the world but to the people who mattered to him. He stood shoulder to shoulder with heroes but never sought to be one himself. He was, in so many ways, a reflection of the best his generation had to offer.

But history can be cruel. And fate? Even crueler. Through no fault of his own, James Buchanan Barnes became a name that conjured fear, a figure cloaked in tragedy. To the world, he was the Winter Soldier—a ghost forged by the hands of those who sought to strip him of everything he was. For a time, they succeeded.

But what the world doesn’t see is the man who fought tooth and nail to reclaim his humanity. They don’t see the friend who would give everything to protect those he loves. They don’t see the man who carries the weight of choices he never made yet feels responsible for all the same.

This isn’t just a story about redemption—it’s a story about survival, about finding identity in the aftermath of unimaginable loss. It’s a story about what it means to fight your way out of the dark and into the light, scarred but standing.

The world knows the myth. The shadow. The weapon. But James Buchanan Barnes is not a ghost of the past. He’s a man, living proof that even in the aftermath of tragedy, there is hope, resilience, and the possibility of something more.

This is his story. Told not by those who fear him or those who sought to control him, but by the one person who knows it best: him.

There’s something else I wanted to share with you—a photo. It’s the one I mentioned during our meeting, the picture of my great-grandfather with Steve during the war. It’s been part of my family’s story for as long as I can remember, a quiet reminder of courage and loyalty.

But now, it means even more to me. When you said you remembered him—his voice, his humor—it reminded me how deeply our stories can ripple through time, even when we don’t realize it. That small moment of recognition meant more to me than I can express.

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

Take your time, Bucky. There’s no rush, no pressure. This isn’t about a deadline or a byline—it’s about something bigger. I’m here to listen, to answer your questions, your doubts, anything at all. All I ask is that you think about it.

Whatever you decide, thank you. For your time. For your trust, however fragile it may feel.

Best regards.

---

As you reread the email, your fingers hovered over the “Send” button. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of what you were asking settling over you. Then, with a final, steadying breath, you clicked.

The email vanished into the ether, and with it, a piece of your hope, your determination. The sun climbed higher through the window, casting the room in golden light, but you barely noticed. Instead, you sat there, still and waiting, the faint hum of your laptop the only sound in the quiet room.

---

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of his phone casting pale light across his face. He hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon, if at all. Yet there it was—your name, standing out in bold at the top of his inbox. His thumb hovered over the notification, hesitating.

Part of him wanted to ignore it, let it sit there untouched. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was—but because he wasn’t sure he was ready. The idea of someone wanting to dig into his past, to lay bare the scars and shadows he’d spent years burying, made his chest feel too tight.

But then he thought of the way you’d looked at him in the gym. Calm, patient, unafraid. And that damn smile you’d given him before you left—a smile that wasn’t forced or laced with pity, just honest. It had lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit.

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

The words hit him harder than he expected. He read the outline twice, then again, each pass leaving him with a knot in his chest he couldn’t quite untangle. This wasn’t what he’d anticipated. There was no pity in your words, no attempt to paint him as a tragic figure or a monster. Instead, there was care—an earnest effort to understand him, not as the world saw him, but as the man he was trying to be.

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

The image filled his screen, black and white but vivid all the same. Your great-grandfather, standing tall in his uniform, shaking hands with Steve. Bucky enlarged it, his fingers brushing the edges of the screen as though touching the past itself.

The memory surfaced, distant but clear. He remembered the firm handshake, the soldier’s steady gaze filled with quiet gratitude. He remembered Steve’s smile—small but unwavering, the kind that could make you believe they’d already won the war, even when the odds said otherwise.

“She’s really got his eyes,” Bucky murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, fleeting but real.

He set the phone down, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. The photo stayed etched in his mind, a bridge between the past and the present he hadn’t expected. His gaze shifted to the articles you’d included, still neatly stacked on the table beside him. For a long moment, he just stared at them, debating.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he picked up the first one.

It was about Tony. One of your earliest pieces, written back when the world wasn’t sure what to make of Iron Man.

"Stark isn’t perfect—far from it—but he doesn’t hide behind a mask of infallibility. He owns his flaws, his mistakes, and his triumphs. That kind of honesty is rare, and it’s exactly what makes him worth believing in."

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he read, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could picture Tony in those early days, all sharp edges and bravado, as polarizing as he was brilliant. And yet, your words cut through the noise, painting him not as an enigma but as a man.

The second article was about Steve. Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly on the paper as he read.

"Captain America has always been a symbol, but symbols are rarely understood in their entirety. Steve Rogers is not just the man with the shield; he is a man who bears the weight of his choices with quiet strength. To reduce him to hero or villain is to miss the heart of who he is."

By the time he finished, Bucky sat back, the papers still in his hands. Each article told a story, not of perfect heroes but of flawed, complicated people. People who’d been trusted with the weight of the world and had carried it as best they could.

And then there was you. Your voice threaded through every word—not just as an observer, but as someone who cared, who wanted the world to see what you saw.

Bucky’s mind raced. Steve trusted you. Tony trusted you. And now, maybe—just maybe—he could, too.

He picked up his phone again, his thumb hovering over the reply button. His chest tightened at the thought of agreeing, of opening himself up to something he wasn’t sure he could handle. But then he thought of that smile again, the way it had silenced the doubts just long enough for him to believe this might be possible.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he started typing.

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

I’ve read the articles you sent. They’re good—honest.

I don’t know if I can do this, but I’m willing to try. You’re right. I need time to think, but I’ll give you a chance.

Thank you for the photo. It means more than you probably realize.

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, setting the phone down quickly, almost like it might burn him if he held onto it any longer.

The silence of the room pressed in around him, but for once, it wasn’t oppressive. It felt… lighter, somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d taken the first step toward something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long time.

---

The gym felt quieter than usual as you stepped inside, the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the soft creak of the door. Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The space felt familiar now—not in a comforting way, exactly, but in the sense of stepping into a story already half-written, waiting for its next chapter.

Bucky was easy to spot, sitting near the far wall with one leg bent, his arm draped over his knee. He seemed relaxed at first glance, but there was an edge to him, a tension in the line of his shoulders and the way his gaze flicked briefly toward you.

“Hey,” you said softly, approaching with a small smile, one you hoped might ease the weight in the room.

He nodded in return, his eyes shifting to the notebook tucked under your arm. “No laptop? No recorder?”

You chuckled as you sat down across from him, leaving a comfortable amount of space. “I figured they’d stress you out,” you admitted. “Plus, I’m old-fashioned. I like writing things by hand—it helps me think.”

That smile—the same unguarded one you’d given him before—spread across your face again. You noticed how it shifted something in Bucky, just the faintest softening of his expression. His shoulders dropped slightly, and the guarded look in his eyes dulled, if only a little.

“Old-fashioned, huh?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Very,” you replied with a laugh. “And this way, you can read everything I write. Line by line, if you want. Nothing gets recorded, and if something goes wrong…” You tapped the edge of the notebook lightly. “I burn it. Problem solved.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking further. “Burn it?”

“Yep,” you said, your tone mock-serious. “I’ve even got a metal trash can ready for dramatic effect.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement, a sound so soft it almost slipped past you. But it was there. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something in Bucky—a trace of humor, unburdened by the weight of his past.

He leaned back against the wall, his blue-gray eyes studying you. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

You tilted your head curiously. “What did you expect?”

“Someone nosier. Pushier. Maybe a little annoying.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Bucky’s lips twitched again, as if he was trying to resist smiling back.

“Well, give me time,” you teased. “I can be annoying when I need to be.”

His smirk lingered for a moment before fading into something more thoughtful. “Tell me about your childhood.”

The question caught you off guard. “My childhood?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his voice even as his gaze stayed fixed on you.

“Uh… well, it was pretty normal,” you said with a small shrug. “I grew up in a loving family. My parents are still together—they’re celebrating their 30th anniversary this year. I’m an only child, so I was spoiled rotten. My great-grandfather was one of my favorite people. I used to sit with him for hours, listening to his stories. That’s probably where I got my love of storytelling.”

You smiled at the memory, but as you looked at Bucky, you noticed a shift in his expression—a flicker of something knowing.

“You already knew that, didn’t you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Bucky didn’t deny it. “I checked,” he admitted, his tone unapologetic. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about who you are.”

You laughed again, waving it off like it didn’t bother you. “Fair enough. It’s not my first rodeo. When I met Tony, he knew more about me than I did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told me my blood type.”

That earned another quiet laugh from Bucky, the sound low and unpolished but real. “I still don’t trust easy,” he said, his voice softer now.

“And you shouldn’t,” you replied without hesitation. “I’d be more worried if you did.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly reassured by your response. But then his expression shifted, his eyes shadowed by something heavier. “There’s one thing you got wrong,” he said quietly.

“Oh?”

“In your introduction to the articles,” he began, meeting your gaze directly. “You said I always did what was best. That’s not true. I didn’t volunteer to join the army—I was drafted. You can look it up. My number’s on record.”

His words weren’t bitter, but you could hear the weight behind them. This wasn’t about correcting a mistake—it was about how he saw himself, the guilt he carried.

You didn’t falter. You met his gaze with the same quiet sincerity you’d shown before. “I know,” you said softly. “I did my research.”

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

“Just because you were drafted doesn’t mean you weren’t a good man,” you said. “It doesn’t change the fact that you fought to protect the people you cared about. That you were brave. That you mattered.”

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t respond. The way you said it—not as flattery or pity, but as something you truly believed—hit him harder than he expected. His chest tightened, and he looked away, the words settling in his mind like a stone dropped into water.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your smile soft but unwavering.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt purposeful, like something unspoken was shifting between you. A bridge was being built, slow and deliberate, but solid.

Finally, you flipped open your notebook, breaking the quiet with a light, playful tone. “Alright,” you said. “Now that we’ve established I’m old-fashioned and nosy, are you ready to get started?”

Bucky glanced at you, his lips twitching faintly. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Let’s get started.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt the faint stirrings of trust—fragile but real—blooming in his chest.

---

The gym had become a rhythm unto itself, a sanctuary of quiet purpose. It wasn’t just a place for physical training anymore—it was where conversations were born, where silences grew into something meaningful, and where you and Bucky began to find a fragile but growing connection.

At first, your exchanges were cautious, fleeting, like testing the waters with bare toes. A comment here, a question there. But over time, those ripples expanded, stretching across the stillness until the silences between words became less about hesitation and more about comfort.

This wasn’t just an assignment for you anymore. You’d realized quickly that if you wanted Bucky to trust you, you had to strip away the pretense of being a journalist. What he needed wasn’t someone dissecting his past with surgical precision—he needed someone who could remind him he still had a future.

---

“Do you always carry that thing?” Bucky asked one afternoon, nodding toward the leather-bound notebook in your lap as he wrapped his hands in preparation for a sparring session.

You glanced down at the familiar journal, running your fingers over its worn edges. “Always,” you said with a small smile. “I’m old-fashioned like that. Writing things by hand just feels… more real. Like the words have weight.”

Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “Don’t people say the opposite? If it’s not online, it doesn’t exist?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe. But if the world ever loses its tech, at least my notebooks will still be around.”

His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Fair point.”

---

Another time, you sat cross-legged on the floor, your notebook abandoned beside you. “Did you see they’re opening a new exhibition at the astronomy museum?” you asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Bucky paused mid-swing at the punching bag, glancing over at you. “Astronomy?”

“Yeah,” you said, your grin widening. “Space is kind of my thing. It’s infinite. Thinking about it makes me feel small, but in a good way, you know? Plus, this exhibit has a whole section on Mars rovers. I’ve always thought they were cool.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his faint smile betraying his amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the space type.”

“Oh, I’m into all sorts of nerdy stuff,” you said, waving a hand. “Space, ancient civilizations, true crime. I’m basically a walking trivia machine.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Bucky replied, his tone dry but warm.

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand. “Your turn. What’s something you’re into that I wouldn’t expect?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought about it. “I dunno,” he said after a pause. “I used to like going to the movies. Haven’t been in a while, though.”

“Really?” you said, your excitement piqued. “What kind of movies? Don’t tell me you’re secretly into rom-coms.”

That earned a snort of genuine laughter, his smile breaking through in full force. “Not exactly. I liked the old war films. Westerns, too.”

“War films and Westerns,” you repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. Fitting, I guess.”

“And you?” he asked, surprising you with the shift.

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

You pretended to think hard, tapping your chin theatrically. “Probably cheesy underdog sports movies. You know, the ones where everyone comes together, and the team wins in the end? Gets me every time.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

---

“Do you ever miss home?” Bucky asked one afternoon, his voice quiet as he adjusted the wrappings on his hands.

You tilted your head. “You mean where I grew up?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp, watching your reaction carefully.

“I don’t really think of home as a place anymore,” you admitted, the edges of your voice softening. “For me, it’s people. My parents, my friends—the ones who make me feel like I belong. I visit the house I grew up in sometimes, though. My parents still live there. It hasn’t changed much.”

“You’re close with them?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, smiling at the thought. “They’re my biggest fans—and my harshest critics. My mom proofreads all my articles. My dad jokes that it’s because she doesn’t trust me to catch my own typos.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Bucky, and the sound warmed something deep in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked carefully, your gaze steady but gentle.

Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know if I have a home anymore,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Not the way you’re talking about it.”

Your heart tightened, and you nodded slowly. “I get that. But maybe home isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you build.”

His eyes flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you could tell your words had settled somewhere deep.

---

The sound of his punches against the bag created a steady rhythm as you sat nearby, scrolling through your phone. The sudden sight of a headline made you gasp softly, your face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh my God,” you exclaimed, turning your phone toward Bucky. “Look at this!”

He paused mid-swing, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced at the screen. “What is it?”

“This lion cub!” you said, scooting closer. “It was just born at the zoo. Look at that face—tell me that isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Bucky leaned down slightly, peering at the image. The tiny cub, all fluff and oversized paws, was curled up against its mother.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you started to wonder if you’d just embarrassed yourself. Then, to your surprise, he nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Yeah… it’s cute.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by his quiet agreement.

“Really cute,” he added, his voice softer now, as if the cub had cracked through some small part of his guarded exterior.

You laughed nervously, feeling your cheeks flush. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to trade lives with a lion cub? Just sleeping, cuddling, and being adorable all day?”

Bucky straightened, grabbing a towel but letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. “You’re kind of like that already.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He shrugged, his voice casual but his expression unreadable. “You’re always cheerful. It’s… nice.”

The compliment was so unexpected, so genuine, that it made your heart stutter. You quickly looked back at your phone, pretending to focus. “Well, someone’s gotta bring the sunshine, right?”

Bucky didn’t reply, but when you glanced up, his gaze was still on you, something unspoken passing between you.

And for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about earning his trust. Something more was blooming here—something delicate, unspoken, and undeniably real.

---

The topic of food came up one day, unexpectedly light amid the ebb and flow of your usual conversations.

“There’s this food truck on the other side of town,” you said, leaning forward, your excitement bubbling over. “It’s run by locals, and everyone says it’s amazing. They’ve been doing these community food festivals, and I’ve been dying to check it out.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his posture still relaxed from finishing his workout. “Why haven’t you gone yet?”

You shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it. Plus, it’s more fun to go with someone.”

To your surprise, Bucky didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “You’ll… go? With me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Why not?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, searching for some hint of teasing, but his face remained calm, open. Then, before you could stop yourself, a laugh bubbled out of you, sudden and bright.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asked, though his tone was tinged with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” you said between chuckles, shaking your head. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, and it struck something deep within you, a warmth that spread through your chest.

“You have a great laugh,” you said before you could think better of it. The moment the words left your lips, your cheeks flamed, and you clamped your mouth shut.

Bucky tilted his head, watching you curiously, but instead of teasing, he simply nodded. “When are we going?”

---

The evening air was thick with the scent of grilled meats, sizzling spices, and fried dough. Strings of warm lights hung overhead, casting a golden glow over the bustling food festival. Laughter and conversation rose and fell around you as locals and tourists darted between colorful trucks, balancing steaming plates of food and clinking plastic cups.

Bucky walked beside you, dressed inconspicuously in a baseball cap pulled low and a loose jacket concealing his metal arm. To anyone else, he looked like any other man enjoying the festival. But to you, the way his eyes scanned the food stalls with curiosity rather than wariness was a quiet triumph.

“Okay, what should we try first?” you asked, practically bouncing on your heels as you scanned the array of options.

Bucky nodded toward a truck boasting “authentic Italian cuisine.” “You pick. I’ll follow.”

Grinning, you made your way to the truck, and soon you were holding a plate of steaming spaghetti carbonara. You handed Bucky a fork, scooping up a bite and offering it to him.

“Here, try this,” you said, holding it out.

Bucky hesitated for only a moment before leaning in and taking the bite. His eyes widened slightly, and a low, involuntary groan escaped him.

You froze. That sound—so small, so unintentional—sent a jolt through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“That good, huh?” you said, trying to keep your voice light and steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Bucky nodded, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, it’s good.”

You smiled, taking a bite yourself. “Told you. Italians don’t mess around with food.”

---

As you wandered through the festival, stopping at a stall serving Chinese dumplings, you found yourself rambling between bites.

“You know, I used to want to be a food critic,” you said, laughing softly. “It seemed like the dream, right? Traveling, eating amazing food, writing about it. But then I realized I’d feel awful writing bad reviews. Like, what if the chef was just having a bad day?”

Bucky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You feel bad about criticizing chefs, but not politicians?”

You pouted in mock defiance, crossing your arms. “Politicians deserve it,” you said, your tone playful.

His laugh came louder this time, a deep, rich sound that made you look up at him in surprise. He was smiling—really smiling—and the sight caught you off guard.

“What?” he asked, his laughter fading into something softer.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head as a grin tugged at your lips. “It’s just nice to see you like this.”

He glanced away, but not before you caught the faintest hint of color rising in his cheeks.

---

Later, you found yourself at a shooting range game. The target? A giant teddy bear sitting proudly at the center of the stand.

You stared at the bear, your lips curling into a wistful smile.

“Why are you staring at it like that?” Bucky asked, following your gaze.

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to win one of those, like in the movies. But I’m terrible at shooting games.”

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

Without a word, he handed you the food he’d been holding and stepped up to the booth. He exchanged a few bills with the operator, picked up the air rifle, and lined up his shot.

One by one, the cans toppled with effortless precision. The entire thing took less than ten seconds. The operator handed Bucky the bear, looking vaguely impressed.

Turning to you, Bucky held out the bear, his smirk softening. “There. Happy?”

Your squeal of delight was uncontainable as you hugged the bear to your chest. “Are you kidding me? This is amazing!”

Bucky chuckled, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just shook his head, the faint smile lingering on his lips.

---

Back at the Tower, you sat on the floor of your apartment, the giant teddy bear propped up beside you like a loyal guardian. The box of desserts you’d brought home lay open between you and Bucky, who, to your surprise, had settled close—so close that his shoulder brushed against yours.

For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, but then Bucky broke it, his voice quiet.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked, not looking at you. “The food trucks, the conversations… You haven’t even written anything yet. Feels like I’m wasting your time.”

You set your fork down, startled by the vulnerability in his tone.

“You’re not wasting my time,” you said firmly. “I don’t care if it takes months to write anything. Getting to know you—this you—is the best part of all of this.”

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“This,” you continued, your voice softening. “The way you laugh, the way you care about the little things… That’s what I want people to see. That’s who you are.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes closing.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you stayed still, letting the warmth of his presence settle around you.

---

The Avengers Tower was unusually quiet as you wandered through its familiar halls. The kind of quiet that followed the steady hum of a busy day winding down, where every footstep seemed louder than it should. You had come, as always, to meet Bucky, notebook tucked snugly under your arm and a lingering thought about whether any desserts were left over from last night.

First, though, tea.

You found the kitchen easily—it wasn’t your first time navigating the compound’s labyrinthine halls. The space was sleek and modern, all polished countertops and gleaming appliances, with enough mugs in the cabinet to serve the entire team and then some. Reaching for two cups, you began preparing something warm, something simple—black tea for him, chamomile for you.

The quiet was broken by a familiar voice, low and tinged with amusement.

“Well, look who it is.”

Startled, you turned, still holding the mug, to see Natasha Romanoff leaning against the doorframe. She had that effortless poise she always carried, arms crossed and lips curled into a small, knowing smirk that seemed to see right through you.

“Natasha,” you greeted, managing a smile. You weren’t surprised to see her—she had a way of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. But something about her always left you feeling slightly off-balance, like you were playing a game without knowing the rules.

She stepped into the kitchen, her movements fluid as she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “How’s it going with Barnes?” she asked casually, though her sharp green eyes betrayed her genuine interest.

“It’s going… amazing,” you admitted, the honesty surprising even yourself. Your cheeks warmed as you added, “He’s amazing.” Then, hesitating, you glanced at her. “But I can’t really tell you more than that. I promised him I wouldn’t talk about what we’ve been working on.”

Natasha’s expression softened, the smirk fading into something closer to a real smile. “Good,” she said, her tone gentler now. “He needs that. Someone who keeps their promises.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. “I just want him to feel safe.”

“Safe,” Natasha repeated, her smirk returning. She tilted her head slightly, mischief glinting in her gaze. “And how safe do you feel around him? Your cheeks get awfully red when you’re with him.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but she cut you off with a laugh, clearly enjoying herself.

“It’s cute,” she teased, her voice lilting. “The way you look at him. Like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world. And then when he says something unexpected, your face does this little thing—” She mimicked a flustered expression, her grin widening as you groaned.

“Okay, fine,” you said, waving a hand in surrender. “Yes, Bucky is charming. And handsome. And maybe I have a… silly little crush. But that’s all it is. A crush. I’m not here for that, Nat. I’m here to make people see him for who he really is.”

Natasha’s smirk faded as she studied you, her expression turning thoughtful. “And how do you see him?”

The question caught you off guard, but when you answered, your voice was steady. “I see someone who’s kind. Someone who’s trying so hard to be better, even when the world doesn’t give him the chance. Someone who’s funny, and thoughtful, and—” You stopped, shaking your head. “I just want people to see him the way I do.”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t speak. Then she nodded, her approval subtle but unmistakable.

“He’s changing,” she said softly. “Whether it’s because of you or not, I don’t know. But he’s more open. More… himself.”

Her words sent a warmth through you, though they carried a gravity you couldn’t ignore.

“But,” Natasha added, her tone firm now, “you can’t forget that he’s still struggling. Progress isn’t always a straight line. It’s not going to be easy—for him or for you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. And you did. You saw it in the way his laughter sometimes faltered, in the distant look that would creep into his eyes when something triggered an old memory. But you also saw the way he kept trying, and you were willing to try with him.

“Good,” Natasha said, stepping back toward the door. “Then keep doing what you’re doing. And maybe one day, you’ll figure out what that silly little crush of yours really means.”

Before you could respond, she was gone, her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

You stood there for a moment, her words echoing in your mind as you finished preparing the tea. Two mugs in hand, you headed toward the gym, your heart feeling strangely full.

---

When you entered the gym, Bucky was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his posture unusually relaxed. His hair fell in loose strands over his face, and when he looked up, he gave you one of his rare smiles.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

“Hey,” you replied, handing him one of the mugs as you sat down across from him.

As you sipped your tea, the silence between you was easy, comfortable. You found yourself watching him, the way his eyes softened as he stared into his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic as though grounding himself.

“What?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe your feelings for him were something more than a “silly little crush.” But as you sat there, sharing tea and silence with the man who had slowly but surely let you into his world, you realized something else:

Whether or not you could name what you felt didn’t matter.

What mattered was that you were here, together, and that for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes seemed to feel at ease.

---

It started like so many of your conversations did—in the gym. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint creak of leather from the equipment filled the space, a subtle backdrop to the measured rhythm of Bucky’s words. It had become a sanctuary for him, a space where his guarded edges softened, where he could breathe without feeling the weight of a world that still didn’t quite know what to make of him.

You’d learned to let the moments flow naturally, to not push or prod. He didn’t need someone to drag his past out of him. He needed someone who would listen when he was ready.

Today, he was ready.

Bucky sat on the bench, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his vibranium hand resting lightly on his knee. You sat across from him on the floor, cross-legged with your notebook balanced on your lap but largely forgotten. This wasn’t about the notes anymore.

For a while, you talked about little things—the weather, a new bakery you’d heard about, the way the gym smelled faintly of old leather and floor polish. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice softened, and he began.

“My ma,” he said, his gaze distant, his tone almost reverent. “She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. She had this way of making you feel like… like you were the only thing that mattered when she looked at you. But she didn’t take any crap. If I stepped outta line, she’d give me this look. Just one look, and I’d straighten right up.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “She sounds incredible.”

Bucky nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She was. Strong, too. Had to be. My dad worked long hours. Too long, sometimes. But he always made time for us when he could. Used to take me and my sisters to Coney Island whenever he had a free weekend.”

“Coney Island,” you repeated, grinning. “Let me guess—hot dogs?”

Bucky’s smile widened. “Best in the city. I’d fight anyone who said otherwise.”

“You had sisters?” you asked, your tone light but curious. Of course, you knew this already—your research had told you—but you wanted to hear him talk about them. It was the biggest breakthrough yet, and you weren’t about to let it slip away.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening even more. “Two of ‘em. Rebecca was the youngest—she was a firecracker. Always getting herself into trouble and talking her way out of it. Could charm her way past anyone. And Winnie…” His smile faded slightly, turning wistful. “She was the serious one. Always felt like she had to keep the rest of us in line. We used to fight like cats and dogs, but… I miss ‘em.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you gave him a moment, letting the silence stretch gently between you. When you spoke again, your voice was soft, careful.

“And Steve?” you asked. “How’d you meet him?”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Steve… We grew up in the same neighborhood. Scrawniest kid I’d ever seen, but damn, he had guts. Always getting into fights he couldn’t win. I’d end up stepping in, dragging his sorry ass outta trouble more times than I can count. But it didn’t stop him. Stubborn little bastard.”

You laughed at that, the image of a wiry, determined young Steve Rogers standing his ground against impossible odds vivid in your mind. “Sounds like you two were troublemakers.”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky admitted, his smile widening.

“Rumor has it you were a bit of a ladies’ man back then,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shot you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Is that what they say?”

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

He didn’t answer directly, but the knowing look in his eyes was answer enough. You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it drew a softer smile from him.

“Okay,” you said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “What were dates like back then?”

Bucky leaned back slightly, his eyes growing distant as he thought. “Simpler,” he said. “We’d go to the movies—cheap seats, usually. Maybe get ice cream after. And if you really wanted to impress a girl, you’d take her dancing.”

“You danced?” you asked, your tone tinged with playful disbelief.

“I wasn’t much of a dancer,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But it worked. Most of the time.”

You smiled, imagining him in those days, his charm and easy confidence lighting up every room he stepped into. “Sounds romantic,” you said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

The conversation slowed, a quietness settling over the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like standing on the edge of something—like there were more stories waiting, more pieces of him still to be shared.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost hesitant. “I don’t think about those days much anymore.”

“Why not?” you asked gently.

“Because it feels like another life,” he said simply. “Like it happened to someone else. And I’m not sure I deserve to keep those memories.”

The weight of his confession pressed down on you, but you didn’t look away. “You do,” you said firmly. “You deserve every good memory, Bucky. Every single one. They’re yours, and no one—nothing—can take that away from you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you thought you saw something in his eyes shift. Not quite belief, but the beginning of it.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

For the first time in a long time, you saw a glimpse of the man he used to be—the boy from Brooklyn with a quick grin and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved. And for the first time, you thought maybe he saw a piece of that boy in himself, too.

---

The gym felt heavier than usual when you walked in, a tension hanging in the air that made your chest tighten. Bucky sat on the bench, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor. His metal hand rested on his knee, the faint hum of the vibranium audible in the otherwise silent room.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer but leaving a careful distance between you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his tone clipped and cold. He still didn’t look at you. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You frowned, setting your notebook down on the floor beside you as you sat across from him. “Bucky, if you don’t want to talk today, we don’t have to. I don’t want to force—”

“Everyone wants something,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your words like a blade. His eyes finally met yours, sharp and filled with a storm you hadn’t seen in weeks. “They want me to talk, to act normal, to live like none of it ever happened. But it did happen. I can’t just forget about the people I killed, the ones I hurt. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?”

His voice grew louder, more raw with every word, and you felt a pang in your chest at the anguish spilling out of him.

“Bucky—”

“You don’t get it!” he shouted, his fists clenching at his sides. “No one does. You think I can just sit here, smiling and talking about movies, like it’s all fine? Like I’m fine? I’m not!”

His voice cracked on the last word, and before you could respond, his fist slammed into the wall beside your head. The sound reverberated through the room, loud and jarring, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed perfectly still, your breath caught—not because you were afraid, but because of the tears streaming down his face.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment.

He froze, his hand still pressed against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

Without thinking, you reached for him, standing to pull him into a tight hug. He stiffened at first, his body like a coiled spring, but then he collapsed against you, his arms falling limply to his sides as his sobs wracked his body.

You slid down to the floor with him, your arms wrapped around his trembling frame. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your hand moving soothingly over his back. “It’s okay. Nothing happened. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “I’m so scared, so damn scared that I’ll hurt someone. That I’ll hurt you. And you’ll leave, and I can’t—I can’t handle that.”

Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your own eyes as you held him closer. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Even if you kick me out, I’m staying. You hear me? You’re stuck with me, Bucky. I don’t care how messy it gets. I’m not going anywhere. Remember? I’m nosy like that.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped him, muffled against your shoulder. Slowly, his metal arm came up, wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breathing uneven but beginning to calm.

The two of you stayed there for a long time, the weight of his pain settling around you like a storm finally breaking. You didn’t say anything more—you just held him, letting him pour out everything he’d been carrying for so long.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red and swollen, but there was something quieter in his expression. He looked at you as though searching for cracks, for some sign that you were afraid or pulling away.

You smiled softly. “We’ll figure this out,” you said. “Together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky nodded. And you knew he believed you.

---

The hum of the elevator seemed louder than usual as it carried you to the common floor of Avengers Tower. Tony had called for you—no, insisted on seeing you—and you couldn’t shake the suspicion that it had something to do with Bucky.

Stepping into the lounge, you found him leaning casually against the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze flicked to you as soon as you entered, and he didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Alright, spill,” he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play coy,” Tony shot back, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “Something happened with Barnes. He’s been acting… weird. And by weird, I mean less broody than usual, which is frankly unsettling.”

You sighed, the tension in your chest tightening. “Tony, if Bucky wants to talk to you about something, he will. But that’s between him and me.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting. “Between him and you?” he repeated, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “So now you’re the Winter Soldier Whisperer?”

Your jaw clenched, the words stinging more than you expected. “I’m his friend,” you said evenly.

“Are you?” Tony countered, his tone cool but pointed. “Because last time I checked, you were supposed to be writing about him, not playing therapist.”

The accusation hit harder than it should have, but you didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about writing,” you said, your voice firm. “It’s about helping him. And if you don’t trust me by now, Tony, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the two of you stared each other down, the weight of unspoken words pressing between you.

Finally, Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” he said, his tone softening. “You’ve proved yourself enough times. Just… don’t let him down. He doesn’t need any more of that.”

“I won’t,” you said quietly but with conviction.

Tony studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, his usual smirk tugged faintly at his lips. “Good. Now get out of here before I start saying something sentimental. Can’t have that getting out.”

A smile flickered across your face, and you turned to leave, your chest lighter than when you’d arrived.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, you couldn’t help but think about what Tony had said. This wasn’t just about writing anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

It was about Bucky. About being there for him, no matter what.

---

Later that evening, your apartment was bathed in the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The city’s muffled sounds filtered through the half-open window—honking cars, distant laughter, and the hum of life carrying on outside. Your notebook lay open before you, the first blank page staring back at you like a challenge.

It was time.

You twirled the pen in your fingers, hesitating for a moment. The weight of what you were about to write felt heavier than usual, as though the trust Bucky had placed in you was balancing on the tip of your pen. Taking a deep breath, you began.

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

Before he was a soldier, before he became a shadow in the history books, James Buchanan Barnes was just a boy from Brooklyn.

He grew up in a neighborhood where the buildings leaned too close together, where streets buzzed with life—vendors shouting out their wares, children’s laughter echoing in the alleys, and the distant hiss of trains passing by. Mornings smelled of fresh bread wafting from corner bakeries; evenings carried the smoky tang of burning coal.

Bucky’s family wasn’t wealthy, but they were rich in the ways that mattered. His parents filled their modest apartment with love, loyalty, and a sense of unwavering stability.

As the eldest of three siblings, Bucky took his role as protector seriously, even when it meant teasing his sisters mercilessly. Rebecca, the youngest, was a firecracker—always talking her way into and out of trouble. Winnie, the middle child, was quieter, her serious demeanor often earning her the title of “the responsible one.” But Bucky adored them both fiercely. His sisters would later say he was equal parts troublemaker and guardian, the kind of brother who could make you laugh even as he scolded you for making poor choices.

His father worked long, grueling hours, returning home with hands calloused from years of labor. But he always made time for his children. On weekends, he’d take them to Coney Island, where Bucky would wolf down hot dogs and swear they were the best in the city.

His mother was the cornerstone of their home. She was kind but firm, with a gaze sharp enough to silence even the most defiant child. She taught Bucky how to tie a tie, how to hold a door open, and how to treat people with respect. From her, he learned the quiet strength of standing tall in a world that could often feel like it was trying to knock you down.

It was in that same Brooklyn neighborhood that Bucky met Steve Rogers. Steve was scrawny, sickly, and stubborn—a kid with a lion’s heart trapped in a frame that couldn’t always keep up. The two became fast friends, a duo that seemed inseparable despite their differences.

“He was always picking fights,” Bucky had said once, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t matter that he couldn’t win. He just didn’t know how to back down.”

Where Steve was unwavering in his ideals, Bucky was the one who kept him grounded. And in turn, Steve reminded Bucky of the kind of man he wanted to be—a man who fought not for glory, but because it was right. Together, they became a team. Trouble found them often, but so did moments of quiet triumph—sneaking into a movie theater, sharing a laugh over melting ice cream cones, or walking the long way home just to enjoy the cool Brooklyn nights.

---

The words flowed easier than you’d expected. You didn’t write about the Winter Soldier or the wars he’d fought, the darkness he’d endured. That part would come later. For now, you wanted the world to meet James Buchanan Barnes—the boy who lived, laughed, and loved before the weight of history settled on his shoulders.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. Your palms were clammy as you watched him read, the sound of the paper rustling unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

He sat on the edge of the bench, his posture stiff as his eyes moved over the page. His expression gave nothing away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was searching. “It’s… good,” he said slowly. “Really good. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Weird.”

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

He set the notebook down, his metal fingers tapping lightly against the bench. “Reading about myself like that. Like I’m… normal.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward. “Well, you are normal, Bucky. Or at least as normal as anyone else.”

He chuckled at that, a low, quiet sound that felt like a victory. “Normal, huh? Don’t know if I’ve heard that one before.”

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

Before you left, you handed him a small, carefully wrapped package. He frowned slightly, his gaze flicking from the package to you.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

He unwrapped it carefully, his movements almost hesitant. When he finally revealed the contents—a set of classic movies on Blu-ray—his brow furrowed, but the softness in his expression betrayed him.

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

“I wanted to,” you replied simply, your smile shy but sincere.

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue-gray eyes flicking between you and the gift. Then, to your surprise, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you.

The hug wasn’t born of desperation or pain like the others had been. It was soft, deliberate, and unprompted.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm against your ear.

Your heart fluttered as you hugged him back, the solid weight of his arms around you grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he finally pulled away, your cheeks burned, but the look on his face made it worth it.

For the first time, you thought maybe Bucky wasn’t just starting to trust you—he was starting to trust himself again, too.

---

That night, the quiet of your apartment felt heavier than usual. The city’s usual soundtrack—distant sirens, muffled music, the occasional rumble of a passing train—faded into the background as you sat cross-legged on your couch. The notebook in your lap was open to a blank page, the pen in your hand poised but unmoving.

The weight of your feelings for Bucky pressed against your chest, a slow, steady ache you couldn’t quite shake. It scared you, how much you cared. How deeply you wanted to see him smile, to see the light in his eyes grow brighter each day. You’d told yourself this was about helping him, about showing the world who he truly was, but somewhere along the way, it had become so much more.

You thought of the way he had laughed at your jokes, the way his face softened when he spoke about his family. The way he’d hugged you that day—not out of desperation, but out of something real, something unspoken.

It didn’t matter if it hurt, you decided. Even if you risked your own heart, even if you never dared to tell him how you felt, it was worth it. Seeing Bucky Barnes slowly come back to life was worth everything.

---

Brooklyn was alive with its usual hum of activity when you met Steve Rogers the next afternoon. The air was crisp, the kind that turned your breath into soft clouds and made your cheeks tingle. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the old brick buildings in a golden glow, the shadows stretching long across the cracked sidewalks.

You stood on the corner, nervously gripping the strap of your bag as you waited. When Steve appeared, his presence was as steadying as you’d hoped. He walked toward you with his familiar purposeful stride, his jacket zipped against the chill, his face carrying that calm resolve that had a way of grounding you.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice warm and low. He offered a small smile as he stopped beside you. “What’s this all about?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you turned to look at the house across the street. It was small and worn, its brick facade faded with age. The shutters were hanging slightly crooked, and the front yard was overgrown with weeds. A “FOR SALE” sign stood askew in the yard, weathered and forgotten, as though it had been there far too long.

“Steve,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I found something. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I thought I’d talk to you first.”

His gaze followed yours, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of the house. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition softening the lines of his face.

“Is that…” His words trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

For a moment, Steve said nothing. His jaw tightened, his blue eyes fixed on the house as memories seemed to flood him. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared slightly, as though bracing himself against the weight of it.

“I checked,” you continued, your words spilling out quickly to fill the silence. “His sister, Winnie, passed away about four years ago. The house has been on the market ever since, but no one’s bought it. It’s in rough shape—it needs a lot of work—but it’s still standing.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands clenching briefly at his sides. “Why are you showing me this?”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly unsure. “I just… I thought maybe it could be something for him. A place to ground him. Something familiar, something that’s his. He doesn’t have much that feels like it belongs to him, and I thought…” You trailed off, your voice faltering.

Steve finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You really think this could help him?”

“I do,” you said earnestly. “It’s more than a house—it’s a piece of his past, something real. I know it’s falling apart, but it’s his home, Steve. It could be a step toward helping him feel like he belongs somewhere again.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on yours, thoughtful and a little heavy. He turned back to the house, his eyes scanning every worn corner, every crack in the foundation. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll talk to Tony. See if we can figure something out—a loan, or whatever it takes.”

Relief washed over you, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Steve glanced at you again, his expression shifting into something quieter, more introspective. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. “Of course I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been through so much, and he’s still here. Still trying. I just want him to be happy. To feel like he has a chance at a life.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you closely. “That’s not what I meant,” he said gently.

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced away, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured. “What matters is that he’s okay. That he’s well.”

For a moment, Steve didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but kind. “You’re good for him,” he said simply.

His words stayed with you as you walked back through the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the hum of the city blending with the thoughts swirling in your mind. You didn’t know what the future held—for Bucky, for you, for the fragile connection growing between you. But you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You’d do whatever it took to see him smile again, to see him find a piece of peace in the chaos of the world. Because he deserved it. And, selfishly, because you wanted to be there when he did.

---

That evening, the soft glow of your desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over your workspace. Outside, the city hummed with life—a soothing backdrop of distant horns, muffled conversations, and the rhythmic click of your pen against the edge of your notebook.

The second article about Bucky had been surprisingly fun to write, a departure from the heavier pieces you’d drafted before. You wanted this one to show a different side of him—a side that wasn’t defined by war or pain, but by the charm and warmth that still lingered beneath the surface.

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

If you’ve heard whispers about James Buchanan Barnes being a ladies’ man back in his day, let me tell you: they weren’t whispers—they were practically shouts. The legend of Bucky Barnes, the heartthrob of Brooklyn, is as true as it is amusing.

“I didn’t try,” Bucky tells me, a smirk playing on his lips, his tone so casual you almost miss the confidence behind it. “It just… happened.” He shrugs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And really, it probably was. A young James Barnes had it all: the looks, the charm, the grin that could disarm you faster than any weapon. But Bucky wasn’t just about turning heads—he was about making connections, about making people feel seen. He wasn’t just a flirt; he was the guy who actually cared.

“So,” I asked him, leaning forward, “what made you such a hit? Was it the hair? The smile? The whole ‘knight in shining armor’ thing you had going on?”

“Maybe the smile,” he said with a chuckle, clearly amused by my curiosity. “And the fact that I didn’t talk much about myself. Women like a good listener.”

There it is, folks. The secret to Bucky Barnes’ success: shutting up and letting the other person shine. Revolutionary, isn’t it?

But let’s talk about dates. Because when Bucky Barnes took a girl out, it wasn’t just a night—it was an experience. “What did dates look like back then?” I asked him, ready to be transported to the days of big band music and soda fountains.

“Well,” Bucky began, leaning back with a distant look in his eyes, “you’d pick her up from her place—on time, always on time. You’d take her to the movies, maybe grab ice cream after. If you really wanted to impress her, you’d go dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but…” He trailed off, a small smile playing on his lips.

“But you pulled it off anyway,” I finished for him, grinning. He just shrugged, not confirming but not denying it either—a true master of mystery.

Bucky’s approach to dating wasn’t about grand gestures or flashy moves. It was about the little things: remembering her favorite flavor of ice cream, pulling her chair out for her, walking her home at the end of the night.

“So you were a gentleman,” I teased, my pen tapping against my notebook.

“Always,” he replied, his smile softening, and for a moment, I could see the man he used to be, unburdened by the weight of the years.

I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask. “Do you ever miss those days?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Things were… simpler. You didn’t have to think so much about how you were being seen. You just… were.”

But while the world may have changed, some things haven’t: Bucky Barnes still has that same charm, that same wit, and that same ability to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.

So, what’s the verdict? Is Bucky Barnes still Brooklyn’s Casanova? I’ll let you decide. All I know is that he could probably win over the entire city if he tried.

And between you and me, I’m not sure he even has to try.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. You sat across from him, watching as he read, your nerves buzzing quietly beneath your skin.

He finished, setting the notebook down with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re making me sound like some kinda heartthrob,” he said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t?” you teased, leaning forward with a grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “It’s funny, reading about myself like this.”

“Funny good or funny bad?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Just… funny,” he said, his voice lighter than you’d heard in a while.

You couldn’t resist pushing a little further. “I’ve gotta say, I’m kinda curious what it’d be like to go on a date with you. You know, for research purposes.”

Bucky looked at you, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as a smile spread across his face. “Maybe one day,” he said quietly, his tone sincere.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you managed to play it off with a laugh, shaking your head. “Guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Avengers’ lounge, Steve and Tony were deep in conversation about your discovery of Bucky’s childhood home. Steve’s voice was steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of hope as he laid out the details.

“The house is still there,” Steve said, his hands clasped in front of him. “The porch, the brickwork—it’s rough, but it’s intact. It hasn’t been sold yet. And I think it could mean something to him.”

Tony sipped his drink, his expression skeptical. “You sure he’d even want it? Barnes doesn’t exactly strike me as the nostalgic type.”

Steve nodded slowly. “He wouldn’t, not at first. But if it was his project—his space—it could help. He’s been looking for something, Tony. Something to anchor him.”

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, fine. I’ll make the arrangements. But it has to be his decision. If he’s not 100% on board, we pull out.”

Steve smiled faintly, his relief palpable. “Agreed. I think he’ll come around. Especially if she’s the one to tell him.”

Tony’s smirk returned, his tone light but teasing. “Ah, our Winter Soldier Whisperer. Why am I not surprised?”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. And deep down, he knew Tony was right. If anyone could make Bucky see the value in reclaiming a piece of his past, it was you.

---

You sat in your car outside the gym, the world around you fading into a blur of streetlights and distant sounds. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached, but it was the only thing grounding you in the moment.

“Bucky, I found something…” You tried the words aloud, your voice trembling slightly. No, that was too abrupt. “Bucky, there’s something I want to show you…” Still wrong—too vague.

With a frustrated sigh, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against the wheel. You had spent weeks planning this moment, rehearsing it in your head over and over again. But even now, with everything in place, doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if he thought you’d overstepped? What if this wasn’t what he needed? What if you were about to ruin everything?

Taking a shaky breath, you reached for the apple pie on the passenger seat—a small gesture, something to soften the conversation ahead. You stepped out of the car, the cool evening air biting at your skin as you walked toward the gym, clutching the pie like a lifeline.

---

The gym was quiet, dimly lit, the faint scent of leather and cleaning solution hanging in the air. Bucky was sitting on the bench, his head tilted slightly as he watched you approach. His expression softened when he saw the pie, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

“This feels like a bribe,” he said, his tone lighter than you’d expected.

“Maybe it is,” you teased, setting the pie on the bench between you. “But I’m hoping it’ll earn me some goodwill for the questions I have.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly. “Alright. Fire away.”

You tucked your notebook beside you, deciding this moment was better left unwritten. “Tell me about the house you grew up in,” you began, your voice gentle. “What did it look like?”

For a moment, Bucky’s expression shifted, his gaze growing distant as memories surfaced. “It was small,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Brick on the outside, narrow hallways on the inside. The kind of place where you could hear everything—Ma cooking in the kitchen, my sisters giggling through the walls, no matter how hard they tried to be quiet.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The porch swing creaked every time you sat on it. Dad always said he’d fix it, but he never did. Ma loved it that way, though.”

“What about your room?” you prompted gently, leaning forward.

He huffed a soft laugh. “Not much to it. A bed, a dresser, a desk in the corner. Rebecca used to sneak in during thunderstorms. She’d bring her blanket and curl up by the foot of the bed. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but…” He shrugged. “It felt safe.”

“And the holidays?” you asked, your tone warm.

His smile grew, brighter now. “Ma went all out for Christmas. She’d bake for days—cookies, pies, the works. The house always smelled like cinnamon and sugar. Rebecca and Winnie would string popcorn for the tree. It was messy, but we loved it.”

As he spoke, you watched the tension ease from his shoulders, the weight he always carried seeming a little lighter. His voice held a softness, a warmth you hadn’t heard before, and it made your heart ache in the best way.

When he finished, you hesitated, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. “Bucky,” you began carefully, “can I show you something?”

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“First, promise you won’t get mad,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

“That bad, huh?” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

You shook your head. “It’s not bad. I just… I don’t want you to think I overstepped.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

---

The drive to Brooklyn was quiet, the tension in the car thick but not suffocating. You glanced at Bucky occasionally, but his gaze remained fixed on the passing streets, his expression unreadable.

When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted in knots. You parked the car, your hands trembling slightly as you turned to him.

“Why are we here?” he asked, his voice cautious.

You gestured toward the house—the faded brick, the crooked shutters, the porch swing that still hung from rusted chains. The “FOR SALE” sign that had once stood in the yard was gone, replaced with a crisp new one that read “JUST SOLD.”

“That’s your house,” you said softly. “Your childhood home.”

Bucky’s entire body seemed to go still. His eyes were locked on the house, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight.

“I found it,” you continued, your words spilling out in a rush. “I was looking for your family, but… there wasn’t anyone left. And then I found this. It hadn’t been sold yet, so Steve and Tony bought it. It’s yours now, Bucky. You can do whatever you want with it—fix it up, sell it, anything. It’s your home.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric of his jeans.

“Bucky?” you said hesitantly, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry if—”

Before you could finish, he turned to you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that made it hard to breathe—but you didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held him tightly, your own emotions spilling over. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the weight of the moment, in the enormity of what it meant.

When he finally pulled back, he brushed a hand through his hair, his gaze returning to the house. “I never thought I’d see it again,” he said quietly. “I figured it was long gone.”

You smiled through your tears, your voice soft but steady. “It’s not perfect, but… it’s still standing. Just like you.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he shook his head, glancing at you. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Well,” you said with a grin, “I’ve got vacation days to burn, and I’ve been looking for a good project. So if you need a hand…”

He smiled then—a real, genuine smile that made your heart skip. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Taking your hand, he led you toward the house. The front steps creaked under your weight, the familiar sound drawing another soft laugh from Bucky. He didn’t say much as you walked through the door together, but his eyes said everything.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a piece of his past, a foundation for his future.

And for the first time, it felt like he was ready to build on it.

---

When you told your boss you were taking a month off, her reaction was as dramatic as you’d expected.

“A month?” she repeated, lowering her mug of coffee and staring at you like you’d just announced plans to join the circus.

“Yes, a month,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. You’d rehearsed this conversation in your head a dozen times.

She blinked, setting the mug down on her desk with a soft thud. “Are you… okay? You’ve never taken more than a long weekend. What’s this about?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your bag, but you held her gaze. “It’s personal,” you said finally. “But it’s important. Really important.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing you with the kind of look that could unearth secrets. “Alright,” she said slowly. “But if you come back and tell me you’re quitting, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

You laughed, though the thought had crossed your mind more than once. “Noted.”

---

When you told Bucky about your month-long leave, his reaction was priceless.

“A month?” he repeated, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes, a month,” you said, echoing your earlier conversation with a grin.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging. “Besides, I figured you could use the help. Just don’t expect miracles—I’m not exactly Bob Vila.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and soft. “Just having you here is enough.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

---

Part 2

[yesornopolls]

okay, so

i’m in highschool currently, and my english class requires a lot of essays to be written. now, while it is a lot of essays, the topics truly aren’t that bad, and as long as you can actually take the time and effort to do them, you can finish them up in an hour or two (the requirements are like 2-3 pages max). also the teacher grades with a lot of grace- as long as she can tell you try and put in effort, you’ll make it out with at least a B.

theres this one girl in my class, let’s call her Rachael. now Rachael sits a row infront of me in english, and because of this, i can see her laptop screen.

she’s used ai for every single essay.

our english teacher is super strict on no ai, it’s cheating, and she’s gone on multiple rants about that. her punishment’s for it are clear- if you’re caught using it for an assignment, you’ll fail the assignment, be given a demerit, and get sent to speak with the school board.

like i said, Rachael has used ai for every assignment, i’ve watched it, and she puts it through a separate website so that it’s not able to be traced as ai before she puts it in the document. the teacher puts all of our papers through one of those ai detector things before she grades, but i guess because of the website Rachael uses, it doesn’t get picked up

(here’s the yes or no question part)

would i be an asshole for reporting another student for using ai on their essays?

i’ve never been much of a snitch, but this feels different, so i don’t know what i should do :/

[artificialcaretaker]

There’s no fucking way I got into school mandated classic lit yaoi again why the fuck does this keep happening……

[Literally praying that we read page 222 in class I need to see everyone’s reaction to that.

Also, Bromden is literally me. Bro will start talkin about his paranoid delusions and how the Shadow Government is controlling him and I’ll be like “ONG TWIN 🫡🫡🫡”

That may or may not have some implications on my current mental health status.

ALSO also, I finally changed my signature. I no longer want to be associated with the same thing I used to mark the yaoi hentai I drew in middle school. That ain’t me. I’m a changed man. Like hell I’ll ever find it again but the important thing is that I’m moving on.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

i'm down on my knees, i wanna take you there

summary: you are suiting up for your first mission, the only problem being everyone "forgot" (intentionally withheld) this information from Logan wc: 2.3k a/n: thank you thank you so much for all of your support about my other Logan fic!! I am really enjoying writing for him, and have a few ideas for this Logan as well as some for Worst!Wolverine aka Deadpool 3!Logan as well! More info about empath!reader's powers and her role at the school in this one <3 warnings: slight (incredibly) slight angst, protective!Logan, a bit of a hurt comfort vibe, Ororo, Scott and Jean are meddlers this is the previous fic with these two, not required reading at all, though!

The leather was cool and surprisingly soft against your skin. There had never been reason for you to have to accompany a mission requiring one of the suits before, and you were shocked at how comfortable the uniform was. Typically, when you were asked to help with a mission, you were there for intel. Scope the place out, get a read on the general vibe of the place. Your powers didn’t provide the same level of protection as laser eyes or a strong regenerative healing factor. You would typically arrive with Rogue, in clothes from your own closet and one of the least fancy cars from the garage. You would slip in, get your read, and get out. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help, you just lacked the training that the other members of the team had. And after all, someone had to stay back to mind things at the school. When Charles had approached you a few months ago about some possible applications for your mutation that would come in handy on missions, you’d been hesitant. It was so outside of your comfort zone to load yourself onto a jet that you’d never even considered the possibility. You were far more comfortable in the library where you held English classes for the students, or helping Charles keep students calm while exploring their powers. Neither scenario included the possibility of a lot of violence. 

Ororo helped you finish zipping yourself into the suit, smoothing her hands along the sleeves before giving you a final nod of approval. Jean and Scott granted you small smiles and you did your best to look as confident as you knew they felt. 

They’d promised it was a simple mission, the kind they usually took students on when Charles felt they were ready to join the team, if that’s what they decided to do after wrapping up their schooling. Charles had heard word of a young mutant who had some kind of telekinetic powers and had recently had an eruption while at school. Everyone agreed that it would be best to find them and convince them to return to the school for some training with as little force as possible, only expedited by the fact that Charles had found them hungry and afraid after running away from home using Cerebro. In the past, the kids had been resistant due to huge amounts of fear, causing them to lash out. You knew they were right that your powers would be useful at times like these, and if you were able to help in any way you were inclined to. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing to her?” You sighed. It wasn’t that you were all conspiring to keep this a secret from Logan. It wasn’t a discussion that you’d had to agree on group espionage. It just seemed that all of you had a sort of understanding that it might be better to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Not that you needed permission. 

Logan looked furious, and what’s worse, he felt furious. You and Charles had been working to extend your powers over further distances, no longer needing to touch someone directly to know how they feel. Though it certainly doesn’t hurt matters. You’d sensed him upstairs, seemingly pacing around and seething. You’d hoped one of the kids had gotten on his nerves, or something on tv had set him off. You could see that was foolish now. 

“We aren’t doing anything to her,” Scott had his visor on, blocking his eyes from view, but you didn’t need to see to know that he was rolling his eyes. “She’s chosen to accompany us on a mission.” 

“A small mission!” Ororo chimed in, doing her best to give Logan a reassuring smile. 

You checked back in with his aura. Still furious. But it was a nice try, you supposed. Logan’s hackles were raised, his chest heaving. This certainly wouldn’t do. “Can I have a moment with you,” you glanced around the room, briefly meeting the other three mutant’s eyes. “Alone?” 

Logan was still staring daggers at Scott. He wasn’t even the one who suggested you were ready to come along. Jean and Charles had approached you this morning. You laid a hand against his arm, hoping to lead him out of the room, but he flinched away. The pang in your heart was immediate. Did he really think you were so callous that you would ever use your powers without his express permission, or some kind of emergency. You could feel the tears starting to gather in the corner of your eye, your arms wrapping protectively around your midsection. 

Jean slipped one arm through Scott’s and took Ororo’s hand with her other, gently leading them out of the room. “We are going to check a few things with the jet, last minute.” She began to hustle them out of the room. “Call if you need anything!” 

The door shut firmly behind them, and you were left alone with Logan, who looked like he was going to start shaking. “I wasn’t going to-”

“You don’t think I know that?” You can’t help but recoil. You have never been afraid of Logan, even when it may have been in your best judgement to be wary, and you still aren’t. But you can’t deny that it hurts when he snaps at you. Especially when you thought, well. You thought you were growing close. You started to turn away, but before you could, a warm hand caught ahold of your arm. “I’m not… fuck.” He took a heaving breath, shaking his head as if he could clear whatever thoughts were bothering him. “I’m not mad.” 

Despite the serious energy of the conversation, you couldn’t help the incredulous look you shot his way. He tried his best to hide it, but you could see the corner of his mouth turning up at you. “Fine, I’m not mad at you.” 

“You know, you really can’t be mad at anyone, they were just doing-” you were cut off when you fell Logan’s hand traveling down your arm, and pushing your sleeve up gently from where it was covering your hand. He slipped his hand into yours and you felt yourself relax a bit. “Just, take a look, yeah?” 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“I trust you, bub.” You searched his eyes for any sign of hesitancy, but all you found was trust. Complete and utter trust. You nodded, tightening your own grip on his hand. Doing your best not to let the gentle rub of his thumb against your knuckles distract you, you took a deep breath and opened yourself up to his feelings. 

At first you did feel anger, bright red and hot. You sifted past it, steeling yourself. The first time you had encountered such strong anger, you had felt as if you were going to collapse. But you were stronger now, more prepared to deal with these kinds of feelings. The anger was strong, but also surprisingly shallow. In the depths of his emotions, Logan was worried. Terrified. A deep dark purple that made your own hands shake. His grip on your hand tightened, effectively drawing you back to yourself. There was more, a soft inviting pink that you didn’t dare to touch and shiny bright gold, which told you he was proud. 

You opened your eyes, fighting back the heat you felt creeping onto your cheeks. His expression hadn’t changed, pure trust and tenderness. It should have been disarming, or at the very least surprising. Logan wasn’t so open and honest with people. But the two of you had always had different expectations for the other. 

You couldn’t help it, a smile crept over your features. “You’re proud of me?” 

He rolled his eyes, but his smile only grew. He took your free hand in his, pulling you in closer. “I’m always proud of you.” He hesitated for a brief moment, and you did your best to bite your tongue. You could tell Logan had been making an effort to open up lately, and not just to you, but that didn’t make prolonged silences and easier to bear. “I know it’s not my place to demand anything of you.” 

“You’re my… friend.” You cut him off, wincing at the pause. It didn’t feel like the time to pressure him into labeling whatever feelings may be floating around. “And I always want to hear my friend’s opinions. What’s bothering you so badly?” 

“I could hear your heartbeat from upstairs.” Your eyes grew wide, too shocked to try to school your expression. Logan had told you several times that he had learned to block out his enhanced hearing when he was quite young. Usually to tease you when you got on a long tangent about something you enjoyed. He pretended to zone out and ignore you, but he would always remember small details about your rants, bringing them up nonchalantly at a later date  “I, uh, keep an ear out sometimes. Helps with the worry.” 

He worries about you? Even more surprising, he’s listening to your heartbeat like background music to his day. You promise yourself you will ask him about it when you don’t have a room full of your friends waiting on you. “I thought we’d covered this. I can take care of myself.” 

He sighed, bringing a hand to rest gently where your jaw meets your neck. “Sweetheart, I know you can. But that doesn’t stop me from watching out for you.” 

Your hand moved to rest overtop of his. “The good news is that I will have lots of people watching out for me. You know they won’t let anything happen.” You receive a single huff in return. He’s not convinced. “You know that these are the kinds of missions we send the kids on. I’ll be fine.” 

He considers for a moment, before dropping his hand and nodding. “Give me a second to get changed, and we will head out.” 

You grabbed for his hand, but he was already out the door, and moving too fast for you to stop. “Logan, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“What’s ridiculous is you thinking that I would ever let you go out there alone.” 

“As we already established, I have three very capable friends coming with me. I am only going as a contingency plan.”

“Well then consider me the contingency to the contingency plan.” You huffed, following him next door. 

You darted around in front of Logan, pushing against his chest with all your strength, even if you were fully aware that it was the equivalent of a fly buzzing around him. He stopped all the same, eyebrows pulled together in frustration. “I know you’re worried and I know that this is you trying to help.” Logan had his I’m about to interrupt you look on his face, leaving you to shove him again. Thankfully, he understood your intention. “This is important to me. You can’t be there every time, and I have to stand on my own two feet. I want to contribute to the work we do here more than just teaching kids about how awesome Shakespeare is.” The look was back. “Which is still an important contribution.” You added, which seemed to appease him. “But, I don’t want it to be my only contribution. So I am going to go and make sure that this scared kid who is all alone out there makes it back here safe. And you are going to stay here and make sure that everyone gets dinner and help with their assignments. And then when I get back, we are going to have a talk about all this.” 

“All this?” A smile crept back onto your face, hearing the teasing tone in his voice. 

“Oh my god shut up!” He caught your hands before they made contact with his chest, but he was slow to let go this time. He brought the back of both of your hands to his mouth, dropping a small kiss on each one, before returning your hands to your side. 

“If you come back with so much as a bump to the head, Scott’s dead.” 

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, and pointing out that this was exactly what you were talking about earlier did little to sway him. So you gave in, agreeing to give him a full report before slipping your hand into his and tugging him towards the jet. 

“We’ll be back in a bit.” You promised. You could feel the others staring from just inside the jet, but you barely noticed. Logan was checking over your suit meticulously, tugging zippers a few more clicks up and making sure that the collar wasn’t too tight around your neck. He kneeled down, checking to make sure the laces on your boots were double knotted. “Logan,” you laughed, reaching down to tilt his head up to look at you. “I’m too seconds away from sending a lot of exhaustion your way and leaving you passed out in here. You have to let me go, it’s going to be fine.” 

He remained kneeling for a second too long, a look in his eyes you couldn’t entirely place. The sound of the jet powering on broke the both of you out of your trance. He was on his feet in a flash, checking over you one final time. You rose up on your tippy toes, balancing by resting your hands on his shoulders, before gently kissing him on the cheek. You pulled back, nose scrunched up from the tickle of his facial hair. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Hold down the fort for us, yeah?” 

He nodded, pupils slightly blown out and a dreamy look on his face. You giggled, walking backwards for as long as you can before turning around and finding a seat on the jet. You could feel Jean and Scott’s eyes on you as Ororo began maneuvering the jet out of the garage. “Don’t even start.” You muttered, settling firmly into your seat, doing your best to soak up the pride and confidence the others were projecting into the cockpit. 

as always, feedback is so appreciated! if you have any requests for these two/wolverine in general, please leave them here!

next part

[moonstruckme]

hi mae, how you've been? if your request are open could i make one? if they're not, please ignore this ^^

could you write remus with (gn) reader that struggles with english? (as a language fjdndnd). for example, they could be an exchange student and finds difficult to find the words to communicate, but can completely understand a whole conversation, like its just hard for them to express themselves? idk if you get what i mean, sorry for the nonsense 😭😭😭

you write beautifully, i can't wait to read the next thawing out chapter!!!!! xoxoxo

Thank for requesting angel <3

cw: hints of maybe some social anxiety (?) around language learning

Remus Lupin x gn!reader ♡ 1k words

In group settings, you’ve become an unintentional wallflower. The conversations among this group, specifically, are too rapid-fire for your tentative tongue to keep up with, so you find yourself tracking it and letting your own thoughts pass unvoiced. At least at Sirius’ Christmas party, you’re not the only wallflower in the mix. 

Remus acts much like you, sometimes. He sits back, listens, smiles to himself at his friends’ antics. Sometimes James or Sirius will prompt him with a question, like they’re used to having to drag him into their two-man show, but for the most part he seems content to enjoy being around everyone in quietude. Until, at least, he leans over to speak to you. 

“You alright?” he asks in a low voice, underneath the story James is telling about Christmas shopping with his mum. 

You blink, surprised. “Yes.” 

“You seem a bit quiet.” Remus looks curious, but he doesn’t push. There’s a tiny fluttering in your stomach at being noticed. You’ve talked with Remus on a couple of occasions—and it’s true, you did have more to say then than you do now, in this bantery group—but you wouldn’t have expected him to note the change. “How’s your drink?” 

He’s looking at your cup, nearly full despite the hour you’ve been nursing it. 

“It’s…” You don’t know the polite way to say what you want to say. Maybe there is none. 

Remus smiles. “You aren’t in love with it, then?” 

You think you might go still, just the phrase in love sending heat to your cheeks. “It’s not very bad,” you try to laugh. “It’s…what’s the word…heavy?”

His brows furrow for a second, but then he realizes. “Oh, is it very strong?” 

You nod, relieved. “Yes.” 

He laughs. “Well, that’s what happens when Sirius makes them. Sorry, we ought to have warned you.” He glances over his shoulder at his friend, as though checking whether he’s been overheard; you don’t get the impression he would care much if he had. When his eyes return to you, you have the impression of staring into a fireplace; a steady, comforting warmth. “Come with me,” he says. 

Remus leads you to the kitchen. To the scene of the crime, where your first drink was concocted. Sirius is nothing if not well prepared; the counter is stocked with rows of alcohol and mixers, plus canned drinks and non-alcoholic options. Remus finds you a new cup. 

“What do you like?” 

You can see a bottle of what you want on the counter, but the name eludes you. You’re not close enough to try and read the label. “Anything.” 

Remus’ eyebrow twitches. “Really, anything?” He looks at you. It feels like being peeled like a tangerine, like he’s somehow seeing your squishy insides. “You don’t have any preference?”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “I, uh…” You reach past him, picking up the bottle. “This, please. Sorry, I don’t have the name…” 

“That’s alright,” Remus says easily. He gives you a gentle smile as he takes the bottle from you, and your heart does something awful behind your ribs. “You don’t need to know it. Whatever works, right?” 

“Right,” you echo embarrassedly. 

He asks you to pick a mixer, and when you point again starts to pour. “So,” he says, “is there a reason you’re not talking to us?” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“You’ve just been keeping more to yourself tonight.” There’s a hint of something you can’t identify in Remus’ tone, but you can’t seek clues in his face when he’s looking down at your drink. “Is it something we did?” 

“No. I’m not…no.” You shake your head fervently. “I like you.” You take Remus’ wrist, and he looks up, surprised. “I like you.” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” His voice softens at the distress in your expression. “I was only joking, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” 

Relief seeps into you. You feel your posture ease, your face clearing, but Remus only melts further. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into a hug. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I didn’t really think you were angry with us.” Your arms come around him too, on instinct, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s just that you’ve been so quiet and I wanted to ask why, but I was only teasing.”

“It’s okay.” You laugh a little, giddy on physical contact. “It’s not you.” 

Remus hums, still apologetic. “What’s going on, then?”

“Nothing’s going on.” You search the far corners of your mind, reaching for the words. “I’m quiet because…because I’m slow. It’s more difficult with many people.” 

Remus pulls back a bit, frowning. “You’re not slow, sweetheart.” 

“My English is slow,” you clarify.

“That’s…no.” He shakes his head. “I’m sure it does take longer to find the right words, but you don’t have to stay quiet because of that. We can wait.” 

“It’s okay,” you try to explain. “Sometimes, people need to talk fast, but, for me…it takes time.” 

“That’s fine,” says Remus. “We get it. Or, actually, we don’t, which is probably the more important part. You speak more than one language. That’s not something any of the rest of us can say—well, except Sirius, but his parents were twats, and he’s more of a twat for it, honestly.” His eyes widen a fraction. “Not that knowing more than one language makes you a twat—Sirius is, but you aren’t. I’m not trying to call you a twat.” 

You shake your head, smiling. 

“I’m trying,” Remus laughs, “to say that you’re very smart, much smarter than any of us in there who only grew up speaking English and haven’t aspired to anything more since. So if you need to speak a bit slower to get your point across, that’s perfectly alright. Is that…did that come across right?” 

“Yes,” you laugh, warmth in your cheeks. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me.” Remus gives you another hug, briefer. “Just don’t be quiet, yeah? How’s this?” 

You take a tentative sip of your drink, trying to wrangle your smile. “It’s good,” you assure him. 

“Good. Let’s go.” He starts leading the way back to the party. “You had something to say when Lily was talking about her botched muffins last week, I could see it on your face. I want to hear all about it.”

[erwinsvow]

wait imagine rafe’s reaction when shy!reader is talking (for once) and his friends start interrupting her and her words slowly die out, or even as a shy girl i always get self conscious when it looks like people aren’t paying attention to what i’m saying so i just stop talking at all😭 which i feel shy!reader would do with rafe.

this was the sweetest prompt ever for these two ♡ i completely feel the same way have always been like that too! my favorite thing in the world is asking people to finish their stories after someone else interrupts or remembering where they left off. small angelic behaviors!

"-and it's about two brothers, um, it follows the idea of cain and abel through different generations, so it's the brothers and then his sons, but-"

you're perched next to rafe, one of his hands around your waist keeping you in place, the other around his beer. he takes a sip, looking down at you talk about the book you were reading.

kelce had asked, and rafe is glad he did. you're too shy for your own good, clamming up around everyone. he wants to make you comfortable around his friends, at the very least. it's been going well so far, while you ask questions to them over sips of lemonade and reply thoughtfully when they answer.

you're interrupted by topper and the girl he's picked up ever since he stopped chasing after sarah.

"sounds like an english class book," topper comments.

"those books were always so boring. remember that one about the guy and the eyes-" his new girlfriend continues.

"i need another beer. kelce, need one?" topper asks, and you fall silent, curling up further next to rafe. he looks down at you, wondering why you're not continuing. you're quiet, leaning your head on his shoulder and playing with the hem of your dress.

they're talking about beer and classes now, even kelce sucked into the conversation. rafe doesn't like that, not at all, not the way your excitement faded away the second they stopped paying attention, the way topper interrupted, the shit they're talking about now instead of getting to know you, especially when you had listened to them so attentively.

"top, shut the fuck up. and stop cutting my girl off." they go quiet at once. you can hear your heart thudding in your chest. you look up at rafe surprised that he said anything. "keep goin', kid. so they're brothers?"

when it's just the two of you later that night, you hug rafe tight, pressing your head into his check and staying like that for minutes, feeling him rub your back and kiss your forehead, before pulling you away by your neck.

"what's that for?" he mumbles.

"for listening to me."

[sleep-0-deprived]

HIHIHI!! I saw that your rquests are open now, sooo, can i ask for twisted wonderland? Ruggie, Vil and and/or Floyd with a bunny male reader who is from Heartslabyul and is Riddle buttler pratically (like the white bunny and the queen of hearts), and they're only serious by Riddle's side, but when they're with their partner they turn into a flustered mess and get they knees weak, like all head over hell for them!! Nsfw or sfw whatever you want/can do (idk if that's right cause english isn't my native language so yeah, also if you didn't liked it only ignore this) :)

Twisted wonderland x male bunny reader nsfw and sfw head-cannons ~

A/N I decided to give both nsfw and sfw also I decided to do it as headcannons since I didn’t think you wanted it done poly in a fic so I hope you don’t mind!

Sfw

Ruggie

He loves to tease you every chance he gets even when your filling your duty’s to riddle he loves being able to walk up to you and whisper something really teasing in your ear then walking off leaving you standing all stiff and a flustered mess before riddle.

Ruggie also likes to tug on your bunny ears maybe even pull on your tail in public almost to show off he gets to make you flushed and touch your ears unlike anyone else can.

Vil

Vil loves to play with your bunny ears when you two are alone he likes to hold you in his lap playing with them whispering pet names to you doing his best to make you a mess in his lap.

Vil also loves doing your skin care he always compliments you saying how perfect your skin is without anything but he also makes your mental health is cared for just as much as he does with your physical.

Floyd

Very rare does he ever display touches or flirts with you in public but when the two of you are alone he likes conversation and closeness to you the most but he like the others is very happy in his ability to make you all embarrassed often asking you condescending questions when he sees you embarrassed.

Floyd likes to have tea with you and chat after classes enjoying your intelligence finding you the least annoying is what drawed him in to you since you were just the standard heartslabyul student but to his surprise one you two started dating he sees your real personality and it was unlike anything he expected but some how that just draws him in more.

NSFW

Ruggie

He’s very teasing even in bed whispering lewd words into your bunny ears watching your body tremble under him as your cheeks turn a bright red your eyes all wide and mouth agape when he thrusts into you making your pouty lips let out mewls and gasps.

Ruggie is the type to make sure your a blabbering mess by the end of the round, he makes it his goal during sex to ruin you because it brings him pride seeing such a smart and strict bunny boy like yourself all wrecked with your hole stuffed with his cum twitching tight and pink on the inside from him.

Vil

Vil is the type who doesn’t like doing things that bruise he’s all for hickies and kissing but he doesn’t like bruising your skin claiming it to be too perfect to ruin but he will get caught up during sex and get handsy gripping your hips tightly holding them up while he thrusts into you with his hand on your leaking cock rubbing your pre cum in.

Vil also enjoys handjobs, they aren’t as messy and they are enjoyable to sit next to you while you study in your dorm room, slipping his hand inside your uniform stroking you and palming your cock hard til you can’t stand it then making you cockwarm him as you study aloud for your next test with your bunny tail wiggling against his groin.

Floyd

Floyd is very strict he will grip your bunny ears and pull them tight making you gasp shoving his cock Down your throat grunting things like “be a good bunny yeah?” As you drool all over his shaft making a sloppy mess as your eyes roll forward looking up at him as you deep throat him holding his thighs for support sitting on your knees with gurgling noises as your lips wrap around him and your jaw wide open.

Floyd’s favorite position is doggy style because he gets to watch your ears lay flat on your head with the bunny tail right above your ass twitching frantically as your ass takes him stretching your rim widely around his girth as he holds your droopy head up by your bunny ears watching your face contort lewdly into expressions as you drool on yourself pouting to flustered to speak as he whispers humiliating words to you making you arch gripping the bed sheets

[russo-woso]

hii i have an alessia russo request :)

basically reader is a huge fuckgirl and everyone knows this, then when she meets alessia after alessias transfer to arsenal they become really close and start sleeping together but r makes it clear it’s just casual, then lessi starts catching feelings for her and r is aware of it but she is kinda playing with alessias feelings and showing mixed signals, eventually lessi breaks down and starts yelling at r about how cruel she’s being by playing with her feelings, happy ending though please maybe there’s an explanation on why r was acting the way she was?

also please write it with a bottom!alessia :)

No strings || Alessia Russo x Bronze!reader

Warning smut 18+, ab riding, fingering, orgasm denial, bottom!alessia, top!reader

Summary You’re known for getting around, but what happens when you start to fall for a special someone?

It’s a long one :)

Moving to Arsenal from Barcelona had been a hard move.

You knew it would be a hard move but you had prepared yourself for it.

The worst part of it all was the fact you were leaving your big sister, Lucy, behind.

Over the summer, you had been too focused on the World Cup to think about the dread of moving, but once you reached the airport, Lucy approached to say goodbye and that’s when it finally hit you.

You hated it.

You hated the fact you had to move.

But you had to. You had to leave.

You had to leave her.

Her being Jana Fernández.

You and Jana had been dating since you were both twenty and had dated for two years, however, when you were still madly in love with her, she came to you and said she had fallen out of love with you. She told you that you weren’t the one for her, and that killed you.

Once you’d broken up with Jana, it just became awkward and toxic to be around her.

Every training, you purposely avoided her but it became impossible to do that when you were always put at partners for training.

So you left.

You left everything behind so you could have a new beginning, and you wanted that.

You promised you wouldn’t fall in love again, not for a while at least, but that rule started to fade once you saw her, Alessia Russo.

Still being 22, you were playing with the under 23s, however, within the days prior to meeting her, you had received your call up for the World Cup.

Due to the fact you were only getting your call up then, you had never met Alessia but Lucy and Kiera had both told many stories with a certain blonde striker in them.

Alessia and you signed your contracts for Arsenal on the same day and the photographers suggested you take pictures together, which meant Arsenal got to show off their two new signings that could potentially be the future of English football.

It was only after the shoots that Alessia spoke to you.

“You’re Lucy’s sister aren’t you?” Alessia asked and you nodded in response, worried that you’d stutter if you opened your mouth. “You two look alike.” It was the truth. You and Lucy really did look alike. You both were tall, muscular, tattooed.

“Alessia, right?” You questioned, already knowing the answer and was confirmed when she nodded. “I’ve heard lots about you from Luce and Kiera. I’m guessing you’re the blonde striker that goes by Less in their stories.”

“They talk about me? What stories do they tell you?”

“There was this one story where you supposedly tripped over someone’s boot and face planted the floor.” You slightly giggled as Alessia’s face went a light shade of red. “Don’t worry, I’m clumsy too. Ask Luce. I’ve always been clumsy since I was a toddler. Running into stuff, tripping over things, everyone says they’re surprised I don’t trip over the ball when I play football.”

“No way, I get told that all the time.” You and Alessia laughed as the similarities you shared arose.

“Anyway, I best go, my plane back to Barca is in a few hours and you know what London traffic is like.” You joked and Alessia smiled. “See you in Australia?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you in Australia.” Alessia confirmed and with a small smile, you waved and left leaving a very confused Alessia.

Alessia had never come across a girl who made her feel the way you made her which racked her brain full of questions about you, and herself.

———————

“Luce, come on, I don’t like her. I can’t like her.” You complained as Lucy kept going on and on about you liking Alessia.

Once you’d gotten back from London, you told Lucy your encounter with Alessia and she had been teasing you for the past week.

You were currently on the way to London to meet up with the team before making your way to Australia for the World Cup.

“Yeah, but you do deep down, don’t you?” Lucy asked, desperate to get the truth from you.

“Kiera, please tell her to stop.” You begged, for the fourth time, as Kiera looked, unimpressed, at the both of you.

“Lucy, stop it.” Was all Kiera said and it was your turn to look unimpressed at her.

“Look, Luce, I get it. You’re my older sister, you want to know who I like, but I can’t like Alessia. Not after Jana.” You explained and Lucy gave you a sympathetic look. “And anyway, Alessia doesn’t even like girls.”

“Listen, kid, as your older sister, it’s not just my job to know who you like, but it’s also my job to make sure you’re happy, and if I think you’d be happy with Alessia, I say to shoot your shot.” Lucy told you and you nodded along, pretending to listen to her when actually you were blocking her voice out because you knew you wouldn’t do what she was saying.

Once Lucy had finished talking, she pressed resume on her laptop and went back to watching her film which you were grateful for because it meant that you didn’t have to continue the conversation.

———————

“Y/N, hi.” You heard a voice say before a pair of arms wrapped around you.

“Hi Alessia.” You said, taken aback at how sudden the action was.

“How are you? How was your flight from Barcelona?” Alessia questioned, you figured to try make conversation.

“It was good. A bit of turbulence and Lucy being annoying, but other than that, fine.” You replied, grabbing your suitcase before starting to walk away, hoping to end the conversation with your action but nope, Alessia grabbed hers too, walking side by side with you.

“Oh, why was Lucy being annoying?” Alessia asked and you mentally screamed.

As much as you wanted to speak to Alessia, like you really really wanted to, you couldn’t.

Could you?

“Just being herself, you know?” You lied, definitely not being able to tell Alessia the truth.

“Y/N!” You hear Georgia shout from across the terminal and you let out a small thankful sigh, not loud enough for Alessia to pick up on it though.

“I’ll see you on the plane, okay? Bye less.” You smiled at her, before walking to Georgia who enveloped you in a hug.

——————

To say you had had the best weeks of your life was an understatement.

Smashing through the group stages and winning against Nigeria, the whole team had an excited buzz around them.

The only thing that could make the summer even better, was if you could just admit your feelings to Alessia.

Over the past weeks, you and her had grown closer and closer, and you were definite that feelings were there for her but you pushed them away, also definite that your feelings were wrong.

To celebrate the win against Colombia, the whole team decided to go out after the match.

It had started with you saying you weren’t drinking much, but with constant nagging from Lucy, Mary, and a few other girls to drink, you figured you might as well.

You deserved to and it also meant you could get them off your back.

Once you had your first drink, you expected to feel a bit tipsy and then that would have been time to head home.

However, what you didn’t expect to happen, was to be drunkenly taking Alessia back to your room.

Whilst at the bar, flirty and needy touches from both, you and Alessia, had occurred and you took Alessia’s hand in yours, leading her outside before planting your lips on hers.

“Stay in my room tonight.” You whispered in her ear, breaking your lips from her jaw.

Alessia nodded almost immediately, moving to look you in your eyes before pressing her lips on yours.

From that moment, you booked a taxi and eventually ended back at the hotel, you and Alessia the only ones there.

You led Alessia upstairs, not letting your lips off her.

As you entered the room, you pinned Alessia against the wall, moving your lips down her neck whilst her hands tangled themselves in your hair.

A small sigh escaped Alessia’s mouth, her grip in your hair tightening as you continued to attack the sweet spot on her neck.

“Fuck” she murmured, whilst you licked the sensitive, fast growing mark on her neck.

You grabbed ahold of the bottom of her shirt, pulling it quickly over her head, before reconnecting your lips with her body.

This time, instead of moving to her neck, you pressed your lips to her collarbone and down to her chest, just above where her bra sat.

“Move to the bed?” You questioned, pulling away from her body.

“Please.” She whined as you grabbed the back of thighs, lifting her up, effortlessly, and carrying her to the bed.

You placed her down in the centre of the bed before climbing above her.

“Fuck, you look so good beneath me.” You whispered in her ear whilst reaching beneath her to unclip her bra.

“Take this off.” Alessia told you, playing with the hem of your shirt.

You sat up, nearly ripping the shirt off you, your abs flexing at the cool air.

You watched as Alessia’s eyes trailed down your body to your abs, her eyes growing when she landed on them.

You smirked lightly before grabbing the top of her trousers, pulling down swiftly along with her underwear.

“Please hurry up.” Alessia mumbled, your mouth quickly attaching itself to her right nipple.

“Patience, pretty girl.” You told her, your voice husky which clearly affected Alessia because the moan she let out was almost pornographic.

Your tongue swirled around her nipple, your teeth often biting down gently to give her even more pleasure.

“Please, Y/N.” Alessia begged, and you lifted your head to look at her.

Her eyes were screwed shut, her head against the bed.

You locked eyes with hers once they opened, the blue that you’d fallen in love with was the only thing you could focus on.

“Are you sure you want this?” You asked, needing the confirmation before continuing.

“I want this, I’ve wanted this for a long time.” She revealed and you lowered yourself so you were in line with her pussy.

Planting teasing kisses to her inner thighs, you eventually thought it was time and connected your mouth with her mouth.

Alessia sucked a breath in as you made contact with her.

The whole experience was intoxicating for you.

The taste of her was intoxicating.

The smell of her was intoxicating, the perfume she wore was all you could smell.

Her laugh was intoxicating.

“You taste so good.” You moaned shamelessly into her pussy which made her buck her hips into your face.

You grabbed ahold of her thighs, keeping them in place whilst you continued to eat her out.

Your tongue took turns between going to her core and to her clit.

“I’m so close.” Alessia breathed out, her breath uneven and ragged.

You hummed in response, sending vibrations through Alessia’s body, moving her closer and closer to the edge.

The sounds escaping Alessia’s mouth made you feel like you were in heaven.

You felt Alessia’s pussy begin to clench so with a final lick you pulled away, leaving a very confused and angry Alessia.

“What? I was so close.” Alessia whined, out of breath.

“I know, pretty girl, but you’re gonna cum. I promise.”

You wiped your mouth, due to it being covered in Alessia’s juices, before leaning down to kiss her.

She moaned into the kiss due to her tasting herself.

As you deepened the kiss, you felt Alessia’s hand work its way to your abs, slowly tracing her fingers over them.

You smirked into the kiss, knowing how much she loved them.

“‘m gonna flip you, okay?” You stated and switched your positions so now, head was against the headboard and Alessia straddled your hips, more so your torso.

She bucked her hips at the contact with your abs.

You grabbed ahold of her hips, slowly guiding her up and down your abs.

“That’s it, pretty girl.” You praised her as she started to pick up the pace of her hips.

Moans escaped Alessia’s mouth and she increased her speed.

With the sensitivity from the denied orgasm, you figured Alessia would cum quickly and as you expected, she did.

It didn’t take long for her to mumble that she was close.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Oh god — ‘m gonna cum.” Alessia nearly screamed, and at that point, you flipped her again so she was beneath you and you slipped your fingers into her.

You continuously pumped in and out of her, to push her over the edge.

Curling your fingers to a particular spot, she moaned for the final time and her legs spasmed around your arm.

“God, I love you so much. I’ve loved you for ages, Y/N. I’ve wanted your lips on mine for months.” Alessia revealed and your face turned white.

You were speechless.

You didn’t know what to think. Maybe it was just post orgasm talk. Or maybe it was the truth.

“And I’m not just saying that because you just gave me the best orgasm of my life. I really do like you, Y/N.” Alessia admitted.

Bingo. There was your answer.

Thoughts swirled through your head.

You liked her back. You know you do. But you couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t.

“I’m gonna get a clean cloth and I’ll help you clean up.” You told her, desperately trying to change the topic.

“Oh, okay.” Alessia said, the sparkle in her eyes disappearing which killed you to think that you were the reason for the action.

You promised yourself from that moment that you wouldn’t sleep with anyone, especially Alessia, until you were ready for an actual relationship.

Seeing Alessia hurt and confused killed you, and you didn’t want to experience that again.

You broke that promise though.

Following the win against Australia, the girls went drinking and Alessia ended up in your bed again.

It wasn’t planned and you didn’t intend for her to end there.

But similarly, you left her confused and hurt when you came up with an excuse for her to go.

You hated it.

You hated yourself for making her go through torture.

But most of all, you hated yourself for giving her mixed signals.

You ignore her when you walk past her, but then sleep with her.

You pretend like you don’t know her, but then sprint to her when she scores.

You show her that you don’t like her, but then show her that you love her.

You figured Alessia would snap at you at some point.

What you didn’t expect, was for her to snap at you at the worst time possible.

After the final and the loss to Spain, the team went out for a final time, hoping the drink would take away their emotions.

The night consisted of alcohol, dancing and jealousy.

The jealousy part in all the girls who were jealous of Spain for taking the win, but for you, it was a different type of jealousy.

Throughout the night, a bloke had made his way to Alessia, a flirty smirk resting on his face.

You saw Alessia smile back and within the space of a few hours, they’d gone from talking, to his hands resting on her hips as they danced.

You hadn’t realised just how jealous you were until Mary pointed it out.

“Mini Bronze, what’s with the frown and the red face? Angry are we?” Millie teased and the rest of the team agreed.

Instead of responding, you got out of your seat, stomping over to Alessia and the guy before pushing him away from Alessia.

“Get away from her.” You almost shouted as he pushed back.

“Why?” He snarled, harshly pushing you again. “Are you her girlfriend?”

“What if I was? Have a problem with that?” You squared up to him before he threw a punch.

You eyed him down, throwing a harder punch back.

You felt a pair of arms wrap around you and Lucy telling you to stop.

She separated you and the bloke before telling him to get out.

“What’s your problem?” You heard Alessia shout at you.

It took you, and the rest of the team, by shock at her shouting because she never raised her voice.

“You give me signs that you like me and then you ignore me! You fucking sleep with me, but then walk straight past me the next day. I like you Y/N! Why can’t you just tell me if you like me back? I just want an answer!” Alessia continued to shout.

You watched everyone’s jaws drop at the sudden reveal.

“I do. I do like you Alessia. I’ve liked you since Lucy and Kiera would come home talking about this climbs blonde striker. But I can’t love you. I can’t.” Your voice broke as you said the final sentence.

“Why? Why can’t you love me?”

“Because…” You were about to explain but remembered all the people who had surrounded you, including your big sister and all your teammates. “Can we go outside?”

Alessia nodded, and you both walked out the door and into the darkness that surrounded the bar.

“Why can’t you love me, Y/N, because I need to know. I need to know if you love me or not. Because I’m wasting my life waiting for you when potentially, you don’t even like me back.”

“I can’t love you because I loved Jana and she left me. I loved her and she said randomly one day that she didn’t love me anymore. I don’t want that to happen to us, because I love you too much Alessia. I think I loved you before I even met you. I don’t want to lose you and if that means staying friends, then so it stays.” You explained, Alessia’s face changing from anger to sympathy. “I wish I could love you Alessia, I really want to. But I don’t want any of us to get hurt.”

“I don’t care if I get hurt, Y/N. And I promise I won’t hurt you. I’d rather quit football than hurt you. I’d give up football in a heartbeat for you, and that’s telling you something. Please, let me love you.” Alessia said, inching closer and closer until she stated the last sentence against your lips.

“I’ll never stop loving you.” You whispered against hers before connecting them.

This time, the kiss was slow and full of love.

“I’m so sorry for everything, Less. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to confuse you.” You rambled as you pulled away from the kiss.

“It’s okay. I understand, I promise you, I understand. That’s in the past now.”

Alessia was true.

Jana and that experience was your past, Alessia was now your future.

[astroninaaa]

wtf is going on with cellbit - by a brazilian law major student

hey besties ever since the day cellbit released that PDF i’ve been keeping up with his shit bc as a law student (only two years to go!!!!) in brazil it’s kinda really interesting to see how it goes, specially since i don’t think we’ve ever had this sort of judicial action taken by an internet celebrity, like, ever. so i’ve decided to kinda explain what’s going on. if anyone has any questions after this i’d be really up to talk about it i love talking about law 🫶 xoxo let’s start. also sorry if anything reads weird english is not my native language okay

for those who don’t know, very recently, a judicial action taken by cellbit has made public. in this action, he’s suing over 200 people for the crime of defamation.

the action was taken to court in january, but it was under what we call “secret of justice”, which means only cellbit himself and twitter’s lawyers had access to it. now that there have been decisions by the judge and everything, the process’s been made public.

basically, cellbit started an action against twitter (NOT THE PEOPLE WHO COMMITTED THE CRIME YET), citing a little over 200 tweets that accused him of crimes like SA, psychological abuse, pedophilia, and others. all of those are real crimes in brazil — and accusing someone of committing crimes (specially as awful crimes as those) without proof is a crime in itself (defamation). he claimed that the tweets were harmful to his honor, mental health, and reputation, besides categorizing as defamation, since there’s no investigation going on against him for all these infractions he’s being accused of.

with that, he asked twitter to delete all the tweets, and to provide him with the personal information of said twitter accounts so he can sue them directly for defamation. he did these requests through something called “tutela cautelar”, which means the judge gets to decide whether or not twitter has to do these things before proof production and proper investigation, since, if twitter doesn’t do those things, the damage to his honor and reputation will be ongoing + he won’t be able to sue the proper people in time.

the judge conceded to his requests, and twitter has already deleted all the tweets. the main discussion going right now is wtf do they do about the international accounts — does our law apply to them? what’s gonna happen? we don’t know yet. that’s being discussed in court for the moment and, considering brazilian courts, it might take quite a while.

so, yeah, all those people aren’t being sued YET. but they will, probably somewhat soon.

it’s also important to mention that this lawsuit is from january and was only now released to the public. there’s probably a lot more coming after the whole fiasco that led him to releasing his statement, including a lawsuit against his ex herself.

now, other topics — could he sue other twitter accounts for cyber bullying or death threats? probably, but my personal opinion is that suing for defamation and focusing on accounts that were accusing him of having committed crimes was a much better move because it’s a much stronger case.

there’s very little room for discussion when a person has outright said “cellbit committed this crime”. death threats have more room for discussion: “oh, but they’re hundreds of miles away, it wasn’t a serious threat”, “they didn’t mean it”, “it was a joke”. same thing goes for cyberbullying: it can get too subjective.

defamation isn’t subjective. you accuse someone of a crime they didn’t commit? boom, defamation, at least according to our laws. so, to me, personally, it makes a LOT of sense for his lawyers to focus on that: he’s a LOT more likely to win than if he was suing for cyberbullying, threatening, insult, or any of that. also, he’s a lot more likely to win FASTER.

when he gets to sue the actual people who committed the crime, that is. for now, he’s only requested twitter to give him the necessary information to get to these people, which i think they’ll very likely be obligated to do. there are digital data protection laws in brazil, but a crime is a crime. digital data protection isn’t gonna protect you from the court.

another thing: LGPD (brazil’s general law of personal data protection) forces all social media companies to keep records of all the content posted by their users for AT LEAST six months. many companies keep it for way longer. that’s a law created for judicial purposes, in case something published to twitter, facebook, or instagram needs to be analysed by a court. that’s why even tho twitter has deleted the tweets, they still have them, and why it doesn’t matter if the people responsible are deleting the tweets, the accounts, the fucking app itself. the records are still there, and they will be used judicially.

i think that’s the overall for the situation, but i’m willing to answer any questions and to discuss it if anyone wants to! i’m a big law enjoyer. also personally i think cellbit is so fucking right for this like YEAH people don’t get to commit fucking crimes on twitter and get away with it. really interested in how this is gonna go law-wise, but in general also really glad to see someone take action like this.

[lovebugism]

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure &lt;3

( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended. 

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.  

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day. 

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.) 

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of. 

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes. 

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade. 

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour. 

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high. 

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part. 

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that. 

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater. 

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start. 

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer. 

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too— shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right? 

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his. 

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night. 

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth. 

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust. 

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

[seokgyuu]

The Sweetest Thing - Teaser

All your life you’ve been your sisters’ punching bag. Never good enough. Never fully accepted. When your mother makes one of them choose you as her maid of honor you reluctantly agree. Semi-vacationing in Tuscany with your ‘beloved’ family, you meet two handsome strangers one night and let them do whatever they want with you. Too bad you didn’t ask for their names first.

Pairing: Heeseung x F!Reader x Sunghoon 

Genre: Strangers to ???, Porn with Plot

Warnings: CHEATING!!! reader is hooking up with her sisters’ fiancés, sisters are horrible and suck, mentions of past verbal abuse, reader is somewhat a pervert (she defo is), heeseung & sunghoon definitely are perverts, heeseung & sunghoon are mean, they have nothing good to say about their fiancés, alcohol consumption, adult content MDNI! smut warnings will be in actual fic

Word Count: 5.7k (so far)

Release Date: August 8th

Taglist: @skzenhalove, @haelahoops, @deobitifull, @shiningnono, @jakeswifez, @slut4hee @gyuhanniescarat , @branchrkive @doublebunv , @capri-cuntz, @jaehyuniewifeu, @whateverhoon, @c-oupsie you can be added by replying to this post or sending me an ask <3 there must be an age indicator in your blog since this is a nsfw fic! 

Something about the Italian sky seems different. Maybe it’s because you’re not close to a big city, but the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen them. It feels like a movie; the stars and moon so visible with no cloud in sight, the small street of Arezzo you’re currently sitting in - a small restaurant with a small menu but a nice older man that speaks decent English. A glass of wine standing on the small table beside you and the first bit of peace you’ve felt in days. 

It’s when you take your next sip of wine you see them. 

Two men straight out of a magazine walking towards one of the free tables next to yours and sitting down. There is nothing you can do but stare. Both of them have dark hair, one of them a bit shorter than the other. They are dressed elegantly, designer shoes and pants, blazers hanging over their chairs. Even if you wanted to - you could not possibly say which one was more attractive. 

What a nice way to end a horrible day, you think. Smiling, you finish your glass and immediately order the next, not entirely used to drinking so much, but not caring since you are miles away from home and no one here knows you anyway. The waiter nods and then proceeds to go over to the newcomers. The one with the slightly lighter hair and the mole on his nose orders in perfect Italian, with just enough of an accent for you to know they aren’t from here. Your choice of table appears to be perfect for watching them, listening to them converse in a language you understand. 

And it all stays innocent like this - they talk about their flight and about friends - until suddenly the conversation sways.

“I honestly- fuck, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, you know?” The one with shorter hair says and his friend sighs, taking his wine glass and finishing it in one go. Impressive. There was at least half left in yours. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. We committed and now we’re fucked.”

“Just that we aren’t getting actually fucked.”

They look at each other before they laugh, shaking their heads. Meanwhile, your ears perk up. 

“Fuck, I really don’t know the last time she let me hit it, Hoon. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Yeah, same here. Like, yeah, we fucked once the day before her flight. But literally only missionary and she didn’t suck me off.”

“Again? Dude, is she ever even putting her mouth on it?” 

“Nope. Ever since we got engaged she’s like this fucking prude. Is yours like that too?”

“Yeah. I got her flowers and her favorite chocolates and she still wouldn’t even jack me off, like fuck, if it’s gonna be like this forever I can just go cut my dick off.”

Jesus. These two seem to be in very happy relationships. Makes you almost feel better to not be in one. Even if your mother would beg to differ. She’s been desperate for you to find a match for ages. For whatever reason, really, considering her two golden girls were about to get married to rich and handsome heirs. 

“Just one good blowjob, man, that’s all I want, really. I miss getting some good fucking head.”

The way short hair looks at mole - with so much understanding and pity, you can’t help but chuckle. Chuckle loud enough for them to take notice. 

Their gazes burn on your face before you even see them. But when you do your smile dies and instead makes room for horror. They heard you laugh at them. Even worse, they know you’ve been listening. Shit. 

Thankfully, you are three glasses of delicious white wine in and the fourth one is almost empty. Which means you aren’t the sweet little wallflower you’d usually be. Scary, how alcohol can change people.

“Oh, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.” You apologize, placing your hand over your heart. 

“Agreed.” Short hair says, his eyebrow raised. Now, with both of their eyes on you, it seems like they are even more attractive. Perfect faces with pretty eyes and soft looking hair. Handsome men in unhappy relationships that fail to give them what they need. It’s almost comical how the switch in your head turns over, how the persona you normally never let anyone see until you’re in a secluded space comes out and gives you the courage to speak your next words.

“I just couldn’t believe my ears,” you let your finger glide over the rim of your glass, eyes on the two men with your tongue slipping out to lick over your bottom lip, “how anyone would be opposed to having sex with you.” 

Oh.

Sunghoon and Heeseung’s ears perk up just like yours did earlier. Eyes widen slightly as they understand the innuendo in your words. 

They think about the same thing - the last time they took a girl together. Probably during senior year in college. Back then, they used to do that regularly. Having almost the identical type in women. Instead of having to let her choose, she’d get them both. 

But it’s been years since then. They are in committed relationships now, about to get married. And still - neither of them can deny that you fall right into their usual prey, or well, the prey they’d chosen back in college before their parents had picked out their wives for them. 

It’s the way you look at them, the way your eyes say so much more than your words. It is also the way both of them feel like they are 22 again with nothing but getting their dick wet on their minds. One thing about Heeseung and Sunghoon - they always worked perfectly in a pair. Back in college and now, too. They can almost read each other’s minds at this point, only a short exchange of looks needed to know neither of them gave a single fuck about anything right now.

“Want to sit down with us?” Sunghoon asks and points at the free chair opposite them. You smile. 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

header credit @wongyuseokie <3

[kurishiri]

01 ┊ The final promise, a mother's death

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— jude⌛'s past records, record #1.

— cw: domestic child abuse (physical), death of a family member, mentions of alcoholism and family neglect.

The amount of happiness a person is given in their lifetime is decided, and it is split equally for everyone.

Such was written in a book somewhere.

Just as there was no abundance of good things, neither was there an abundance of bad. Everything was made to be equal.

——If that was the case, then just what did this bloody wretched life of mine ever amount to?

Since I was born, I had never gotten a taste of that feeling called ‘happiness.’

My father was an immigrant from Ireland, who worked at the seaport.

The place was filled with violent people, making both public order and the working environment in poor condition, but not working would be the same as death.

And what was tragic about the job was the fact that you could be laid off at any point.

Jude’s father: Blast it all! I went outta my way to show up n’ they went and kicked me out!

Jude’s older brother: Was a fool’s errand from the start!

In the cramped house, the scent of liquor and tobacco pervaded the room,

and perhaps because of continuous exposure to that, my younger sister and I had weak lungs, and were often prone to asthma attacks.

Jude’s younger sister: *cough* *cough*...

Jude: Quit it already.

Jude’s father: ...Hah?

Jude: If ya continue smokin’ that stuff, ain’t no way we’re gettin’ any better.

J: If you’re gonna smoke go n’ do it outsi——gh!

All of a sudden, he hit my cheeks, and the moment I collapsed on the floor, he grabbed my hair.

Jude’s father: I dare ya to try sayin’ that again.

Jude: Hah, did ya drink so much booze your ears gone bad? I’ll say it however much I gotta.

J: I’m sayin’ ya don’t even got a penny in your pocket and yet ya go off smokin’ that stuff——guah!

This time, he hit my other cheek without holding back.

Jude’s father: Jude. How old are ya?

Jude: ...Five.

Jude’s father: Which is the age ya can go n’ work a job. And yet here ya are not doin’ that ‘cause you’re coughin’ a lung up.

Jude’s father: Who do ya think ya are, complainin’ when you’re a useless piece o’ trash, huh!?

Grasping at my hair, he tried to drag me around, when——

Jude’s mother: Stop this at once...!

Jude: Mum...

Jude’s mother: I’ll give him a talk and make him listen. Okay?

Mother took some money, and the two left the house for a drink.

(That cash... went and sold off clothes again, innit.)

She was a woman who could use perfect Queen’s English, and she was originally a well-to-do lady, or so I heard.

But, she pulled the short end of the stick, getting together with a good-for-nothing.

She sold the little jewels and clothes she had brought until she had nothing left to her name, and her health deteriorated.

—— Time skip (I think) ——

Jude’s mother: Jude, come here a bit.

Mother took me out to the garden, and there she took a stick and started writing something on the ground.

Jude: Mum, what’s this?

Jude’s mother: These are letters. They represent the words we speak... let’s see... it’s much like a ‘sign,’ so to speak.

Jude’s mother: See, this is how you write your name. J, U, D, E.

I copied Mother’s letters, writing them on the ground.

Jude: Wow, I could really get behind this. Hey, how do ya write Jazza——

Just then, Mother pulled me into an embrace.

Jude: Mum...?

Jude’s mother: In the times to come, even when your body is weak, and your money scarce, as long as you have wisdom, you can live on with that.

Jude’s mother: Jude, you are intelligent. I am sure knowledge will be your guardian.

Jude: Hey, mum, if ya hug me so tight it’s gonna hurt.

Jude’s mother: Hehe, you’re a big brother, aren’t you? You can handle this much at least.

Not too long after, Mother’s body grew weak, and she passed away.

The only thing left behind was the cold bed which she no longer occupied.

(She probably knew things would turn out this way.)

Running my hand along the cold surface of the bed, I recalled the final conversation we shared.

—— Flashback ——

Jude’s mother: Jude... I’m sorry.

Jude: What’re ya apologizin’ for? There’s a mountain of people other than ya who gotta apologize.

Father and my older brother drowned in alcohol, and even on death’s door, they didn’t bother even showing their faces.

Jude’s mother: ...I’m sorry, I’m sorry...

Jude: ...N’ like I said, don’t apologize.

Jude’s mother: ...Please...take care of your sister...Jude.

—— End flashback ——

That became the final conversation.

And, after that, my life stumbled even more down to the pits of hell.

to be continued…

first next →

masterlist🌙 ┊ ko-fi ��️ ┊ comms 🤍

[taurasiscntybun]

But we’re roommates! Pt 2

-College DT x nerdy reader

-18 plus minors DNI

-Warnings: Adult language, anxiety, internalized homophobia, descriptions of foreplay, virginity kink

-2,800 words

Diana’s POV

I shove my headphone over my head, my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the curls threatening to escape. 50 cent blares in my ear as I cross through the hallway of the dormitory.

“Distracts me?” I mutter to myself. I don’t understand my weird ass roommate, it’s rare she actually talks to me, even rarer that she comes close. Maybe it’s for the best, if she knew the thoughts I had about her I'm sure she’d never speak to me again.

“Distracts me?” I mumble again, I’m stuck on that, it has to fucking mean something. Why would it bother her if I’m in my sports bra? I wish she wouldn’t walk around in her goddamn tank top and shorts, well not really, I think her thin sleep shirt is my favorite thing she owns. I let out a groan as I picture her, the thin fabric stretching over her tits.

“Fuck” I mumble and shake my head to clear the thoughts. If only she knew how distracting she was, I keep my music blaring so I don’t notice her. I already know today is going to be a waste in class. Not that I give two fucks about my English class, as long as I get a C I can keep my scholarship and keep playing basketball. I should care more, I’m the first in my family to go to college; I’m not gonna flunk out or some shit but I’m happy with getting by. I hate my English class the most, what the fuck am I learning by reading Beowulf and Pride and Prejudice? At least my roomie helps me with English, she’s so smart. I turn up the volume on my mp3 player, keeping my mind from drifting to thoughts about my nervous baby bunny. I wave to a few people as I walk through the green, I don’t know everyone but since my face was on the fucking school magazine everyone seems to know me. Finally I get to one of the biggest buildings on campus, it’s on the other side of the fucking campus from my dorm but at least most of my classes are here. I glance down at my watch and swear under my breath, I’m like five minutes late.

“Miss Taurasi, you do know class starts at nine, correct?” My professor says, a smug look on his face.

“Yes sir, I got held up this morning.” I reply and flop down in my seat, pulling out my notebook.

“It’s five minutes, can he fucking chillax?” I mumble under my breath as he drones on about the oral history of Beowulf. I should be paying attention, I should be taking notes, but I can’t stop thinking about my fucking roommate. The way my hands fit perfectly around her waist, her touching my shoulder, her soft voice saying I’m distracting plays over and over in my head. It means something, it has too; why would my sweaty body be distracting to her? I look up from my blank notebook, realizing.

”Fuck, she’s attracted to me.” I mutter without thinking and a few heads turn my way but I ignore them. Now all I want is my classes to be over so I can get back to my dorm.

“Oh god, shit.” You say and run your fingers through your hair. Your classes start a little later in the day, back to back history classes then humanities. You stare at Diana’s unmade bed and replay your conversation. You had admitted she was distracting, you’d said her body was distracting.

“God she’s gonna think I’m some lesbo weirdo.” You mutter and pace the small space.

”No.. no.. it’s normal to be distracted, she’s hot.” You try and reassure yourself but it doesn’t work, you know deep down that the feelings you have towards Diana aren’t platonic. You want to feel her big hands on you, her lips, her everything, you want to be consumed by her presence. She’s gorgeous, a mix of strong muscles and soft curves that make your mouth water.

“Don’t be weird, it’s fine, it’s fine.” You dress quickly, a tank top and loose cargo pants and hurry out the door for class; your mind clouded with anxiety with before class.

The rest of the day goes by in a droning bore, your classes blurring together as your stomach tumbles in anxiety. When your last class leaves you bolt for the door and race across campus to your dorm. Diana’s day ends before yours but she has practice so it’s fine.

“Calm down, calm down, its fine, she’s at practice and I’m sure she doesn’t even remember what I said this morning.” You mutter as you fit the key in your dorm room door. You swing it open and yelp as Diana looks up at you from her bed.

”Finally you're home, I didn't know when your last class ended.” She says and stands to come closer.

”No it’s Monday, your math class lets out at four and your practice starts at four-thirty, why are you here? It’s five?” You say and shake your head.

“You memorized my schedule?” She asks and cocks her head to the side, her hair is down for once and the dark curls bob as she turns her head.

”I..I..I wanted to know the times you wouldn’t be here, for.. for studying.” You stammer, still standing in the open doorway. Diana gives you a wolffish grin and takes another step towards you, she’s in touching distance now but she feels much closer, her large statue looming.

”Oh yes because I’m so distracting right?”

“Y..your music and..and..” You stammer but she cuts you off by grabbing you and pulling you into the room, the door clicking shut and locking behind her.

”We dont need to have this talk with the door open.” Diana says in a hushed tone, her hands still on your arms.

”And I know, you find me walking around in my sports bra very distracting right?” She taunts, her thumbs rubbing up and down your bare arms, leaving goosebumps along your skin.

”I..I..”

“Why does my body distract you Baby bunny?” She whispers, drawing you even closer.

”I’m not the genius you are but could I be distracting you because you find me hot?” She’s standing so close now you could count the freckles across her face, she looks down at you with a serious expression, something you're not used to. You look up at her slack jawed and you know you're blushing but you can’t stop. You try to think of something, anything to say to her but your mind is drawing a blank.

”Y..yes you..you are pretty but..but lots of g..girls are pretty.” You stammer and try to pull away but her grip tightens to nearly painful.

”Do you look at a lot of other girls?” She whispers and searches your face.

”I..I mean a normal amount, everyone notices pretty girls right? I mean you notice pretty girls right?” You answer nervously and look down. Diana moves one of her hands from your arm to under your chin and she tilts your head up gently to look at her.

”Oh yeah, I notice pretty girls, all the time, but then again I don’t notice boys.. if you understand what I mean. I definitely fucking notice you. You think I’m distracting? Baby I can hardly think when you're around, everything comes out in a rush of word vomit when you look at me with your big eyes.” She’s leaned down to you, your air mingling as her eyes dart from yours to your lips.

“Do you feel the same way baby? Am I right?” Diana says, her tone so hushed its barely audible over the roaring in your ears. The room feels too small, Diana too close, you can’t breathe let alone think. As if she can read your thoughts she takes a step back and lets go of your arms, raising her hands in surrender.

“Tell me I’m wrong, tell me to fuck off and I’ll never bring it up again, I’ll even wear a shirt all the time.“ Her eyes search your face and you can see the quiet vulnerability in her face. You’re frozen, not able to deny how you feel but not knowing what to say either. Diana looks at you concerned and then a look of understanding crosses over her face.

“You’re new to liking girls aren’t you? Or rather new to admitting it to yourself?” Her tone is soft and her gaze warm. She sits on her bed and pats the place next to her.

“It’s ok, everyone’s been there.” You take a tentative step towards her, trying to think of anything to say.

“If you don’t say anything cause you’re scared of rejection, don’t be.” Diana says in a hushed tone and you sit, she immediately puts her hand on your thigh, nothing scandalous just resting on your knee but it was enough to get your blood heating.

“I don’t know why I feel this way about… about you.” You say softly and turn to look at her.

“Are you attracted to me? Do you get distracted by my body because it turns you on? You don’t understand why I affect you… it’s nothing I did baby, you just like women.” Diana says and grins, her touch on your thigh turning teasing as she traced patterns on your inner thigh; the calluses on her long fingers leaving goosebumps under your pants.

“It’s ok, I feel the same way, I want you baby, fuck I want to kiss you all the time, I want you to come to my games in my jersey. I want to devour you.” Her tone dropped as she spoke and she squeezed your thigh for emphasis on the last part. You let out a hushed whimper and she moved closer, her hand moving up your thigh.

“You gotta say something babygirl, I’m not going to keep touching you unless I’m sure you want it.” She starts to pull away and immediately you feel the loss of contact and speak before thinking.

“No please keep touching me. Fuck I want you to touch me please.” You admit and she grinned.

“Thank fuck.” Diana groans and doesn’t give you a chance to respond before pulling you in tight, her lips crashing into yours. You freeze, your body locking up under the foreign touch.

“Come on baby, let go, let me show you how I good I can make you feel.” Diana says and kisses down your neck.

“Don’t think, just feel; you want me to keep touching you? Well I want you to touch me too, give in baby.” She almost begs and her soft suck on your pulse point makes you come undone. You melt against her, and pull her down for another kiss. Your kiss is clumsy and unpracticed but passionate; Diana’s hand comes up behind you and tangles in your hair, tilting your head back as she takes control. She slows your kiss, her mouth moving against yours with practiced ease.

“God you don’t know what you do to me.” Diana practically growls and pulls away a bit.

“Talk to me baby.” She begs and strokes your back.

”Im sorry I..I’m not good at this at uh talking about stuff.” You manage to say and she grins.

“No apologies baby, you don’t need to try, just be you.” She kisses down your jaw and you gasp.

“O..Ok” you say in a breathy tone, collecting yourself a bit.

”I like you, i really like you in a way I haven’t liked another girl before and I didn't know what to do or how to act because i didn't want you to think I’m a freak but then that meant you needed to stay away from me because my like brain stops working when you're around.” Your words tumble out a fast long sentence and Diana pulls away to process your words.

“Firstly I dont think you're a freak, I’m actually super fucking happy that you have feelings for me because fuck I’ve wanted you since you walked into this dorm all wide eyed and excited the first day.” She smiles and pulls you close again, this time in a tight hug, Diana was successfully breaking your walls down, bit by little bit. She waited until she felt you relax in her embrace to speak.

“When you see me walking around in my underwear what are you thinking baby?” She whispers against your hair, her tone low.

”I..I..” You start to stutter in response.

”You tell me and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking when I see you in your cute little pajamas.” She teases, moving her head down to whisper in your ear.

“I..I think about your body and.. and how much I like it and want to touch you. I..I think about your boobs probably too much and your uh sweaty sports bras hide little.” You admit and pull away again, sitting next to her. Diana raises her eyebrows in question.

”My…boobs?” She asks and looks down at her somewhat flat chest.

“Yes yes I think about them all the time, every time I see you without a bra at night or when you walk around after practice. God Diana were you not doing that on purpose?” You ask, you're softening, feeling more comfortable with her now that your crush was out in the open. Diana laughs and shakes her head incredulously.

”I honestly just started dressing in here because it seemed to annoy you and you look so adorable when you're mad but you weren’t mad were you? You were horny?” She hooks a finger in your belt loop and tugs you towards her, forcing your body to angle to her. You blush and look down at your hands in your lap.

“Nah baby dont get shy on me now, you were just telling me how much you like my boobs.” Diana’s hands cover yours and you tilt your head to look at her.

“Do you wanna see ‘em baby?” Her voice drops to a whisper and she looks down at you with heat in her gaze. You suddenly realize yes, you’d very much like to see her boobs and the rest of her.

”Yes, Diana I..I want you.” You say in a shaky tone and bite your lip. She lets out a groan in response.

“Ok , you can have me but fuck that means I get you, I get to really know you, you gotta let me in.” Dianas words came out in almost a plea, she needed you as much as you needed her right now.

“Yes I promise Dee you can-“

”Don’t call me that.” She cuts you off abruptly and you look at her in confusion.

”But everyone calls you that?”

“Yeah but you aren’t everyone and you’ve never called me Dee, I uh I like that you're the only one that calls me by my full name. To everyone Im Dee or DT but you have always called me Diana.” She brings your hands to her lips and kisses across your knuckles; you're left breathless by the reverence in her touch.

”Diana I promise I’ll be myself, I want you, I don’t want to hide from you anymore.” You admit to her as she kisses your knuckles again.

“Thank god baby, now I want to touch you, I want to touch you everywhere, can I?” Diana asks softly and drags her big hands up your arms.

“I wanna show you how much I like you.” Her thumbs hook under the thin straps of your tank top and pulls them down your shoulders.

”I..I dont know what to do, i.. I’ve never..” You stutter and she groans low in her throat.

”Fuck are you telling me you're a virgin?” Her thumbs move in small circles on your shoulders as she looks down at you predatorily.

“Y..yeah I uh have never with uh anyone.” You say quietly, a touch embarrassed.

”But you want me to touch you right? You want me to make you cum dont you baby bunny?” She asks in a raspy tone, dipping her head to kiss down your neck.

“Y.yes Diana p..please.” You say and let your head lull to the side giving her more access.

“Mhhmm you're so beautiful.” She said against your skin, one hand fisted in your hair to gently lean your head and her other hand wandered up your body, teasing at the hem of your shirt.

“Diana please I..I want you to make me cum I… I want you.” You whine and arch your back into her touch, your body automatically knowing what to do. Diana chuckles against your skin and places one more kiss on your pulse point before pulling away.

“Ok baby but first I need you out of these clothes.” She leans down and starts untying your sneakers, her long finger moving deftly as she undoes the knot and slips the shoe off you.

“Lay back, lemme take care of you.” She says softly and kisses your inner ankle sending a buzz of heat through your body. Diana repeats her actions with your other shoe then stands.

[nmakii]

‘Can I ask you to do something about Alastor×reader? About y/n being a modern girl (2023-2024), and she often has strange gestures or words towards Alastor. One time she talked to him in modern language, making him confused and very curious. (You can expand the situation as you like, sorry my English is not very good)’

NEW IS ALWAYS BETTER!

— alastor x modern!reader (platonic or romantic!)

— alastor calls reader “good girl” so mostly fem!coded

— I WROTE THIS AND THEN IT GOT DELETED I MIGHT KMS.

alastor gets slangs that are common such as LOL, WTF, IDK but doesn’t get some that aren’t as common like LMFAO, IDRC, or WTAF since they’re just making them longer, so it’s quite useless…

he also doesn’t quite get shortcuts for words. one time you left him a note “lol brb rq imma b back in like 20 min. j gon pick smt up” most of it was honestly gibberish to him, but at the very least, he understood you’ll be back in 20 minutes.

gets really angry when you say things like “stop reaching, gooner. you’re just pissed that you’re a beta.” because; one, you’re blatantly disrespecting the radio demon and telling him to shut up. and two, he doesn’t get what any of that meant. what’s a gooner?

also gets annoyed often when you start singing songs like “i’m the alpha, i’m the leader” or “sticking out your gyatt for the rizzler” because, it’s a reflection on modern society and how music quality in modern times have plummeted significantly.

what happened to those beautiful songs such as “the man i love”? has it been replaced by this rizzler nonsense??? honestly, you’re giving alastor more and more reasons to dislike modernity… you’re lucky he finds your company enjoyable

in a desperate attempt to connect with you, he asked angel about your humor, hoping he’d understand. alastor knows that if anything, velvette would know. but, he’d rather get beaten by lucifer than ask the vees for help…

sadly for him, angel is just as confused. although, he at least knew what this alpha bullshit was, vaguely explaining furries and the alpha-beta-omegaverse to him…

you were in the hotel den, scrolling on social media as alastor walked in. “s/o, be a dear and fetch me some chicken breasts from the butcher, would you? i’d like to prepare something for tonight’s dinner.” alastor smiled

“hmm… nah. go do it yourself, furry” you giggled brattishly. “hahah… what did you call me?” alastor asked sternly, his face now close with yours, antlers increasing only slightly in size. “ah…” you stuttered.

alastor was never this mad when you said stuff like that, what was so different today? maybe he was in a bad mood? “ah… ill get it…” you conceded, using your hands to lightly push alastor away, lest he decides you’ll be for dinner…………

alastor snickered before patting you on the head. “good girl. don’t call me that again, this old dog can still learn new tricks, y’know?” he teasingly sang out. “huh?” you asked. “did you learn what a furry is?” you bit your lip, holding back your laughter.

“indeed, i did. horrifying that you’d think i would indulge in such hobbies…” he sighed, looking a little uncomfortable through his stressed smile. “what..? i don’t think you’re a furry, alastor. it’s not that deep. furry is just something that i used to laugh about with my friends back on earth.” you shallowly laughed, copying his actions by rubbing his hair.

he has to admit, that little mistranslation was a little funny looking back on it. but, he is a little disheartened that he got you scared over nothing. you were just having your fun and he got all pissed off. he’d definitely try to instead ask you about your slang as to prevent such a thing again…

[riality-check]

A continuation of this post. Part 3

ao3

As that long-haired guy walks away - his friend onstage called his name, but Steve didn’t catch it - Robin nudges Steve.

“Asshole roadies,” she says, sing-song.

“Get fucked,” Steve says with her.

It’s tradition, that little chant. Every gig, there’s always one venue where someone with far less experience says something. Steve knows he was blunt and probably shouldn’t have said anything with that tone, but after too many times, his patience is exhausted.

He can’t even blame the blunt thing on ASL. If anything, he’s meaner in English.

It makes sense. He knows English a lot better. He and Robin only started taking the ASL classes two years ago, when he really needed it. His left ear had been pretty much gone for a while (fuck you Billy Hargrove for putting ceramic in his scalp), but he sucked it up and started learning when his right ear started going, too.

Honestly, he has no idea what caused that.

Two years of ASL means he and Robin aren’t fluent yet. Not even close. But between that, his residual hearing, and the lip reading he’s relied on for longer, Steve does alright. If he wasn’t at a gig, he’d bring his hearing aids, but that’s a recipe for disaster and broken equipment.

Plus, he’s learned he can’t focus on his job when he hears as well as feels the music.

Robin taps his arm again. You good?

I’m good, he signs back.

They finish setting up before they grab a snack. The venue is pretty tiny, a standing room only place that serves pizza and a few drinks, and that’s it.

The pizza is really good though.

They finish up their slices before they go back to the booth. Robin is particular about not eating around the equipment, and Steve has long given up on fighting her.

Their jobs are pretty easy, in all honesty. The light cues are pre-written, and sound check was an hour ago. All Steve needs to do is hit the cues, and all Robin needs to do is adjust mic levels and turn them on and off as needed.

This leaves plenty of room for a healthy amount of fucking around.

As Robin, always on his right side, starts telling him a story about her friend’s ex’s (who is also her friend, because lesbians are just like that) latest date, Steve watches the crowd file in and nods along.

His mind, however, goes back to that guy. Someone always says something, and it’s always someone new to touring. Steve can just tell. All the rookies do the same thing; they look at the stage with wonder in their eyes. This guy was no different. Just some rookie giving Steve a problem, like always.

Except that this guy was different.

Rookies tended to want to prove themselves. They wanted to show off their fancy knowledge and make it clear that they belonged there along with everyone else who had a career. They wanted to catch Steve off guard, make him thank them for helping him out.

This guy didn’t do that. He was nosy and pushy and pretty and rambled a lot, but he wasn’t trying to be a dick. He was trying to look out for Steve, even if it was none of his business, even if he didn’t know him.

He ended up being a bit dickish, but he wasn’t trying to be. If Steve were a nicer person, he’d think that might count for something.

Steve is trying to be a nicer person, with emphasis on trying.

His watch vibrates, jolting him back to the moment. He lowers the lights, cueing the openers to go on.

The set list, along with Steve’s cues, is in in a binder between him and Robin, lit by a book light with a battery that’ll die at least twice, with their luck.

The first opener is a band Steve has never heard of called “Corroded Coffin.” If they’re any good, he might listen to their music.

Big emphasis on might because he’s not a big fan of metal. Punk has better bass lines, one that Steve likes to feel in his chest.

He hits the cue when they start their opening song, lighting them in reds and purples and-

Oh. Shit.

That guy wasn’t a roadie. He’s part of the opening band. He’s a guitarist.

A really good guitarist.

A really hot guitarist.

Steve is so caught up in stating that he nearly misses the next cue. He doesn’t, though. He’s a professional.

Robin elbows him, and he turns to see her signing. For one hopeful moment, he thinks she’s signing “hungry” and will offer to get them both more of that really good pizza like the wonderful friend she is.

But then she repeats the sign, again and again, and Steve smacks her before hitting the next cue.

“I am not horny!” he whispers, clearly loud enough for Robin to hear through her earplugs because she laughs.

You think he’s hot, she signs.

Steve rolls his eyes.

I’m right! she teases.

Steve faces away from her for the two seconds it takes for her to tug him back.

“Not fair,” she says, and Steve only gets it because it’s light enough to read her lips.

The band has gone through two songs, and the lead singer, a tall Black guy, is saying something to the crowd. Steve hears it just fine with all the mics, but understanding is too much of a struggle to bother.

He doesn’t really care anyway. He likes feeling the music and hearing it with what he has left (his audiologist said it won’t accelerate his hearing loss, so any hearing protection is a waste of money), not listening to whatever the bands have to talk about.

Anything important? he asks Robin.

She shakes her head.

Steve turns back to the stage in time to hit the next cue, casting the band in blue as the guitarist starts playing a really low intro.

Did you hear his name earlier? Steve asks.

Robin says something, but it gets lost in the music and the dim light.

“Hettie?” Steve asks aloud.

Robin shakes her head. Sorry.

She finger spells, messing up once and throwing it out with a wave of her hands.

“Eddie?”

She nods.

Steve hits the next cue and uses the rest of the time to appreciate the view. Eddie really is hot, in his dark jeans and tattered tank top, grin on his face and quick-moving fingers. And Steve has never had a chance to talk to the talent, even if they’re nosy.

But Eddie was nosy because he was worried. It would almost be sweet if it wasn’t so condescending.

He didn’t mean for it to be, the terrible little rational part of Steve’s brain pipes up. And he apologized. Multiple times.

The bigger part of his brain reminds him that it doesn’t matter what Eddie meant it as. Steve effectively tanked any hope when he snapped at him before the show.

Oh God.

He has to do a whole tour with this guy. Who he was a total dick to.

Yikes. At least he has Robin, who is-

Currently staring at him and signing “horny.”

Steve smacks her again, which she laughs at and returns instantly before they focus back on their jobs. They’re professionals, goddammit.

Professionals who are already on less than stellar terms with one of the openers.

He’s so not looking forward to the next few weeks.

Tag list (this is not a regular thing for me but it was manageable this time!): @just-a-tiny-void @weirdandabsurd42 @satan-is-obsessed @honeysucklesinger @coyotepup345 @gayafmermaid @thegingerrapunzel

[jaikoyaki]

Kim Minji x 6thMember!reader moments

➮Minji likes teasing you.

!NOT PROOFREAD!

PHONING LIVE:03/28/24

"Y/N, can you tell us more jokes?" Hanni read out a fan's comment with her usual lively tone, switching effortlessly into English. You were sitting between her and Minji, your bodies partially visible on the live stream, but the fans couldn’t quite see everything.

"Please no!" Hanni exclaimed dramatically, even though the playful grin on her face gave away her amusement. She leaned back, clearly trying to escape the inevitable.

"Yes! Wait, let me think of one!" You beamed, delighted that someone actually requested your jokes. It wasn’t often you got to share your brilliance with the world, after all. Plus your jokes didn’t get enough appreciation—at least that’s what you always told yourself.

"Nooooo! I don’t wanna hear another one of your corny dumb jokes!" Hanni groaned, throwing her head back for effect as if the idea of another pun was too much for her to handle. Her exaggerated reaction made Minji laugh softly beside you, her shoulders shaking with quiet amusement. You couldn’t help but smile at Hanni’s dramatic antics.

You rolled your eyes at Hanni’s exaggerated reaction but couldn’t stop smiling. "Hey, my jokes aren’t dumb!" You nudged Hanni with a playful push to her arm. "My jokes are very funny and clever, thank you very much!"

"I think they’re cute," Minji suddenly chimed in, her voice soft but sincere. She glanced at you with an amused but affectionate look, her lips curling into a small smile.

Your heart skipped a beat at Minji’s words, and you turned to Hanni with a victorious grin. "See! Minji unnie thinks they’re cute!" you declared, as if that settled the argument once and for all.

Hanni, never one to back down, smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but she didn’t say they weren’t dumb and corny, though," she pointed out, her eyes widening innocently as she added, "Just saying."

You gasped dramatically, playfully glaring at her. "Shut up." you laughed, swatting her arm, but the teasing was all in good fun.

You turned back to Minji, who had been silently watching the exchange with an amused expression. You knew how to get her on your side. Looking up at her with your biggest, most irresistible puppy-dog eyes, you pouted slightly. "They’re not corny, right, unnie?" you asked, your voice soft and sweet, almost pleading.

Minji glanced at you and immediately felt her resolve weakening. The sight of your pleading eyes and that small pout was almost too much for her. *Why do they have to be so cute?* she thought, fighting the urge to smile too widely. Her eyes briefly flickered away from you, cheeks flushing ever so slightly.

"Ah…" she hesitated, her cheeks flushing lightly. She was losing her composure, and it was painfully obvious.

Before you could press her further, Minji quickly turned to the camera, changing the subject in an attempt to save herself. "Have you all been doing well?" she asked the fans, her voice gentle and calming as she tried to refocus on them.

Hanni burst into laughter, immediately catching on to Minji’s tactics, while you let out an exasperated whine, leaning into Minji’s arm. "Don’t change the subject!" you pouted, tugging gently on her sleeve.

But Minji, still flustered, continued to talk to the fans, clearly pretending she didn’t hear you. "We ate jap chae earlier," she answered another fan’s question, nodding as if nothing had happened.

"Whatever…" you muttered, playfully sulking as you leaned closer to the phone, reading the comments to distract yourself. Your eyes scanned the screen, then you paused at one of the questions. "Where is Y/N sitting? I only see two chairs," you read aloud, your heart racing a little at the realization.

Minji, remained calm, though you could feel her body tense slightly next to you. Hanni, on the other hand, noticed the comment immediately and grinned like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse. She was about to say something when you suddenly blurted out, "Uhh… what kind of shoes do frogs wear?" You rushed to change the subject, trying to deflect attention from the fact that you were sitting on Minji’s lap the entire time.

"Open toa-" Before you could finish your joke, Hanni reacted quickly. "Nooo!" she gasped, half-laughing as she reached over to clamp her hand over your mouth, stopping you mid-joke. "We do not need more of your corny jokes right now." she exclaimed dramatically, laughing as she did so.

The sudden movement made you wobble slightly, but Minji’s grip on your waist instantly tightened, steadying you before you could fall forward. The warmth of her hands and the solid feel of her hold made your heart flutter, even as you felt your face heat up in embarrassment.

Minji, for her part, stayed quiet, her face calm but her ears tinged with pink. Her grip on your waist hadn’t loosened, and you could feel the way her fingers gently brushed against your side, almost absentmindedly. You glanced up at her, catching the slight blush on her cheeks as she looked straight ahead, trying to act nonchalant. But the way her eyes flickered told you she was just as flustered as you were.

PHONING LIVE: 02/20/24

“I’m not great at winking, but Haerin is really—” Minji’s sentence was cut off by a series of soft knocks on the door.

“Unnie, have you seen my headphones?” a muffled voice called out, and the door creaked open slightly, revealing you peeking in with just half of your face visible. Your eyes quickly found Minji, who was wearing a familiar pair of headphones—your headphones.

“Minji,” you whispered softly, careful not to disrupt the live stream. "hm?" Minji glanced at you briefly, her gaze flicking back to the camera as she continued talking to the bunnies.

You stepped closer, a playful pout forming on your lips. “Unnie, those are my headphones. Can I please have them back?”

Minji, ever the picture of composure, pulled one ear of the headphones off just enough to hear you better. With mock innocence, she looked up at you and blinked. “Oh, these headphones?” She gestured vaguely to them, her voice full of playful disbelief. “You mean these?”

You nodded, crossing your arms dramatically. “Yes, those headphones. You borrowed them, like, a week ago.”

Minji leaned back in her chair, the wheels creaking slightly as she put on her most innocent expression. “They’re really comfy. I’ve kind of gotten attached to them.” She then looked at you closely, her eyes trailing down to the oversized hoodie you were wearing. “And speaking of borrowing things,” she tilted her head, “isn’t that my hoodie you’re wearing?”

You glanced down at the soft fabric enveloping you, then back up at Minji with a sheepish grin. “Uh, maybe? I was cold!” you admitted with a small giggle, pulling the hoodie’s sleeves over your hands for emphasis. “And it’s super cozy. Besides, you’re always stealing my stuff too, so it’s only fair.”

Minji turned back to the camera with a lighthearted tone. “See, Bunnies? This is how Y/N shows her love—by raiding my wardrobe!” She glanced at you, gesturing in your direction with her hand, her expression softening. “But, you do look cute in it. It suits you.”

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, and you quickly brushed it off, rolling your eyes. “Thanks, But I still want my headphones back. Pleeease?” you added with an exaggerated, dramatic plea, dragging the word out like a toddler begging for candy

Minji let out a soft chuckle before pulling off the headphones and holding them out to you. “Alright, But you owe me one. I’ll expect my hoodie back soon, or else.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with hers, and rolled your eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your hoodie back… someday. Maybe,” you whispered with a teasing lilt, before dashing out of the room. You knew she’d probably invite you to join the live, but all you really wanted was to collapse onto your bed and enjoy some music

My friend helped me think of prompts because I mentally cannot think of one</3