#at least that's how it was for me and James

[horsesandfreckles]

Following many jokes on twitter about Marco the vampire who is mentally stuck in the fifties and kind of grossed out by the concept of biting people…I found my self doing this in an attempt to break my writers block. It’s choppy and awkwardly paced and kind of generic, but hey, it’s complete and about 5000 words, and hopefully having something out there in the world will make working on commissions a little less like pulling teeth.  Here ya go guys! Enjooyy.

God what a dork.

(Mild content warning, a little blood and sooort of blood play, I guess? He’s a vampire, you know what you’re getting in to)

There are things in life that just kind of blindside you.  Situations where you find yourself looking back over a long string of decisions, all of which seemed very reasonable at the time, very normal, very blah, all of which lead you to this completely incomprehensible place. 

Like, you know how the Mythbusters talk about having those “What the hell are we doing?” moments, when they’re about to drop a car out of a helicopter or blow up a robotic shark or whatever.  Or there’s those people who end up in extreme survival situations, like the movie where James Franco had to cut his arm off with a pocket knife.  (At least they tell me that’s what happened.  There is no amount of money, booze, or shirtless James Franco that would have gotten me into that theatre.)

Or there’s me, Jean Kirchstein, fairly normal 23 year old, college grad, sitting in the dark slightly woozy from bloodloss and trapped by a vampire.

Okay so it’s like noon and only dark because the curtains are drawn, and I’m only ‘trapped’ because he’s asleep on my chest, because he’s kinda hurt and really tired and…really really fucking cute and I don’t want to wake him up, okay. Even if he is drooling on me a little. 

His fangs retracted a while ago, which I suppose is a good thing ‘cause it means he’s not starving anymore but…the fangs are adorable, alright.  Yeah I should probably be scared of the guy with the set of hollow snake fangs behind his canines, but they kinda poke out and it makes him look like he’s biting his lip all the time and what with the coke-bottle glasses you get this kind of perpetually shocked effect and then he lisps when they fold all the way down and sue me it’s cute.

He’s cute.  He’s probably the worst vampire who ever lived, but he’s cute.

I actually didn’t even see Marco until a couple of weeks after I moved here, for reasons that are pretty obvious now…I moved in July, after all, and even in the Pacific Northwest it gets plenty hot.  And also bright and sunny.  And yeah, I know that sounds like the setup to Twilight, but the first time I saw Marco’s house reminded me of nothing so much as the first half-hour or so of Up.

Bellingham, Washington, where I’d just moved for my new job, isn’t exactly a big town, but the place I’d rented is in one of those sort of left-over hybrid areas, a messy snarl of alleys and old houses and new buildings…lots of gravel and cracked parking lots and not many trees.  And Marco’s house, this little pastel-yellow clapboard house with a blue shingled roof and a white picket fence for Christ’s sake.  No car, no garage, just an old Radio-Flyer bike that he never bothered to chain up, and which somehow never got stolen.  It has a lush green lawn and lots of flowers…at least I was fairly sure they were flowers…or would be…spiky, dark-leafed plants laden with long, heavy buds all furled up tight.  The place was clearly well loved and well cared for, but it was always quiet, heavy curtains closing it up tight as the flower buds during the day. 

I didn’t meet the house’s actual occupant until I pulled my first night shift.  My new job had me working sort of for the Coast Guard and sort of for the University of Seattle and let’s just skip the complicated part and go right to the I get to trap and track goddamn harbor seals okay how awesome is that.  The catch being that someone had to be listening to Seal Radio 24/7 to keep track of our collared critters, so everyone spent one week every few months on night shifts. 

This being late summer, the sun was only just starting to set when I left my building at 9.  The bookstore across the street, built into another old house that had survived the encroachment of fast food and box stores into the general area, was just closing up.  Hanji, the owner, who lives a floor down from me, came out the back door as I headed for my car, chatting with someone I didn’t recognize, a dark-haired guy with big horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like an honest to god Letterman’s jacket.  I barely spared them a glance, though, because I’d stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the yard of the yellow house across the alley.

The flowers were blooming, unfurling as I watched in the dusky half-light, opening into big, silvery-white trumpet blooms…and there were others mixed in with the big, showy ones, little ground creepers and some kind of climbing vine, most of them white but a few blue or yellow or even red, bloody and dark in the dim light.

“You like my flowers?”

Either I’d been really caught up by the show or he moved goddamned silently, because I hadn’t noticed him approach until he was right beside me.

“They’re…” I paused, swallowed, my normal shyness overwhelmed by the gorgeous night blooming garden.  I couldn’t come up with anything but the honest truth. “It’s incredible,” I said, still staring at the flowers.

He didn’t answer right away, and I turned my head in time to see him smile, warm and sweet and incredibly genuine, if a little lopsided.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely.  His glasses were the real deal, coke-bottle thick, but they suited his big eyes and his soft features and the realization was creeping over me that this guy was really cute.  “I wish more people got to see them,” and there was a brief flicker, something dark and sad behind those sweet eyes.  “I’m Marco, by the way.”

“Jean.” His skin was so soft when he shook my hand, it took me a minute to register how cold he was, and he bit his lip nervously, like he wasn’t used to being touched and fuck that was cute.  

My phone buzzed in my pocket, jarring me back to reality and I realized how long I’d been standing in my lot, staring at his garden.  “Fuck.  I mean…sorry, I’ve got to get to work.  I’m on nights this week.”

“When are you done?”

“Probably around 6,” I said, and his face just lit up, and if I’d thought that shy smile was cute…shit…

“We’ve got the same hours,” he said, he’d lost that whispery shyness and gained a faint lisp in his enthusiasm.  “You should come by when you get off, and have breakfast…if…” he dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck over the collar of his too-big 50’s jacket.  “If you want.”

And that was how the night-shift weeks I’d been dreading became my favorite times of the month.  Marco worked freelance for a lot of local antique dealers (Hanji’s bookshop included) doing restorations and repairs, and he explained that working at night suited him best, because it was so easy for sun to damage the delicate items he worked with.  He also claimed to be photosensitive, so he and his antiques avoided the sunlight together. 

It made it easy for me to shrug off the odd blue tinge in his otherwise fairly dark complexion (how someone who almost never saw sunlight could have so many freckles was beyond me.)  And he was so sweet, so welcoming…so easy to talk to that I never really thought twice about…about a lot of things.  Like the fact that every time he made me breakfast he’d load up two plates, but hardly ever ate in front of me.  Like the fact that all the food I’d seen him cook came out of one of those little cube-shaped dorm fridges, plugged in beside a big black freezer with a latched handle that I never saw him open, and if I left after the sun was up he wouldn’t come outside with me. 

It was late September when someone broke into Hanji’s bookshop.  It was a night shift week for me, and I returned home in the morning to find two cop cars parked in our lot and Hanji talking quietly to the officers, pausing occasionally to wipe the tears off her cheeks.  Someone had thrown a rock through the front window of her shop, grabbed anything that looked valuable and trashed the rest.  The cost of the plate-glass window far outweighed the value of what they’d taken, but the sheer stupid pettiness of it made my stomach churn. 

It was cloudy and cool, spitting rain that morning and Marco was outside, sweeping up the glass. I called my boss while Hanji talked to the cops, to lay claim to a couple sheets of plywood that had been lying around our dumpsters so we could cover the window.  Then I went to help Marco clean up the mess. 

By unspoken agreement we made Hanji stay inside, out of the rain, while we worked. She called her one employee, a sweet Classic Lit major named Moblit by loving, if unwise parents, to tell him not to bother coming to work.  He showed up anyway, after his classes got out, and joined her trying to piece the inventory back together while Marco and I tried to patch the window. Despite the rainclouds Marco swapped out his coke-bottles for a pair of wraparound sunglasses, and the faint daylight made the weird pallor of his skin all the more noticeable. We didn’t talk much, both of us running on righteous indignation and too little sleep, which is a bad combination for dealing with massive amounts of broken glass.  It was really only a matter of time, and to no-one’s surprise it was me who broke the silence in an explosion of cursing, a long sliver of glass poking straight through the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. 

“Fuckin’ piece of shit, Jesus Murphy…Marrco, where’d that towel go?” I tugged at the splinter only to have my fingers slip off in the blood…a lot of blood for such a minor slice and of course it was my dominant left hand I’d managed to fuck up.  “Marco?”

I looked up to find him staring at me, frozen, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses.  He was rigid, shoulders trembling under that dumb green jacket, sweat beading up on his forehead.  “You okay man?” I asked. 

He seemed to shake himself, and reached down to pick up an old rag off the toolbox Hanji had dragged out of the basement, his movements still weird and stilted. I reached out unthinkingly with my left hand, still coated in sticky streams of blood from the puncture in my thumb, and Marco reared back, lips parting and he honest-to-god hissed at me, the sound harsh and feral and just entirely wrong coming from my sweet neighbor.  His sunglasses slipped and he clapped a hand over his eyes, turning away from me too fast.

“Can’t…I can’t, can’t sorry—“ his voice sounded odd, slurred like he was talking around a mouthful of marbles and then he turned and ran, scrambling over the fence and disappearing through the door of his little yellow house with a snap. The blue curtains flew closed a second later.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself, awkwardly wrapping the towel around my bleeding hand.  Poor guy must be hemophobic…and he’d been dealing with glass all day, when getting cut up was practically guaranteed…

Mo got the splinter out of my hand and helped me finish covering the empty window, and I retreated to my apartment to grab a couple hours of sleep before my Seal Radio shift started.  I was running late when I emerged again, a shuffling zombie with a throbbing hand, but I still had to pause on the doorstep to appreciate Marco’s flowers…nearly October, but his little garden continued to put on one hell of a show as soon as the sun went down. 

If he hadn’t been such a good gardener, I never would have stopped to watch his flowers bloom…and I never would have seen him.  He was sitting on the front steps of Hanji’s bookstore, curled up inside his letterman’s jacket, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms resting on top of them, practically hugging himself.  And still wearing his sunglasses at 9:30…clearly there was only one choice of song to hum as I wandered over on the way to my car.

“Hey.”

“Mm.” he didn’t look up at me, barely even made a sound.

“Hey man, sorry about earlier.  I didn’t realize you had a thing about—“  Marco just shook his head, waving me off.

“Don’ worry about it.” He still sounded weird, his normal lisp more pronounced and his words slurred and tired.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I told Hanji I’d keep watch. In case they come back.”

“You’re keeping watch?” I couldn’t help but grin.  Little skinny Marco in his 50’s jacket and his Buddy Holly glasses and his goddamn bowtie.  Marco the watchdog.  “You’re sure you don’t just wanna leave it to the police?”

“I told her I’d keep watch,” he said stubbornly, still with that faint, drunken slur.  It was cool, verging on chilly as the sun went down, but that speech pattern made the boy-scout medic in me perk up its ears.

I knelt down next to Marco and pressed my hand to his forehead.  He started and moved to slap me away, but I’d already felt plenty.  He was hot to the touch, in that unhealthy, feverish way, heat overlaying clammy cold, his hands trembled, and I was close enough to see that his lips were dry and cracked.  His skin was tacky with dried sweat, but there was no new moisture on his skin…fuckin’ hell, he was not kidding about the photosensitivity.

“Marco, get inside.”

“I told her—“

“I’ll ask the cops to drive by, come on.”  Don’t ask me how, it hadn’t cracked 70 degrees all day, but I’d been first aid officer on too many research boats not to recognize these symptoms. “You’ve got heatstroke, genius.”

I tugged him to his feet, ignoring his grumpy protests.  He swayed heavily when I got him up, leaning into me, head sagging against my shoulder.  “Noooo, noo Jean ‘m fine…”

“You are not fine, buddy.  Come on.”

He kept up a trail of woozy protests as I steered him across his lawn and into his little house’s kitchen.   He was still hot, but he’d stopped sweating and that spelled major-league dehydration.  How he’d managed to avoid puking up major organ systems was beyond me…must not have eaten much today. 

I was just a little reluctant to sit him down at the kitchen table…it probably makes me a terrible person, but whatever, it was nice, having his weight pressing into me, my arm snug around his waist as he leaned on me.  It was sweet. Comforting.  And a reminder that I’d lived here three months already and barely made any friends.  A reminder that no one had touched me for a long time.  Long enough that hauling my heatsick neighbor in to his house was making my stomach flutter.  Jean Kirchstein, functional adult human in every way…

At least I knew how to handle heatsickness. I deposited Marco in a chair and drew him a big glass of water.  Some kind of sugary juice would be good too, but dehydration was the first problem to be dealt with here. 

I held out the glass, and he just…stared, blank and confused, looking from me to the glass in my hand like I was offering him a live armadillo. He still hadn’t moved to take his sunglasses off. I stared back, confused by his confusion.

“What’s that for?”

“What’s it for—you’re dehydrated, dumbshit.” I picked his arm up by the loose sleeve of that damn jacket and slapped the glass into it.  “Drink.”

“Oh…oh!” he started, finally getting the picture (poor guy was loopier than I thought) and actually started to take the glass—and then he froze, lips peeling back from his teeth, and his hand jerked, batting my arm away and sending the glass flying, water splashing over both of us. 

It only took me a second to realize what was wrong…the bloodstained gauze pad taped to the base of my thumb.  I snatched my hand back, jamming it my pocket to hide the stain.  Dumbass.  He remembered that I liked half and half in hazelnut coffee for most of a month, and I couldn’t remember a major phobia for three hours.

“Shit, Marco, I’m sorr..y…” the apology died in my throat as Marco’s sunglasses, knocked loose by his sudden jerk, slipped down his wet nose and clattered to the floor. 

His eyes were glowing. 

Not in the cheesy bad-fanfiction sense…not even like a cat’s eyes reflecting light in the dark. His eyes were literally casting light, a faint golden haze on his cheeks, his hands, even faintly visible on the floor as he dropped his eyes to avoid my face.  It made his skin look paler…or maybe that wasn’t just an effect of the light…

I couldn’t breathe.

“Water won’t help,” he whispered, soft and indistinct.  He was practically curled in on himself by this point, clutching at the sleeves of his too-big jacket, his fingers shaking and I still couldn’t breathe right but I was also finding it impossible to be scared.  Whatever he was, he was still Marco and I just couldn’t believe he would hurt me.  I crossed the kitchen and knelt down next to him, and he twisted his face away.

“Marco…” I reached out and put both hands on his shoulders, felt him shiver inside his jacket when my bloodstained left hand touched him.  “What can I do?”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me, just raised one hand and pointed across the kitchen to the big black freezer, the palm of his other hand pressed over his eyes.  I squeezed his shoulders before I stood, took a deep breath and pulled the heavy latched door open.

The door swung back with a blast of serious cold, condensing mist swirling and settling around racks of…blood packs.

It barely even came as a surprise. 

I lifted one of the hanging packs down, oddly heavy and gelatinous to the touch.  Seattle Medical Center, AB+, exp. 21-07-2014…it was expired.  I looked at another label, and another…all expired.

“I don’t take O-negative either,” Marco mumbled behind me as I stared at the bag of blood in my hand.  “’s too valuable, even expired.  I don’t take anything they can still use…”

Here I was, standing in a vampire’s kitchen with a fresh stab wound in my hand, holding a bag of human blood from his personal refrigerator…

And he’s the one who sounded scared. 

I very deliberately stuck my left hand back in my pocket and held out the bag in my right.  He still wouldn’t look at me, the light from his glowing eyes a faint pool on the floor of the rapidly darkening room.  Eventually, I just set the thing down on the tabletop, next to his hand, and stepped back.

“Thankth,” he whispered, lisp more pronounced than ever, and then he finally looked up at me, those big, kind eyes glowing gold, backlit like sunlight through a glass of whiskey.  His canines were elongated now; the points would have been poking into his bottom lip even if he hadn’t been worrying it nervously between his teeth.  He looked different without his glasses…less round, soft edges, his hair was ruffled out of its normal dorky center part, falling into his lit up eyes…he almost looked cool.

“Jean…turn around?”

“Hah?”

His eyes dropped again as he picked up the blood pack off the table.  “Don’ look.  Don’ watch me…pleathe?” His voice was shaky, pleading, and I gritted my teeth and turned away, hearing him hunch over the plastic pack.

There was a faint pop, like a straw going into a juice pouch…silence…and then, right at the edge of hearing, a faint slurping sound, like a straw at the bottom of a milkshake.

His fangs must be hollow, I thought. Like snake fangs. And the longer that ridiculous noise went on, the harder it was getting not to laugh. 

“O-okay,” he stammered eventually.  The trashcan lid clattered and I turned around, searching his face as he avoided my eyes.  There wasn’t a speck of blood anywhere on him, until he licked his lips nervously, his tongue leaving a tiny streak across his lower lip.  He pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves and hugged himself, huddled up in his shell of green leather.

We stood there in awkward silence.  I mean, what do you say when you’ve just found out that your sweet, shy night-owl of a neighbor is a vampire.  A freckly socially awkward vampire who dresses like he’s stuck in the fifties and only drinks expired donor blood.  And never O-negative. 

Dork.

Marco shivered, gritting his teeth, and for someone who was supposed to be recovering from dehydration he sure didn’t look much better.  If anything he’d gotten paler, the shadows under his eyes darker and heavier.

“You okay, man?”

He nodded, smiling crookedly.  “It’s the cold…gh…” he groaned softly as another shiver tore down his spine.  “Give it a minute…I uh.” He sighed. “I don’t generate much body heat, y’know?”

“You get your warmth from the blood, don’t you?” I said, coming a little closer.  He still wouldn’t look at me.  “Drinking it frozen hurts you.”

Marco shrugged.  He was still shivering, but the eerie glow had faded out of his eyes.  He gnawed at his lower lip, a fang digging into the corner of his mouth, we were only a few feet apart and in that second, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around him seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. 

I slid my arms around his waist and pulled him against me, folding his heavy jacket around both of us.  It was kind of like hugging a block of ice.

You know. In a good way. 

“Mmm…J—Jean��“

“This okay?” I asked.  I’d intended it to be a tender whisper, but the second my lips parted I got a mouthful of hair, and the result was kind of choked.  He laughed weakly and his cold face pressed into my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that was only mostly from the cold. 

“More than okay,” he said, sighing into my shoulder, his arms tight around my neck, and I gave into temptation and nuzzled my face into his soft hair.

“Hey. Which way’s your bedroom?” Marco went ramrod stiff in my arms, head popping out of the crook of my shoulder, hair sticking up in all directions as he opened his mouth, mouthing soundlessly at me.  “I was gonna get your frozen butt a blanket, dumbass.”

“O-oh.” He looked down, embarrassed…and maybe it was my imagination, but he might have looked just a little disappointed…”It’s this way…”

He still looked cold and sick as he led me down the hall.  His bedroom was tiny, cozy, and mostly occupied by a huge, fluffy-looking four-poster bed.  I looked around as he sat down on the edge and picked up his comforter, suddenly very aware of the throbbing cut on my left hand,

“Hey…Marco.”  He looked up at me, glasses still pushed up on his forehead making his hair stick up in all directions, cocooned in his comforter and fucking adorable…I sat down next to him, picking up a loose end of the blanket so I could wrap it around both of us, sharing my heat.  ”You know there’s an alternative to the whole frozen blood thing, right?”  He blinked, looking confused, and I pulled my bandaged hand out of my pocket and held it up in his line of sight.

He looked away instantly, gritting his teeth.  “No.” he whispered, shaking his head hard enough to make his bangs snap against his skin, but his eyes were giving off that odd light again. “No no no…”

“I’m already cut,” I said, settling my uninjured hand on his shoulder, letting my thumb brush against his neck.  “You drink donated blood, right? Just consider it a donation straight to you.”  He glanced up at me through his bangs, enough to see that I was smiling, and huffed out a laugh. 

“It’ll make you feel better, right?”

He sighed and nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It’d help…”

“Okay then.” I picked the tape over the back of my hand loose and tugged off the gauze, a little droplet of blood welling up where the scab pulled off, and Marco was suddenly breathing very fast beside me, under the confines of his quilt.  I crooked my fingers, and his hand shot out and locked around my wrist, shackle-tight.

“Say I’ve got your permission,” he said, voice soft and tight.

“Marco, it’s fine—“

“Say it!” he said.  “The whole thing, just say you give me permission…”

“Ohhh is this like the threshold thing?” I said, sitting up straighter, pulling my feet up onto the bed so I could turn to face him. “Can’t cross the threshold unless you’re invited, one of the vampire rules?”  Marco just looked away again.

“It’s one of my rules,” he mumbled.

“Marco…” I took his hand and flipped it over, laying the back of my cut hand across his palm.  “I’m giving you my permission to drink my blood.” He shivered, not from the cold this time, fingers tightening around my hand. 

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.  And among the things I am sure of, I am sure it is not possible for you to drain me of blood via my thumb.”

He finally laughed, really laughed, the weird gold light cast by his eyes skating across my face, and raised my hand to his lips.  I took a deep breath, my heart suddenly fluttering against my ribs, as he met my eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to the center of my palm.

“M-marco—“ the tip of his tongue flicked across the cut at the base of my thumb. The surface of his tongue was a little abrasive, like a cat’s, wiping away the scab and I felt a faint sting as the blood began to flow.  His fangs had extended…and I realized his teeth didn’t grow, he had an entire second set of canines that folded down from behind, up near the roof of his mouth.  He seemed to be holding them back though, out of the way (so they dug into his bottom lip, fucking adorable nerd) and a warm, tingling sensation flooded through my hand, up my arm and across my chest in a wave.  I was biting my own lip, wriggling and squirming as his tongue flicked over the cut, over the blood pooling in my palm, that warmth running through me in little shocks fuck did that feel good…

I pitched foreward, leaning into him, our foreheads pressed together and his fingers tightened on my wrist, thumb running in soft little circles over the sensitive skin as his lips closed over my skin.  His other hand came up, still a little hesitant, cupped around the back of my neck and his touch was no longer icy cold, warming up by the second as his long fingers trailed through the shorter hair at the nape of my neck. 

“Marco…M-marco, fuck that feels good…”

“I-I…Jean, you taste nice,” he whispered into my skin, his lips bright red with blood, my blood that should be grossing me out, but fuck if that sight didn’t go straight to my dick.  “You taste so good—“  and the wonder in his voice made me laugh.

“I wondered if you’d notice…” I said, my voice sounded blown out and breathless in my own ears and his fingers tightened in my hair.  “I’m O-negative.”

“Really?” He pulled off my hand and sat up, and the second he was distracted his fangs slipped down all the way, slotting in over his human canines.  “That’th why you tathte tho different!  I alwayth wondered…Jean thtop laughing…”

“I-I’m sorry,” I choked, between gasps of laughter.  “I can’t…it’s the teeth.”

“They’re thupothed to be thcary.” He sniffed, attempting to look haughty, wrapped in a blanket with his hair all fluffed up and his stupid protruding fangs, and with the warmth of my blood in his cheeks he was honest to god blushing and I really had no other option but to kiss him. 

He gasped into my mouth, and then his eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing my cheeks and he was kissing me back, arms winding around my neck and pulling me hard against him and I pressed the advantage, tipping us over sideways so we were lying face to face in his huge fluffy bed, his quilts tangled around us and our hands still twined together between our chests. 

“You’re so…mm…so…warm,” he stammered out, kissing me between every word and it felt like my heart was about to beat its way out of my chest. 

“You’re so cute.”

“Thcary, Kirthschth…you know what I’m not even going to try.”

I giggled, kissing him again.  “Scary, you say.”

His hands locked around my wrists again and the next thing I knew I was on my back, Marco leaning over me so we were nose to nose.  “Jean?” he purred, fangs folding back a little so they impeded his speech less and his voice was suddenly low and husky, vibrating through me where our chests pressed together.

“Y-yeah?”

“I am the night,” he rasped, and I almost kneed him in the back of the head as I doubled up with laughter.  Marco giggled and collapsed on top of me, curling up on my chest.

“You okay?”

“The night is sleepy.”

I smiled and scooted back, pulling him with me till I could lean into the mass of pillows, cuddling him close against my chest.  “Shit…I need to call my boss…”

His arms wrapped tight around my waist and I might as well have been chained to the bed. (File that idea away for future reference.)

“The night says you make a good pillow.”

“You are such a nerd.”

He leaned up and kissed me again, before flopping back down on my chest. “Shhhhhh.”

“Marco—“ a lacy pillow slapped me across the face.

“Shhhhhhhhhh.”

“I’ll just have to tell you you’re gorgeous and perfect and wonderful some other time, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I rolled my eyes up at ceiling, glad it was dark enough to hide my goofy-ass grin, and fished in my pocked for my cell phone as Marco grumbled into my chest.

How the fuck was I gonna explain this to my boss…

In which Marco is the worst vampire ever. Just. The Worst.

Following many jokes on twitter about Marco the vampire who is mentally stuck in the fifties and kind of grossed out by the concept of biting people…I found my self doing this in an attempt to break my writers block. It’s choppy and awkwardly paced and kind of generic, but hey, it’s complete and about 5000 words, and hopefully having something out there in the world will make working on commissions a little less like pulling teeth.  Here ya go guys! Enjooyy.

God what a dork.

(Mild content warning, a little blood and sooort of blood play, I guess? He’s a vampire, you know what you’re getting in to)

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apartment hunt - remus lupin

remus lupin x potter!reader secret relationship au summary: when sirius reveals he's moving out of the potter household to fleamont and euphemia, you and james decide to reveal to him some exciting news wc: 1k+

The living room is completely silent other than the occasional sound Euphemia Potter makes as she sips her tea. You sit facing her, next to the fireplace as she flips over to the next page of her book, humming quietly. It’s been difficult, this past week, trying not to say anything. You and James had discussed moving out of the manor and finding a flat with Remus and Sirius — you liked the idea, but was it too soon? Neither of you even had jobs yet, and the security of living with your parents was nice.

It’s time for you to say something. You know Sirius hadn’t told your parents yet, but your mum would be able to keep things between you. At least for a little while.

Euphemia lifts her eyes from her book, finding you squirming on the rug. She lifts her eyebrows at you. You open your mouth, then promptly shut it. She shuts her book, setting it aside. Your mother only looks at you, waiting patiently for you to begin speaking. So you do. “Sirius told James and I that he’s thinking of moving out.”

“Oh.”

“He and Remus are going to move in together.”

“Oh.” Euphemia pats the spot on the sofa next to her, and you scramble up from the floor to join her, nervously chewing at your bottom lip. “And?” She prompts, lifting her mug to her lips again. “They’ve basically extended the invitation to me and James. Not extended, but-”

“You were always invited.” She finishes for you. You nod slowly. “What are you thinking?” You sigh deeply, moving your gaze to the fireplace again. You carefully pick your words, curious for your mother's opinion without revealing too much. “I- we don’t even have jobs yet, and I don’t know if I want to move out so soon. You know, we’ve just been at Hogwarts for seven years, and I like being around you and dad.”

“Honey, if you move out, it doesn’t mean you won’t see us. I’ll be expecting you for dinner every night.” You smile at your mother’s words, recognising the genuineness in them.

“If we move in, me and Remus will share a room.”

It’s your mother’s turn to smile, and one of her hands reaches out to brush some hair away from your face. “Yeah? How does James feel about it.”

“At first he was, you know, the usual James. But he’s okay with it. He says he gets how much we love each other, and he knows the relationship is really serious. And if I ever get sick of Remus, I can hide in his room. I just- I just don’t want to do this if I have any doubts.”

“And do you have any doubts?”

“Not doubts. But, worries. In general. I’d like for us to all find jobs before doing this.”

“You’re just like your father. He’s always been a worrier.”

“What did you just call me!?” The mock offended voice that cries out comes from the door to the backyard. Your dad and James are making their way into the house, and your mother raises her eyebrows at the sight of brooms in their hands. “I thought we agreed that brooms stay outside.”

Your dad pushes his broom into James’s chest, and your brother scurries back to put them in the shed. When he returns, you notice how flushed his face is, and how his shirt clings to his back, spots of sweat seeping through the fabric.

“Where’s Sirius?” You ask, waiting for the third man to show up. James runs a hand through his sweaty curls, a grin on his face. “Guess.”

“Is he showering?” Your mum assumes, and James points two finger guns at her in victory. But then soft dabbing of feet on the stairs reveals that Sirius is out of the shower. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a letter in front of him.

“Um, I have an announcement to make.”

“Sirius, love, we know you’re gay.” Your dad says, and you giggle joyfully, pressing a hand to your mouth when Sirius glares at you. “Come sit down, honey.” Your mother says, and all three men obey her words, taking a seat in the living room. James settles on your retired spot on the rug, and your dad stretches his limbs as he sits on an armchair.

“I’m moving out.” Sirius says, and your eyes go wide. You didn’t think he’d do it so soon. “Well, when I find a flat and everything. But, yeah, uh, I got an internship with Ollivander.”

“Ollivander!?” You cry, rising from your place on the couch and snatching the acceptance letter Sirius held. You quickly scan through it, jaw dropping lower and lower as you realise he is telling the truth. “Sirius, Ollivander never takes interns! Like - ever. Wow, congratulations” Sirius grins, face flushing brightly when you lean down to wrap your arms around him proudly.

The rest of your family follows immediately, standing up to give him celebratory hugs. Sirius wrinkles his nose when James hugs him, and he mutters “You seriously need a shower, mate.”

“Yeah, alright, come on.” James wraps and arm around Sirius’s shoulders, and with one last glance to your parents, you follow the two boys upstairs, into James’s room. The door shuts behind you, and you linger in front of the closed doors, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You glance towards James, who looks at you quickly before turning his gaze towards Sirius again.

“Uh, you know, if the invitation is still open, I think we’re gonna join you and Remus.” Sirius grins unbelievably wide, and he jumps up from the bed, glancing back and forth between you both. “Yeah,” You confirm, “And I think sooner than expected too. I got accepted for an internship at the Magical office of Law. It starts at the end of summer.”

“Yeah, and my auror training does too.”

“Auror training? Your internship? You guys both-?” Sirius cuts himself off with a loud laugh, jumping up and down with his arms extended. He pulls you into a hug first, releasing you from his grip only to hug James. “Does-does Remus know?”

You glance down at your feet, nodding guiltily. “Yeah, I told Remus.”

“When did you tell Remus!?” James cries, head snapping towards you.

“Like two minutes after I told you.”

“I see how it is.”

“Our parents don’t know though.”

“Does this mean we can start apartment hunting?”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh, @slytherin-princess-x, @daydreamandforget, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @5sospenguinqueen, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @rhettsluvr, @iluvhrj

[prettydaisygirl]

lovely amber would you be interested in writing something about gym bro!james potter? i fear i can’t stop thinking about his muscles 🥵🫦… and i think you’d work magic w this sort of au! maybe things are getting flirty between james and the girl who works at the check in counter at his gym, but would love n appreciate anything! feel free to ignore if inspiration doesn’t strike x 🫶

jolie!!! Thank you so much for this request, I am absolutely obsessed with gymbro!James, I want to bite his biceps plz and thank youuuuu. Hope you enjoy this one <3

gymbro!James Potter x frontdesk!reader who needs to eat breakfast ✿ 950 words

cw: fem!reader, James' biceps are all I can think about, reader is sleepy

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You don’t bother looking up at the light ‘ding’ that sounds as the front doors slide open. You yawn, sitting back in your chair, having just sat back down from unlocking them. The sound of footsteps head in the direction of your desk, right on time.

“Good morning, James.” You greet, peeking one eye open. You’re exhausted and want to rest your eyes for a little longer but you’d be doing yourself a disservice if you didn’t catch at least a glimpse of him as he walks by.

“Good morning!” A human embodiment of a ray of sunshine even this early in the morning, James Potter beams brightly at you. The fabric of his tank-top is loose, the sleeveless nature of it giving you an unblocked view of his biceps, and even a little bit of the side of his chest. You soak in the view as much as you can regardless of if he notices or not. He steps up to the counter, but doesn’t swipe his card right away. Instead, he says, “I brought you something.”

This catches your attention, making you sit up, rubbing at your eyes a bit. “Oh yeah?” 

He swings his bag around in front of him and opens it, pulling out a brown bag and handing it to you over the counter. It’s warm when you take it, and when you open it, you see it’s a breakfast sandwich.

“James, you didn’t-”

“You mentioned how you don’t usually eat breakfast. You should, though. Remus tells me it’s the most important meal of the day!” He flashes you a wink, and somehow you feel incredibly awake despite the early morning hours. 

“Well… thank you?” You smile back at him, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be doing jumping jacks in your chest. It almost takes your breath away, how pretty he is. 

“You’re welcome! I’ll see you later!” James waves again as he finally swipes his card, followed by a small beeping sound, and he’s off, ducking away into the locker room. 

You eat your sandwich in silence, eyes focused on James through the glass windows of the gym walls as he lifts. You barely glance up at the rest of the patrons that enter, waving them on once their card beeps. 

James is the perfect entertainment, given that everything he does is hot. Your stomach flutters when he curls his biceps, when he drinks water, when he wipes sweat off, all of it. 

This is a routine for you. James is always the first one in the gym, in the doors right as you unlock them. When you’re stumbling over your feet, trying to get a few more minutes of sleep before your boss shows up, James has already had a protein shake with preworkout and a warm up. You don’t know how he does it but you’re so incredibly grateful he does it in front of you. The breakfast, though, that’s new. He’s said good morning before, the two of you exchanging casual pleasantries, but never more than that. You had mentioned last week that you usually don’t eat breakfast, a combination of the early morning shift and not feeling hungry when you're still waking up. You didn’t think anything of it at the time, but…

He brings you a sandwich the next morning, too.

“Oh, thank you!” You say, more awake this morning when he walks in. You take the bag from his hands, setting it aside and smiling at him. “You really don’t have to.”

“Did you already eat breakfast?” He asks, his hands absent-mindedly playing with one of his sweatbands. 

“Well… no.”

“Then, I did have to.” James smiles again, and he is so bright and beautiful you think he might blind you. “Can’t have you wasting away. Then who would let me in?”

“You know they would replace me the moment I keel over.” You argue, opening the bag to pull out the sandwich, setting it on a napkin next to you. “I don’t even think it would take a day.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you.” James argues with a shake of his head, his curls bouncing just slightly, mostly held in place by his headband. “I’d have to find a different gym.”

Well, that certainly had your heart racing. 

The third time he brings you breakfast, you give him a look.

“You have to stop doing this.” You say, leaning forward on your elbows to smile up at him, lips glossier than usual. If you actually woke up early to doll up a little bit before you saw him this morning, then who can blame you? “Don’t get me wrong, the sandwich is great, but isn’t this expensive?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, his dark eyes sparkling, and a smile on his lips. “Guess you’ll have to repay me.”

“Oh?” 

“You’ll have to take me out to breakfast sometime.” His words reach you, that twinkle in his eye brighter than before. You find your breath catching. Is he asking you out, by telling you to take him out?

“Okay.” You say with a nod, a little breathless but the both of you brighten further at your agreement. “We can- um- after your workout sometime?”

James sends you a wink and a nod, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Sounds great, love. See you later!” 

You watch as he walks past you into the locker room, feeling a bit light headed. You’re pretty sure James just asked you to ask him on a date. And you did. 

You’re going to go on a date with James Potter.

You can’t help but blush when he catches you watching him through the windows this time.

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[itsnesss]

could we please please please get a super sleepy and jet lagged Ollie falling asleep anywhere and everywhere and reader has to wake him up every time they have to do something or go somewhere cause he doesn’t get grumpy with her and it happens like 10 times in a day until they get back to the hotel and he can finally sleep

𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐠 | oliver bearman × fem!reader

summary | ollie spends the whole day falling asleep everywhere, standing, in interviews because he’s completely exhausted

warnings | gf!reader, fluff, chronic sleepiness clingy, ridiculously sweet boyfriend

word count | 1.1 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

"I didn’t sleep at all on the flight," Ollie mumbles while you check the day’s itinerary on your phone. He’s leaning against the wall of the hotel elevator, eyes almost shut, arms crossed, like standing is pure torture.

"You had an entire row to yourself," you remind him with a smile. He just tilts his head slightly, not even opening his eyes properly.

"And I still didn’t sleep," he replies in that low, raspy voice he only has when he’s really, really tired.

The elevator reaches the lobby. You start walking, but don’t hear his steps behind you. You turn around.

Ollie’s still there, leaning against the elevator mirror. Asleep. Standing up.

"Ollie," you say softly, walking back to gently poke his arm with two fingers. He startles a little, blinking like he just woke up from the deepest sleep.

"I’m awake," he mumbles, but it sounds like his mouth is full of cotton.

"No, you weren’t."

You laugh quietly, and he does too, half-smiling. He tilts his head toward you and his hand reaches for yours. He walks with you through the lobby without letting go.

You have breakfast on a terrace at the hotel. You’re talking to someone from the press team, and when you turn to show something to Ollie, you find him asleep again. Sitting in the chair, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, still holding a napkin.

"Ollie," you whisper, nudging his shoulder. No reaction.

You try again.

This time his eyelashes flutter and he slowly turns his head toward you.

"I don’t feel alive," he whispers.

"You’ve got three interviews in an hour. Let’s go, zombie."

"Just give me... five more minutes…"

He doesn’t complain. He’s not in a bad mood. He just rests his head on your shoulder and closes his eyes.

And for a moment, you let him. Because like that sleeping and trusting you so much, he looks really adorable.

By the time you get to the circuit, you’ve already lost count of how many times you’ve had to wake him up. But you’re pretty sure it’s at least five.

The ride was quiet… until you realized Ollie wasn’t answering anything you said. You turned your head and there he was—cheek pressed against the window, seatbelt half-off, neck bent in a way that looked painful.

"Ollie…"

Nothing.

"Oliver James Bearman," you say firmly.

He opens his eyes just a little.

"Am I dead?" he whispers, totally disoriented.

"No, but if you don’t wake up properly, you’re going to look like it when we get to hospitality."

The moment he steps into the paddock, Ollie changes. He smiles, looks more awake. Almost like he’s fine. He chats with the engineers, adjusts his cap, nods like he understands everything. For a second you think he’s snapped out of it… until you see him.

He’s sitting at the back of the garage on a bench. Holding a water bottle. Asleep again.

"No," you mutter as you walk over. "No way."

There he is, sitting completely still. Cap covering his eyes, bottle still in hand, lips parted.

You crouch in front of him.

"Ollie… that’s nap number six."

He barely opens one eye, groans softly, and starts falling forward. You catch him with both hands before he faceplants.

"I swear I’m going to lock you in a padded room if you keep this up," you say, half joking, half serious.

"Yes please… with air conditioning…" he mumbles, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

You sigh. Because you love him a lot… but he’s spent half the day dozing off like a cartoon character.

Nap number seven is on a stack of tires.

Eight is in a golf cart while you wait to move around the circuit. His head’s resting on your leg, like there’s no people or noise or cameras around.

And the ninth… happens in the middle of an interview.

Yes. In. The. Middle. Of. An. Interview.

You’re standing behind the cameras, watching him speak in that calm voice, with that lovely smile. Everything’s going fine until the journalist asks a long question. A very long question.

And you see it. Ollie stops blinking… his head drops a little…

"Is he sleeping with his eyes open?" someone whispers.

"I think he is," you reply, motioning for someone to nudge him.

He reacts just in time, laughs like nothing happened, and gives a perfect answer. But when he walks back to you after the interview, he looks at you with a desperate expression.

"I think I just dreamed about a talking traffic light… please take me to the hotel.

The drive back is quiet. Barely any words exchanged.

Ollie’s lying down in the backseat, head in your lap, arms crossed, his face finally relaxed. The city passes by outside, but you’re only looking at him.

He breathes deeply, evenly. And even though you swore you’d keep him awake until you got to the room… you can’t bring yourself to do it this time.

There’s something so sweet about how he sleeps like this. So calm. So trusting. Like he knows he’s safe with you.

You gently run your fingers through his hair, and he shifts a little, mumbling something you don’t understand.

"We’re almost there," you whisper.

He opens one eye just enough to see you, then closes it again with a sigh.

"You’re really comfy," he says in that raspy, sleepy voice you love.

Getting to the room feels like a mini mission. He trips over the carpet, drops his jacket on the floor, and sits on the bed like he’s just run a marathon.

"Let me take off your shoes," you say, kneeling in front of him.

"You’re an angel," he murmurs.

He doesn’t move, just lets you help him. When you finish and stand up, he’s already lying on his side, face buried in the pillow like it’s the best thing in the world.

"Ten naps," you whisper. "Ten. You even slept in a golf cart."

"I also slept on your shoulder. That one was my favorite."

You laugh quietly.

"Are you going to keep talking or actually sleep now?"

"I’ll sleep… but only if you stay here."

You climb into bed and lie next to him. He immediately wraps his arms around you, like he knew exactly where you were, even with his eyes shut.

"You make me feel like everything’s okay," he whispers.

"Everything is okay," you reply.

And for the first time all day, you don’t have to wake him up.

Because finally, Ollie’s really sleeping. Not in a chair, not during an interview, not standing like a lunatic. He’s sleeping with you. Peacefully.

[fleurbly]

please on my knees, james cook he gets reader pregnant and she doesn’t want it but he’s persistent, damn near an asshole about it and pretty much traps her

── YOU’RE BABYTRAPPED with cook's baby 𝜗𝜚

concept/blurb warnings: implications to smut, forced pregnancy, baby trapping, aged!up cook, mentions of wanting to have an abortion.

i rlly enjoyed writing this and i have an itch to turn this concept into a oneshot. thankyou for asking anon!

you never thought this would happen— not to you, not with him.

getting pregnant by james cook had never even crossed your mind. sure, you’d fucked him. over and over again, late at night, behind locked doors, in places you’d be ashamed to admit. he never used protection, but you never expected him to. he didn’t ask, and you didn’t press. because you were on birth control. because you were careful. because you thought the real danger was catching feelings, not ending up here— sitting on your bathroom floor, knees drawn to your chest, pregnancy test clutched tight in your hand like it might dissolve if you squeezed hard enough.

two lines. clear as day. no mistake.

you feel hollow. cold. like your body isn’t yours anymore.

the first person you think to tell isn’t your best friend, or your mother, or anyone who might talk you down— it’s cook. which is stupid. but somehow, it’s him. because you know he’ll say something that’ll make you feel real again. something reckless. something cruel. something that’ll snap you out of this numb, breathless panic.

but when you tell him, you get none of that.

he doesn’t shout. doesn’t ask if it’s his. doesn’t even blink.

he just smiles. wide. slow. like this is what he’s been waiting for.

“well,” he says, leaning back on your couch, hands behind his head, “that’s that, then.”

you stare at him. “what?”

“you’re keepin’ it,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. like it’s already done.

your mouth opens, then closes again. your chest is burning. “i’m not. cook, i’m not doing this.”

he just watches you. lazy, amused. “yeah, you are.”

you laugh. it’s sharp, bitter, cracked around the edges. “you don’t get to decide that.”

“i do when it’s mine,” he says, standing up now, towering over you like always. “and it is, yeah? you didn’t let anyone else fuck you raw. just me.”

you try to move past him, but he steps in your way. again. always.

“move,” you say quietly.

he doesn’t.

“i’m not ready for this,” you say, and your voice finally breaks. “i don’t want to be a mother.”

he tilts his head. for a second, he looks at you like he almost gets it. but then he shrugs. “too late.”

“cook—”

“nah,” he interrupts, his voice dropping lower. softer. worse. “you let me come inside you how many times? don’t act brand new.”

you flinch. his words land like bruises.

“you knew what i was like,” he says, stepping closer. “knew i wouldn’t pull out. knew i’d fuckin’ ruin you eventually.”

you push him, hard. fists on his chest. he doesn’t budge.

“fuck you,” you spit.

he grins, all teeth. “already did.”

he grabs your wrist. not hard, but firm. enough to stop you from running. his other hand presses to your stomach like he owns it already. like the thing growing inside you belongs to him more than you.

“you think i’m lettin’ you walk away from this?” he asks. “nah, babe. you’re mine now. properly mine.”

you turn your face away. you hate him. you hate how calm he is. how sure. how he’s already planned it out in that fucked up head of his— you, barefoot in his bed, swollen with his kid, stuck.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

“maybe,” he says, brushing his lips over your temple. “but at least i’m not in denial.”

you want to scream. to shove him so hard he breaks something. instead, you stand there, frozen, his hand spread over your belly, his breath hot against your skin.

and somewhere deep inside, under all the fear and fury, you realize something far worse, he’s not scared at all.

he wanted this.

and now, you’re never getting away.

[userautumn]

jack's rating: 9.9/10

credits: james gunn (writer, director)

review:

[spoilers below the cut!]

I've long believed that the art that comes from this global and national political era will be some of the best we've seen and some of the most profound that humankind will produce, and Superman (2025) is a shining example of that. For years, the conversation (and the slow collapse of Marvel/the MCU) has been about superhero fatigue and whether or not people are just "over" superheroes. But Gunn himself said it best when he said that superhero fatigue doesn't exist; mediocre, boring movie fatigue exists and Superman (2025) is neither mediocre nor boring.

So, I'll start where I always start—with the acting.

Nicholas Hoult.

Nicholas. Mother. Fucking. Hoult.

There's a reason this bitch is the highest paid actor attached to this project. I was expecting excellence from everyone, and while it's true that, quite literally, every single actor delivered (more on Corenswet and Brosnahan later), Nicholas Hoult exceeded my expectations. He brought such an electric intensity to Lex Luthor that was absolutely captivating to watch. I've always enjoyed Nicholas Hoult, but I found myself genuinely impressed by him.

You have no idea how badly it pains me to say this next bit, but I have to say the same for Nathan Fillion as Guy Gardner too. Day 1s know that I am NOT a Nathan Fillion enjoyer by any stretch of the imagination, but I do love Green Lantern. As we all know, Green Lantern has famously flopped in the public eye to the point where execs have been scared to touch any of the Lanterns for years now. As such, I was skeptical, not just about how Fillion would play the character, but also how the character would be received. I shouldn't have worried though because Fillion's take on Gardner's big-screen debut (to my knowledge) was exactly the kind of revitalization that the Green Lanterns as a a concept needed. (Which can only work out well since the mini series comes out in 2026. EEK!!!!)

Then you have Corenswet and Brosnahan. Man. The chemistry between those two could light the world on fire. Individually, David Corenswet as Superman was everything I dreamed he would be. I literally cannot stress the perfection of his performance enough. Earnest and diligent and loyal and humble and kind, he truly is this generation's Superman/Clark Kent. Similarly, Rachel Brosnahan as Lois was cool. She was just COOL, I don't know what else to tell you! She was competent and sincere and smart and beautiful and she was all of that without being a Hashtag Girlboss, which is significant. Over the years, studio execs and directors and writers have commodified womanhood so much that women in film can be narrowed down to two categories: Hyperfeminine Doormats or Not Like Other Girl Girlbosses who scoff at the irony of their own womanhood. But Rachel Brosnahan's Lois felt so balanced, a woman that didn't have to be whatever version of womanhood that sells best, she just was.

The choice to drop the viewer right in the middle—in the middle of Clark and Lois's relationship, in the middle of Clark's role as Superman—was so strong because it allowed the viewer to push past the fluff of new beginnings that usually accompanies movies, and instead get to the grit and the heart of who these characters are and what they want. And what they want, at least part of what they want, is each other. Superman (2025), among all the other plot points and arcs, is a very romantic movie. So much of the film is about Clark and Lois erecting a firm foundation upon which to build their life together while navigating the world they live in, without being or feeling heavy-handed, and that's so satisfying to me.

James Gunn infuses so much heart into this movie, and the heart of this film is what sets Superman (2025) apart from most of the modern superhero films Hollywood produces these days. Where so many movies are choked to death with ironic one-liners and self-aggrandizing mockeries of themselves (and, subsequently, the viewers), Superman (2025) takes itself seriously in all the right ways and has fun with its own absurdity. Superman's trunks, the spontaneously growing monster through downtown, Guy Gardner creating a construct of a middle finger to destroy an Boravian tank—Superman (2025) is an unapologetic superhero movie. But when it comes time to deliver its message, the film delivers it with a force that dares the viewer to deny its intention.

If I had to sum up Superman (2025) in one word, it would be heartbreaking, but in a good way, like a bruise you can't help but press. Superman (2025) presents a scathing evisceration of Trumpism immigration policies, the US role in geopolitics, the orchestration of war for profit, and the I/P conflict. This film challenges viewers to examine and confront their own complicity, while being careful to toe the line between "all are complicit" and "those who are complicit" which is especially profound and meaningful to me. It's easy to make a film that condemns humanity on a basis of exhaustion and misanthropy. It's much more realistic to make a film that challenges viewers to look within themselves and ask, "is this me?" because the answers are harder to run from when you're seeing an ugly version of yourself on screen.

What I liked most about the way the narrative posed that question is that everyone was complicit for different reasons. Some were complicit because of duress, some were complicit because of science and technology, some were complicit because it was their job, but all who were complicit had blood on their hands and the stain of guilt on their souls. Superman (2025) makes no mistake for declaring the guilty as guilty and the innocent as innocent, and the importance of art that makes no apologies for calling cruelty by its name, especially in this political era, cannot be overstated.

On a more technical note, I enjoyed the pacing of this film. Both the plot and the characters had room to breathe and, at no point, did the story feel too long or too fast. The score for this movie was absolutely beautiful. I would have loved if David Corenswet's Superman had gotten his own theme rather than reusing the John Williams theme, but that's a minor, minor criticism stacked against the rest of the film.

Overall, I'd give Superman (2025) a 9.9/10. It joins my Superhero Movie Hall of Fame, alongside Wonder Woman (2017) (and both are just below Captain America: The Winter Soldier, of course). I look forward to watching it again when I can pick it apart frame-by-frame in the comfort of my own home, but for now, I will settle for reblogging gifsets and scrolling the ao3 tag for fics.

[its-in-the-woods]

Reach For Me - Pain

Masterlist

-Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Pairing: James Buchanan Barnes/Bucky x You/x reader (afab) no use of y/n

Word count: 5.1 k

Synopsis: “Tank,” He says, you blink a few times, you try not to act shocked. “I can’t fix it.” His words are clipped and short, like they hurt to say. 

MINORS and AI dickbags GET OUT. I am not in control of how you interact with my work. My work is not to be used for anything.

Rating/Warning: Missing limbs, prosthetic, wounds, ptsd, long silences, brooding, Bucky (you know why), hurt, longing, past torture, physical and mental, swearing, and so on.. this whole story is just one big warning.

All mistakes, grammar, and plot holes are my own.

You had given James a week of medical leave, mostly cause you wanted someone to keep Steve from wandering the medical floor all day. Also, because you wanted him to try and recover from the mission, you’d gotten permission from him to talk with Stark and Banner about possibly looking at some custom earpieces. Something that could block out sound and make it harder for something like this to happen again. They’d agreed, Stark had already set about looking into the necessary tech. 

It felt like a step in the right direction. Being proactive and working with each other instead of tiptoeing around each other. You’d also have interviews lined up with several therapists and psychologists who could hopefully become part of the team. You’d already heard groaning about it, but had held fast that this was needed to benefit everyone. Banner and Thor included. 

The weekend had been uneventful, you’d pretty much slept. Banner had firmly told you that you’d be escorted off the premises if you showed up at the tower over the weekend. You’d still spent a good amount of it slogging through papers on the latest biotech, learning about cybernetic eyes that were starting to see in colour. Not to mention the regeneration serum coming out of China, it hadn’t been tested on humans yet, but the applications could be revolutionary. 

You opened your phone, looking at the messages, checking emails. Part of you hoped that maybe James would text you, did he even text? Face scrunching, you were almost certain he still had a flip phone. Closing out your phone, you cover your face. What the hell was wrong with you? He was your patient, a traumatized, tortured, mess of a man, who needed care and support. Not your weird heart flips, and gaze that lingered too long on the way his shirt fit him. Groaning, you bury your face into your bed pillows. Nope, that was a line you were not crossing. 

Tomorrow you’d go back to work the same way you always did. Hire some therapists to talk to the dysfunctional group of heroes that lived there. Fit your vets with a device that could be life-changing. Do your job, like you were being paid to do.

“Professionalism.” You said out loud to no one. “And not losing your medical license. Very important.”

You lay on the bed looking up at the ceiling. At least you liked going to work now? That had to count for something. Right?

***

Natasha sits across from you, her hair is down, long and red, arms crossed as she watches you carefully. You were currently going over her notes, she’d been shot in the left thigh, and the right side just under her shoulder. 

“Would you be interested in doing physio once the wounds are healed?” You ask, typing away, Natasha shrugs a little, head tilting. 

“I won’t say no,” She replies curtly, fingers rubbing over the soft grey sweater. You were pretty positive it was Steve’s, but that was none of your business. “How long you going to sideline me for, Doc?”

You worry your lip, trying not to let her eyes burrow too far into your soul. “Your thigh got the brunt of it. I saw the limp you had, should be using crunches or a chair to move around.”

“I am getting around just fine.” She replies, looking towards the scan of her thigh on the screen. “It didn’t hit the bone. I’ve had worse.”

“Yes, you have and I know normally, they’d just have you back out into the field as soon as you were on your feet. But I like to see you all not kill yourselves while I am here.” You raise your eyes at Natasha, mirror her by crossing your arms over your chest. It was not easy facing down superheroes and telling them to take it easy. “I am not trying to be a hard ass, I am trying to make sure you’re in the best form. Avoid unnecessary harm or casualties.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that, Doc.” Natasha resigns, her hand rubbing over the spot where she’d been shot. “You're refreshing.”

Your mouth opens and closes, not sure how to take that, “Thank you.” Looking down at the keyboard in front of you. “I do care about all of you. I am not sure what I expected from this job, but you all feel closer to family than patients.”

Natasha has a small smile play across your lips. “Don’t go getting soft on us now, Doc. But it hasn’t gone unnoticed what you’re doing for us, it’s been a long time coming.”

Stomach twisting, you nod, “That means a lot. I would like to give you at least another week before physio, and then we will go from there.”

She nods, “Slot me in, I’ll be here.” You nod, and she gets up going to the door. 

Pausing, she turns to you for a moment, “Whatever you are doing with Barnes, keep it up, it’s working.”

Your heart shouldn’t lurch, but damn did that feel nice to hear. 

***

“I am not sure why I am here, Doctor of Earth.” Thor sat across from you. It was weird seeing him in sweats and a hoodie. Dark sunglasses over his eyes, his fingers constantly moving over the hem of his pocket.

“Pepper, likes to make sure we have up to date info on all of our members,” You reply, going over his blood work. Eyes narrowing, his cortisol levels were off the charts, well off the charts if he wasn’t a god. “Have you been dealing with some stress at home?”

Thor shifts in the chair, lowering himself down; you could see how uncomfortable he was. “Nothing that I cannot handle.”

“Thor, what is going on? The last time your levels were this high, Loki blew up half the city.” You press, if anyone thought Bucky was stubborn, Thor was a whole different level. 

“Something is wrong at home, in Asgard.” He states, again shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “I will handle it.”

Rubbing your eyelids, you try to figure out what you could do. He was a god; your medicine did almost nothing, and you were almost certain he was depressed. The conflict with Loki was hitting him harder than he was letting on. 

“Do you want to talk to someone?” You throw out, knowing full well he was going to shoot it down. “I have a really lovely therapist who has signed on.”

His arms crossed, eyes going over his glasses, a huff leaving him. “No, I am no mere mortal. How would anyone understand what is happening?” 

“Okay, it’s there if you change your mind. Sometimes talking about it helps,” You reply, so much for standing your ground. A sudden thought comes into your mind. “You could always go bug Tony about some attack bots. Maybe smashing things would help.”

He sat up a little, eyes peering over his sunglasses. “I think I would enjoy that, Doc. That is a good idea. I shall go do that!” 

You chuckle watching him get up, punching at the air before disappearing out the door. Well, you definitely made his week. 

***

The next few weeks fly by, and you end up clearing the whole team to get back to work. Natasha is on light duty and intel only. She gave you a glare but didn’t argue. She also seemed not to mind the physio therapist, despite Steve’s side eyeing him. Speaking of Steve, he had huffed about doing follow-up x-rays, but agreed after you let him go without physio. You were pretty certain he would have tossed the physiotherapist if he had ended up going. Sometimes you had to make compromises to avoid losing any more hair. 

Now you were stuck in a budget meeting. A large glass conference room that looked out over the city, you could see the hallways, and the helipad. You were certain they’d pick this spot on purpose. A way for your boss to flex his muscles.  Stark didn’t much care about how money was spent, as long as it went to something worthwhile. Whatever that meant. 

Who cared was investors, the board was very specific about who got how much, so budget meetings it was. Budget, paperwork, and red tape aren’t exactly your forte. You’d heavily leaned on Bruce to help you navigate the complicated process. He’d been more than happy to show you how it all worked; you definitely owe the guy several beers at this point. Especially after he went over the powerpoint for you.

Looking around the table, your eyes land on Stark. Stark, who had most certainly not taped pictures of the eyes to his glasses, Pepper occasionally nudging him when he started snoring. The meeting was nearly concluded, and the investors seemed more than happy with how your veterans program was moving. The murmur of them using the prosthetics for military applications made your stomach turn; you would be advising your veterans of that. Whether it affected your funding or not. You would not let your patients go in uninformed to any meet and greet with privately funded military companies. 

“Well, if the veteran program keeps up, we may look at expanding it come next year.” A balding man across the table leered at you; something about him made you want to gag.

You smile politely, hoping that your face didn’t give away your thoughts, “I am always open to broadening my research.”

“I bet you are. Been quite the star around here.” Another man says, his eyes staring directly at your chest. Which was hilarious considering you were in a lab coat for once. “Wish Stark had hired you earlier.”

“Now, now, gentleman. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Pepper chimes in, giving them a firm look. You now also owe Pepper wine. “Our Doctor has a lot on her plate already.”

You give her a small smile, thankful that Pepper had stepped in. Looking out through the large window, you see the crew walking down the hall from the helipad. Watching for a moment, you see that James is carrying his arm in his hand, his face a storm cloud of unsaid words, body leaning slightly left as he walks. 

“If we are all done here, I have some work to get to.” You say quickly, gathering up all your notes and files into your arms.

“Oh, taking off so soon,” Stark leers, watching you from above his glasses. 

The urge to flip him off is shoved down; instead, you turn and give him a polite smile. “You know where to find me, Mr. Stark.” He winces, but lets you go.

You take off down the hallway, hoping that you can maneuver the maze to catch up with James. Scurrying through the various halls, you turn through a door and watch as the elevators close. 

“Damnit,” You mutter under your breath, hitting the button to go down. 

One of the elevators comes up, and you are in as soon as the doors open, rapidly hitting the button to your floor. You nearly hit the floor for James’ room, but decided against it. “Boundaries, boundaries,” you mutter to yourself. 

The floors go by slowly, fingers tapping on the edges of the files. Wondering where he would have gone to your office. You hit the clinic floor and nearly topple out of the elevator, scurrying down towards the office doors. Rounding the corner, you see him standing by the door, hand still hanging on to his prosthetic. His shoulder slump, tact gear stretched across him. The little heart jump had nothing to do with the fact you’d never seen him in full uniform. 

“Hey,” You say quietly, like you hadn’t just run out of a meeting and down the elevator to get to him. “What happened to your arm?” 

James looked down at his arm he was holding, and then back at you, his face still an unreadable mask. 

“Thanks,” He says. You blink a few times, trying not to act shocked. “I can’t fix it.” His words are clipped and short, like they hurt to say. 

“Oh, not a problem. I got most of the afternoon free.” You say with a small smile, moving forward and unlocking the office door. 

He follows behind you, his present making the space feel small, placing the arm on your desk with a thud. You place your stuff down, sliding files back into place, firing up your computer. Looking towards him, you see him pacing around the room, his footfalls are almost silent. How could someone that large make almost no sound? Was he sweating?

You sit in the chair, rolling over to look at the arm. It was dented, right where the elbow joint was. Not just dented but squished, like a pancake. Pen taping around the different points. You use both hands to turn it over; the underside doesn’t look as bad, but this was not going to be a quick fix. 

“You said a tank rolled over this?” You ask, moving back to your computer to see if there was a lab free. 

He finally sits, right hand moving up to run over his left side, nodding at your question. You see him wince, just a small scowl that disappears in a blink. There is definitely sweat breaking out over his brow, was he in pain? A list of questions forms in your mind as you watch him.

Glancing back at your computer, you see the lab schedule, lab D is open, at least part of the lab was open, there would be others in there, but the equipment you needed would be available. 

“I am going to take this to Lab D. I have the three-dimensional prints in my medical room next door. I can use that as a template. This may take some time.” You say quickly, booking the lab. “Did you get injured when the tank rolled over your arm? I can take a look at it now, make sure everything is fine.”

James sat there, still as stone, right hand clenched hard enough that his knuckles had gone white. 

“Are you okay?” You swallow, moving over so that you are closer to him.

He fidgets, now that you are looking at him over you can see marks covering his chest. The tact vest had been shot several times, and there was blood splattered across it. The glove on his right hand was torn, and the knee on his left leg was also ripped. 

“James,” You move over closer, you don’t touch him. Something was clearly bothering him more than he was letting on.

“It’s fine.” His words clipped, as he got up and walked out the door, so quickly you didn’t have time to ask him to stop.

You sit for a moment, blinking, unsure why the man had stormed out. Your first instinct is to go after him, but you stop. If he needed space, you’d give him that, he would find you if needed. 

***

Bucky stood in his bathroom, the steam had covered the mirrors, and he would prefer it stayed that way. He knew the mirror would only reveal the damage he could already feel. The pain was excruciating, and the warmth had helped until he got out of the shower. 

It did help that doing things without an arm was difficult. He was certain half his body was not cleaned properly, and he was also certain that getting clothes on was not going to be any easier. He’d be wearing sweats and a loose shirt until he got his arm back. 

The arm hadn’t always been there, but he had never learned how to live without it. It wasn’t like HYDRA had classes on being a normal human being. No, he’d learned how to take a part of a gun one handed, and gut a person with one hand. Yet, putting on clothes wasn’t on their list, or doing his hair, or talking to another human. He was a weapon. The word etched into his mind like a brand.

The counter creaked under the squeeze of his fist. 

He couldn’t hear over the coms; the new earpiece he had been given was still buggy as hell. Digging them out, he taped at the side of his head, hearing someone scream. His head turned, the dust clearing enough for him to see an agent being dragged away by some six legged monster, a tank was headed towards them. She had a dagger dug into one of its arms, but it wasn’t slowing him down; she was thrashing, trying to get out of his grip. 

Without thinking, he was down off the stack of shipping containers, his heart thumping as he watched what was unraveling in front of him. Sam was diving down scooping out agents, and Steve was currently tearing through the roof of the spacecraft. He didn’t know where the others were, his focus narrowing down to what was ahead of him. 

Hand on his weapon, he levelled three shots in a cluster at the creature’s head. It shook it off, turning to look at him, its face splitting to reveal tongues and teeth as it roared at him. The girl in its clutches was thrown towards the spaceship, her head hitting the ground hard enough to knock her out cold.  Bucky didn’t stop, walking in a steady, easy pace, bullets focused still on the thing's face. All it did was annoy the creature. 

Switching over to knives, he flips a dagger into his hand and throws it. It hits directly into the thing's maw. A scream cries out. He breaks into a sprint, the girl is going to be crushed in a moment if he doesn’t move fast. He manages to slide, throwing his arms forward and pushes her out of the way. His body curls in on itself, but it’s too slow. His arm malfunctioning and freezing, he feels the tank crushing his arm. It rips a scream out of his mouth. Pain flares as his socket is twisted and pulled off his body. It feels like it takes hours for the tank to go over his arm; he comes out the other side with a whimper. 

He can feel the countertop piece in his hand, sharp enough to cut into his palm. The steam has faded, and the bruising around his limb shows. The limb is swollen and purple. Muscles around the metal plate were strained, veins red, flesh hot to the touch. The metal plating around his shoulder is rippled; if he presses on it, pain blossoms up his neck and into the back of his head. 

“Fuck,” He whispers out, this wasn’t something he could fix on his own. No different than the arm, he needed help.

He thought of the look on your face when he’d gotten up and left. How confused you looked when he just stood up and left. The pain had been excruciating, his arm was broken, and half the aliens had disappeared into the forest. All he had wanted was for you to fix the arm, just for one thing to go right. The arm that won’t even fit because his limb was the size of a watermelon. It wasn’t your fault that he had been too slow, or that a tank had run him over, or that he was in pain.

Yet he still left you there. The one person trying to help him. 

Looking one more time at his wrecked left side. He didn’t have a choice; if you got the arm working, it won’t slot back into the sock properly now. So he either went and saw you and got it all fixed, or nothing. 

“Godamnit,” He grumbles, leaving the bathroom. 

***

Lab D was as expected; there were two other groups in there working on projects. The space was huge, a large open area where one group was testing out what looked like nano-suit tech. It was not going well. They had covered most of the floor space with mats. Which were now being used by the suit test dummy, who was being thrown into it over and over. He would try to activate the suit; it would cover part of his body and then slam him backwards when he’d get nervous and clench his fist. They needed someone who was much less twitchy. 

Another group had a defunct ironman suit laid out that they were slowly taking apart and piecing back together. It looked tedious and time-consuming, something that you almost wish you could be doing. Your mind was a mess. 

The prosthetic was far more damaged then your initial assessment; the joint looked completely crushed and would need to be refabricated. This wasn’t simple or fast, and James was already upset. You’d also noticed that the pins that latched his prosthetic to his residual limbs were broken, which meant that the limb was more than likely injured. Not that James had told you that. 

You placed his prosthetic on the table, closing your eyes and trying to refocus yourself. Trauma did horrid shit, you still had nightmares, still had flashbacks. There was no timeline for how trauma was dealt with, especially complex trauma like James was going through. 

“Just keep showing up,” You say quietly, as you start to unload your cart. 

Placing the arm on the table carefully, you’d need to get it apart so you could send it to the fabricators downstairs. Hopefully, they had something stronger than titanium down there; your mind drifted to vibranium. Steve’s shield was made of it, but you didn’t know of any other sources. You could possibly add tungsten to the titanium, just to the joints, adding the metal overall would make the limb too heavy. Just adding the joint weight might be too much. There were too many unknown factors. 

“Whoa, is that the winter soldier's arm?” A much too chipper voice chimes in, you turn her, a smaller girl with brown curly hair and big green eyes. She immediately zoned in on the arm, her hands going out to touch it. 

You stare at her for a moment too long, trying to digest the words she had said. “I am sorry. I would prefer if you used his name.”

The girl is looking over the whole thing, the way she is pressing and moving the metal has your fingers twitching. She goes to pick it up, and you nearly shout at her. “I didn’t know he even spoke.”

“His name is James Barnes,” You say firmly, moving so that you are standing in front of the prosthetics. Shuffling her out of the way, you didn’t want her touching the prosthetic anymore. “He is a patient of mine, and deserves some respect. He isn’t a tool to be fondled.”

She scowls at you, arms crossing over her chest. You felt that your face had said more than your words. “Well, he isn’t my patient.” She says loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. “Besides, I have studied cybernetic tech extensively. I could help with this.” 

You look at her name tag, Lily, and you try to keep your face neutral. Most of the room was now staring at you. “Lily, whether he is your patient or not, they all deserve respect. Would you call Dr. Banner, the Hulk?” Your voice was louder than needed, “Or Mr. Stark, Iron Man?”

The test dummy hits the wall with a thud, and someone gasps. Lily takes a step back, folding in on herself as she looks around the room, her cheeks stained pink. 

“I apologize, Doctor," She says, your name quietly. “If there is anything I can assist you with, I will be just over there.”

You watch her walk away, the room still looking at you. The urge to yell boo sits just under your tongue, but you instead move back to what you actually need to focus on. You start placing all the pieces out in front of you, the three dimensional print in the center. Now to take the actual prosthetic apart, sans nosey interns.

***

Bucky stood in a pair of jeans that he’d struggled far too long to get on. A loose-fitting black tee that was baggy enough to hide the swelling. There had been a lot of cursing to get it on. Not to mention the shoes, he was investing in something that he could slip on after this. Clint had mentioned crocs, though the name alone sounded awful. Who names footwear crocs?  

He stood outside his room and had no idea what to do. The pain had dulled to a roar; maybe it would fade. Then the shirt rubs the wrong way, and his head swims, the world turns slightly, and he is grasping the wall. 

Grumbling, he makes his way to the elevators, trying hard not to move his shoulder at all. He hits the elevator button several times harder than necessary. The binging noise makes his head throb, vision blurring. The pain was almost debilitating at this point. 

The doors open to an elevator full of people. They all stand there and look at him. How did so many people have access to the floors up here? He just waits for the doors to close, his forehead resting against the cool metal. Counting to ten, he hits the elevator button again.

***

Lab D is quiet, the lights are dim, everyone else has left for the day. He pads down the hall and stands just outside the doors. You're standing with three tables side by side, his entire arm spread out across all three. There are dozens of sticky notes, your tablet is perched on the rolling stool nearby. He watches as you card your hand through your hair, you grab the inner structure, it looks very similar to how a human bone would look. The joint is a mess, something that will have to be completely rebuilt. 

He turns and leans against the wall, letting out a breath. An intern walks by with a scowl on her face, eyes not connecting with his, clutching her folders tighter as she walks by him. He grits his teeth; now he has to go in there and tell her that there was more damage done. That he was more damaged then he already was. 

“James?” You are leaning out the door, bags under your eyes, brows furrowed as you look at him. 

He pushes off the wall quickly, trying to act like he hadn’t been spiraling less than a minute before. “Umm, yeah, I-I wanted to see how you were doing with the arm.”

“Oh, come in then.” You say, still looking confused as you hold the door open for him. 

He walks in and is struck with how many working parts are laid out in front of him. “Whoa, that’s a lot of parts.” 

A sigh comes out as you pace the length of the tables, “Yeah, there is. The tank did a number on it. The biggest issue is rebuilding the joint.” You point at the piece of metal. “There is some nano fiber damage, and these metal cords.” You pull up three that are snapped. “They act like tendons, and they are also trashed.” 

Bucky’s mind raced; this was not going to be fixed tonight, or hell, even this week. That didn’t even cover what he hadn’t shown her yet. His jaw works as he took it all in. 

“I already have Max downstairs fabricating the new skeletal pieces. I have one being made with titanium and one with added tungsten. I want to make it stronger, but I don’t want to add weight.” He watches you move back and forth, your fingers running over each piece carefully. “We’ll need to do some test runs on it. I also noticed there were pins broken inside. Did you hurt your limb?” 

He looks at you for a moment, “Umm, yeah. I was gonna mention it, it's nothing major.” That was a lie. “Maybe tomorrow you could look at it.” He was certainly not sleeping with the pain he was in.

Your arm crosses over your chest. “You think I am gonna sleep?” The words are thin, not anger, but sadness. “Also, you’re sweating, which I’ve never seen before.” 

Bucky freezes; he doesn’t know what to do, his feet start moving backwards towards the door. You see it and reach out, he grimaces, but stops moving. 

“James, you’ve been ignoring me since you got back. I can tell you’re in pain. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I can’t help you.” You state plainly, he looks at you, the way your brows are furrowed, lips chewed to hell, and searches his face for answers. 

He looks down at his feet as he pushes his shirt up to reveal his limb. 

***

Your mouth falls open, the residual limb is purple, swollen twice its usual size. Reaching forward, you stop for a moment and look up at him. He is still staring at the floor, clearly upset and in pain. 

“We need to go to my clinic, I need gloves, and possibly an x-ray.” You say quickly, mind a whirlwind. “And before you get upset, I will do everything I can to avoid the scan. But I need to look at this closure and possibly make some phone calls.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just drops his shirt sleeve and waits. 

You move so you’re facing him, reaching over and grabbing his right hand. Despite his flinching, you squeeze it. 

“James, stuff like this is going to happen. It’s all part of having an arm like yours.” You say quietly, you try to find his eyes, but he won’t look at you. “I know you saved the life of an agent, which almost cost you your own.” 

He tries to pull away, but you won’t let him. Hoping that the squeeze of your fingers can somehow ground him. 

“This is gonna suck, I am not gonna lie to you.” You say flatly, “But I need you to trust me, okay?”

He doesn’t move, his fingers twitch around yours before squeezing them. You let it sit, needing some sort of validation that he was going to be alright. If his limb was this swollen still, after over six hours, there was something severely wrong. Your mind had already started picking up names of people you’d need to phone, and tests you needed to run. 

“I-I,” Bucky’s face twisted like he was trying to find the words. 

You hold up your hand and make an okay sign, “You can just do that.”

Bucky stares at it for a moment, and you let go of his hand, but then he makes the sign. 

~*~*~*~

Author's note: I already have the next part written, but I am adjusting and writing it. May post it early 🤭

If you enjoyed, comment, reblog, like <3

Tag list (comment to be added. If you want to be removed, let me know)

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @riki-785 @overwintering-soldier

@alex-cheraya @hiddlebatchedloki @alex-cheraya @justyna4a

@ficmeiguess @vunblr @kimberly-stocks

[lovelynim]

Play and replay

Zenless Zone Zero - Wise x Lighter

A/N: Last but not least, this piece is for you, friend ( @ticklystuff ). Hope you don't mind the fact that I stole one of your Lighter/Wise ideas for this one and that this fic can make it as a belated bday gift and for the fact that I missed your trip to brazil. Like you lots, even when you have poor taste on persona mcs

Aaaand on a side note, I'd like to thank @otomiyaa for letting me borrow a few scenes from her amazing story, The Mad Party, and use them on this little fic. If you want to know all the references, I wholeheartedly recommend you checking on this chapter (and reading the other ones too, the whole thing is great)

Summary: Lighter and Wise are watching a show together, but the scene on screen ends up putting Lighter in some sort of mood.

Word count: 1818

[Also on Ao3]

This was such a cliché move, Lighter thought, but he was glad it still worked just fine. He shot Wise a smile as he wrapped his arm around the proxy’s shoulder, pulling him closer and making a small, surprised gasp escape Wise’s lips.

“Lighter,” Wise pouted slightly, but still snuggled into the other man’s chest. There was no time to waste complaining, after all, he needed to finish this series to know what sort of show he was about to put up in his store. “You’re not paying attention.”

“Of course I am,” Lighter hummed back, tilting his head before he moved his eyes from Wise to the TV, again.

Lighter knew the video store was just a made-up business scheme so Wise and his sister could hide their actual work, but it was always a surprise to how much they were dedicated to the so called farce. Not only would the siblings collect tapes from all kinds, but would also spend their time watching each one of them. “How can I recommend something if I don’t know what it is about?” was Wise’s to go explanation whenever he was asked about it.

Still, this also gave Lighter the perfect excuse to spend more time with Wise. Guess this should also count as a cinema date? The champion smiled, losing himself to his thoughts while absently staring at the show playing on the TV.

What was it about again? He remembered Wise telling him about it, something about an adaptation of some best selling novel from before the Hollow Disaster. Unfortunately, he had paid more attention to how cute Wise looked while ranting about his work than the plot of the show itself. 

“Why is the cop so angry again?” Lighter mumbled, his eyes squinting slightly behind his shades as the scene playing didn’t seem to make much sense. He heard Wise sigh, annoyed. He chuckled, amused.

“Because of the flowers James sent him. Yuki even barged into the restaurant earlier because of it,” Wise explained - just like he did all the other times Lighter asked about the show. Lighter only hummed in agreement, as if he wasn’t dedicating most of his attention to Wise.

Squeezing the proxy a little tighter against his chest, Lighter leaned back into the couch. For the first time in a while, his eyes focused again on the show and - even if he was just watching a scene or two from time to time, it was clear why this thing was a best seller back then. It was good.

Letting himself be captivated by the show, Lighter watched with great interest as the actor playing the bartender walked outside to meet the cop near his car. The actors playing James and Yuki had an undeniable chemistry together and Lighter couldn’t help but imagine using the script behind some of those scenes with his dear proxy.

Brrr. Brrr. Brrr.

“Huh?” Lighter turned back to see Wise reaching for his phone, his face turning into a frown. “Is everything alright?”

Wise sighed, pushing himself back into his feet, his cellphone in hand. “Yes, I just… need to take this call. Wait here, I won’t take long,” he smiled sheepishly and left before Lighter could even say something back.

Lighter sat back, his face like a dog’s locked outside the house. Now, what was he supposed to do? This whole thing only made sense if he could have Wise around him. He clicked his lips, looking back at the show still playing on the TV.

The actors were making out, nothing out of the regular you’d expect. If anything, that scene made him miss Wise even more, but then…

[“Fuhuhuck! Jahahames! Lehet go ohohof mehehe!”

“Let go of you? Hey, you practically kidnapped me into your car, you pervert.”]

Lighter arched an eyebrow, feeling something swirl inside his stomach while he watched James’ actor tickle his stage partner. This was no different from kissing and other things, so why did this one feel… different? He coughed, heat gathering around his face while he paid even more attention to the show.

He wasn’t sure why he was feeling like that - maybe because the actors looked good or because the scene itself had its own appeal. One thing for sure, however, was that it made his thoughts run wilder than before. Lighter’s hand twitched, his fingers pressing into his thighs while a single thought took over his mind: do that to Wise.

[“If you want me to stop, do as I say.” 

“G-go to hehehell!”]

Lighter sighed, pressing his jaw slightly. How bad would it be if he left to look for Wise and-

Click.

He snapped back to reality, shaking his head before turning it to the room’s door, the source of that soft noise. Wise greeted him with a slight smile when their eyes locked. “I’m sorry, thanks for waiting.”

“No biggie, manager,” Lighter nodded, hooking his arm over the couch again, silently inviting Wise over again. “Did you get it solved?”

“Sort of,” Wise chuckled, quickly getting himself comfortable by the other’s side, his head resting on Lighter’s shoulder. “Anyway, can we go back a bit?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, the show,” Wise muttered, the TV’s controller already in his hand, “this episode had some good reviews and I wanted to watch it thoroughly.”

“Ah, sure,” Lighter gulped, tugging at his own collar with his other hand while he watched the show rewind a bunch of scenes at once. He let out a small sigh, his hand clenching around Wise’s shoulder.

[“Why so secretive, Johnson? Is this our secret date?”

“As if I’d give this back to you with everyone else looking.” ]

Lighter sighed. He couldn’t help but give in to the urge of peeking at Wise’s reactions after every change portrayed on screen. While it could be mistaken for boredom, a better way to portrait his feelings was… “expectation”.

He knew what was about to happen, how the scene was going to escalate and how the actors would start to make out and then-

“Is something wrong?” Wise nearly whispered, his voice gentle while his attention remained mostly at the show.

“Y-yes?” Lighter scoffed, hoping to sound convincing enough while he tried to play it cool. He heard Wise giggle at his answer, unsure if it was a good or bad sign.

“Your heart,” Wise continued, his head still resting against Lighter’s chest, “it’s beating fast.”

Damn it, Lighter thought, moving his hand to ruffle Wise’s hair gently. “It’s because of you,” he lied charmingly. It would be better to face a Hollow alone than admit something like that. But to Lighter’s demise, his heart wasn’t the only part of his body betraying him.

With each line spoken on screen, the anticipation grew worse, more and more intense. It didn’t take this long before, so why did it feel like there was a whole new chapter between the scenes?

He tapped his heel against the ground and clenched his fingers around Wise’s hair slightly. He wasn’t the kind to get second hand embarrassment from this kind of thing, not the one to cringe or fluster easily at the sight of affection - then why did going through this scene felt so much harder than before?!

“Manager,” Lighter gasped softly, his chest tight as if he was holding his breath up till now.

“Yes, Lighter?” Wise replied softly, tilting his head to look up to the other man’s face, “are you feeling shy because of the show?” He guessed playfully while Yuki’s actor giggled and mewled on screen.

Lighter only smiled, but felt something snapping inside him when he set his eyes on Wise’s mischievous grin. He wondered if Wise knew about this scene all along or if he had built some sort of resistance to these kinds of media. “I wanna do that.”

Wise slowly widened his eyes, taking a second to realize what Lighter meant. “Eh?” He looked at the screen, then back at the man next to him. “You mean the-”

“Everything,” Lighter insisted, his shades tilting down to the tip of his nose while he looked over them, his eyes narrowed while he reached to hold one of Wise’s hands. “Please?” He sighed, already pushing Wise onto his back and leaning on top of the proxy, easily towering over him.

He watched at least three different emotions make it past Wise’s face, his expression shifting while he exchanged looks between Lighter’s face and the still-playing show on screen. Was he wondering which character he was going to play? Lighter smirked.

“I- hah, w-well, I guess we could..?” Wise gulped, laying on one of his elbows before he even realized it. He was practically using Lighter as a pillow just now, but something about the sudden change in his attitude gave the small distance between them a whole new meaning. “So, do yohohou- h-hehey, Lihihighter- ahAHah!”

Lighter hummed pleased, his gloved hand lazily tracing shapes on and squeezing the smooth skin under Wise’s shirt. It was really this easy, huh, not some “it only happens in movies” thing, after all. He pinned Wise’s wrist next to his head while continuing to tickle his stomach and sides with his other hand, wearing a lovestruck, dumbfounded look on his face. “If I send some flowers over the store, will you come running to me too, manager?”

“L-LIHihihgther! I-it tihihickles, stohohop!” Wise giggled, but barely put effort in trying to run away or get in Lighter’s hand’s way. He sucked in his stomach, his body trembling with laughter under Lighter’s touch, but never really moved it away. “G-gehehet to the kihihissing pahahart, plehehease!”

“Aren’t we following the script, tho?” Lighter chuckled, his thumb pressing and rubbing a circle into Wise’s lowest ribs, making the proxy arch his back in a loud, surprised cackle. “Director said I need to tickle you a bit longer before making out.”

“NOHohoh!” Wise whined, his free hand clenching at Lighter’s shoulder while he kicked his feet behind him. Lighter wasn’t even going that hard on him, but something about it made him feel so sensitive, so vulnerable to his touch - was it because of the show? 

“L-Lighter, p-plehEHe- ahh… ahh…” Wise gasped when the tickling came to a sudden halt. Even with his mind in a daze, he could still feel the pressure of Lighter’s grip around his wrist. He felt the other man moving around and reaching for something, but even following him with his eyes proved to be a little difficult at that point. Wise turned his head to look at the TV, spotting the “paused” icon on top of the freezed scene.

“You can finish it later,” Lighter nodded, tossing the controller behind his shoulder before grabbing Wise’s other hand and pinning it as well. “Now… can we pick up from where we left it, manager?” Wise giggled, a bit in anticipation. “I will take that as a yes. ~”

[whimsymoonpages]

37. wave goodbye to the end of beginning

cw: marriage!

the ministry's division of marriage and family affairs looks like a hospital waiting room designed by someone who's never been loved. the walls are a sterile shade of beige. everything hums, not magically, but aggressively, and the recycled air smells like warm parchment and mild despair. there's a droopy plant that's either dead or staging a protest against life, you weren't sure. a magical clock ticks much too loudly.

sirius is pacing. not casually....no, he's doing the full dramatic march like his soul is trying to exit via his bootlaces.

"eloping was supposed to spare us this," he hisses, tugging his coat tighter. "i distinctly remember someone promising 'no paperwork.'"

"that was you, siri." remus says, flipping through a folder as thick as a spellbook.

"and yet here we are."

you sit between james and remus in the world's most uncomfortable waiting chairs. they're upholstered in something scratchy and moss-green, and the cushion's enchanted to whisper ministry-approved affirmations. you've heard your commitment is valid under regulation 32-B three times already.

at the counter, james is trying valiantly to charm the clerk into compassion. she stares at him like she's been hexed into stone.

"we have the paperwork and the duplicate," james says, batting his eyelashes. "oh—you needed it in drake-hide blue ink? that wasn't on the list."

the clerk blinks once, slowly, as if disappointed by his whole existence.

remus mutters, "i can transfigure the ink.]," then sighs. "actually no. it's keyed to wand signature. we need a licensed ink-conjurer!"

he brings his hands up to his mousy hair and grips.

sirius flops into a chair backwards, chin propped on your shoulder. "we're in love. isn't that enough for you people?"

the clerk doesn't blink. then, a very old wizard appears at the counter, dragging a massive ledger behind him.

"ah yes," he wheezes, his voice sounding like a vintage bellows. "four-way magical love contracts. sections 800 through 827. possibly 828 if you tick the emotional telepathy clause."

james scans the form, squinting. "section 14B: alternate surnames during lunar-based unions? section 16: declarations of wand compatibility. section 22B: ownership disputes regarding enchanted throw pillows?" he throws the clipboard down dramatically. "who wrote this?"

"probably someone in love with a bloody sofa," you murmur, rubbing your face with your hands.

the tension spikes when remus drops a paperclip and lets out a strangled noise. james reaches for his hand immediately.

sirius nuzzles into your shoulder. "just so we're clear: i'd do this a thousand times if it meant getting to be yours."

remus looks up, sleep-deprived and soft. "even if the parchment is filed under interdepartmental non-monogamous deviation protocols?"

"especially then. sounds punk."

then, the pureblood section of the form.

"head of household?" sirius reads aloud. silence descends. then—

"sirius?"

"absolutely not." the boy flips his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

"remus?"

"i'm emotionally fraying like old robes at least 4 times a month."

"you then," james says, nudging you with his foot.

"me?!" you practically scream. "i lost an enchanted manticore at the sanctuary last week! how am i meant to be head of house?"

james sighs heavily. "fine....it can be me."

"don't act like you don't love the title."

".....yeahhhh. i do."

remus mumbles, looking forward at the paperwork. "should we hyphenate all our surnames? lupin-potter-black-fawley?"

"we sound like a victorian hedge fund," sirius complains.

"we sound fancy," james counters, sounding all to pleased. "i'd trust you to sell me cursed goblets."

"people trust me to do that anyways," the other boy argues. "i say we all keep our own names. anything else would be a nightmare to deal with."

it takes ages to flip through all the pages, but after 4 long hours in the ministry, you finally finish. after the ministry ordeal, the flat is quiet in that stretched, fragile way that follows emotional whiplash. everyone sheds their outer layers—coats, folders, formal tones—and sinks into soft clothes and even softer cushions.

the curry arrives in cardboard containers that are already soggy at the corners. james uncorks something sparkly. remus disappears into the bedroom and returns barefoot, hoodie-clad, the edge of his hem still caught in one sock.

you charm open all the windows even though it's a bit chilly, just so the air feels new. a candle burns slowly in the center of the table—jasmine and cedar. sirius digs through the cutlery drawer, dramatically producing four mismatched forks like he's discovered treasure. it's all so gloriously domestic.

"we should tell everyone," you say, voice low. you can't imagine how mad barty would be to hear that you went and got married without telling him.

"in a group text?" sirius asks, shoving a samosa in his mouth.

"no," remus murmurs, flopping down beside you. "not like that, that takes away from how special this is. we need to do it in person....with leftover food and questionable music choices."

james nods. "group text doesn't carry celebratory curry energy."

so you do what you do best—summon the people you love.

you conjure your patronus and play with the tiny stoat before whispering: "dinner party at the cottage tonight. bring drinks and snacks and an ear to listen. we've got news!" 

regulus responds first, his patronus singing with both his and evan's voices: "what milestone, and will there be cheese?" "i'm bringing emotional support wine."

an hour later, your flat is a kaleidoscope of noise and movement and mismatched socks. regulus is deeply invested in rearranging your bookshelf by scent. lily is laying out pastries with the focus of a healer prepping a wand kit. marlene, dorcas, and pandora occupy the couch like a girl gang built for chaos. barty is holding a sparkler indoors.

"barty! take it to the patio!" you scold, pointing at the door. his shoulders slump and he puts the sparkler out, mumbling under his breath.

someone puts on music—something jazzy with a chaotic tempo—and pandora insists on leading dorcas in a dramatic swing-style waltz. it devolves quickly. there's laughter spilling from every corner. evan wanders in with a wine bottle shaped like a swan. "i expect magic and gossip," he announces.

"we have both," james says, tossing a spring roll into his mouth.

people settle. someone charms the lights into gentle glimmers. the movie playing in the background is mostly ignored.

you're curled on the rug between remus and sirius. james is stretched out beside you, one arm resting across your stomach like a makeshift seatbelt.

and then someone asks. soft and curious. "so," lily says, eyes bright. "what was tonight really about?"

james glances at you. remus shifts. 

sirius lifts his head, slow and careful, like he's finally reaching the moment he's been waiting for. "we got married." he says. not loud, not performative. just true.

a hush, fragile but warm.

"you what?" barty squeaks, bringing his hands up to his brown and green hair.

"married," remus confirms, sitting straighter. "a four-way binding magical contract. emotional telepathy optional."

pandora lets out a squeak so loud it startles the enchanted speaker. evan cheers, startling the wine bottle into a miniature explosion. regulus blinks twice and offers a tiny smile as he watches barty completely throw himself at you.

"Y/N FAWLEY! YOU DIDN'T EVEN TELL ME! AM I CHOPPED LIVER!?!" he screams into your chest as his eyes well with tears. you laugh and hug him back, patting his wild hair.

lily's eyes fill with emotion. "that's—oh, that's so wonderful," she says, voice wobbling.

you laugh, a little breathlessly. "the form literally had a checkbox for 'frequent cuddling.' we ticked that one first."

"we ticked all of them," sirius adds, proud. "even 'magical property, shared assets.' which includes the pan in the corner with the cursed egg spell."

pandora flutters over to you, glitter trailing in her wake. "can i do the flowers for your next celebration?"

barty's already casting confetti. marlene conjures a sparkler that hovers over your heads like a soft chandelier.

you eat curry. you talk over each other. someone starts a very serious debate about toast shapes. you fall sideways into remus's lap mid-laugh and don't get back up. james is half-asleep and humming the wrong tune. sirius leans into your shoulder and mutters, "we pulled it off."

you nod.

he grins. "we're real now. ministry-certified realness."

"look at us," regulus whispers to you, nudging you with his knee. "all grown up, getting married. who would have guessed?

the candles flicker. someone hits unpause on the movie.

the world feels like velvet. you're married.

previous next

taglist: @daydreamandforget, @lovelyteenagebeard

(the next chapter is gonna be spicy!)

[buckysonlyangel]

The Line We Keep Crossing

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ

New Avengers!Bucky x New Avengers!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes hate each other. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourselves. Forced to work together on a mission, the lines between hate and heat start to blur. He swore he’d never let anyone get close again and you had your own walls up. But now, the walls are cracking. And when he looks at you like that… you don’t look away.

Word count: 3,9k

Tags/Warnings: enemies to lovers, unresolved sexual tension, mutual pining, emotional repression, slow-burn, team teasing, found family dynamics

AUTHORS NOTE: i’ve never sat down and genuinely tried writing a fic until now, So! Please bear with me. If theres any mistakes or anything, let me know. Give me any and all constructive criticism & feedback that you have. I’m wanting to improve and get better at writing but I need to know where to begin on improving! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy xxx

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ

The first time you met James Buchanan Barnes, you instantly hated each other.

You had been a new addition to the team. You’d originally caught Hydra’s interest years ago. They captured you and trained you for years to be the perfect sleeper asset. You went rogue and escaped Hydra when you discovered your handlers had erased parts of your childhood memories.

Yelena called a meeting in the common room to introduce you to everyone and to plan how the next mission would go. You were lounging on your chair like you owned the place, arms crossed, boots on the table, expression unreadable. You hadn’t spoken a word since being introduced.

“Do you really think this is smart, Yelena?” Bucky asked, not looking at you, practically pretending you weren’t even in the room. “She’s unpredictable.”

You sat up, leaning forward. “Unpredictable’s better than being a glorified antique with trust issues.”

The room got quiet. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you.

Bucky turned to fully face you. His steel-blue eyes were cold. “You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

You leaned in closer. “Neither do you.”

Yelena coughed. “Alright! Sexual tension aside-“

“WHAT?” you both snapped.

“-you’re stuck with each other,” Yelena said. “Intel says Hydra’s reforming under a new alias. Go in, figure it out, and try not to kill each other. You two know Hydra the best.”

Bucky had this constant brooding and horrible attitude towards everything and everyone that irked you. As luck would have it, you had to deal with it every single day now since you’re part of the team.

He hated that you always had a comeback to everything; you always had something to say.

You brushed past him on your way to your bag, feeling the heat of his glare on your back.

"Keep looking at me like that, Barnes, and I'll start charging rent."

He didn't respond. He just sat in the corner, fumbling with his metal arm, jaw clenched like he was fighting demons only he could see.

You almost pitied him. Almost.

Instead, you tossed him a file. “Found something. Hydra's operating under a biotech shell company. The lab is in Berlin."

He looked up, wary. "And you just stumbled across that?"

"I've got connections," you said, “Unlike you, people still answer my calls."

He stood, suddenly too close. "And unlike you, I don't lie for a living."

You didn't back down. "Maybe if you stopped brooding and started trusting me, we could finish this mission faster."

At the lab, he boosted you through a ventilation shaft without a word. His hands lingered on your hips longer than necessary.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The mission was chaos.

Gunfire. Adrenaline. Explosions.

And then, you jumped in front of Bucky, taking a bullet in the leg. It wasn't deep. But it was enough to slow you down.

Bucky immediately grabbed your arm and dragged you behind cover. “You're hurt."

"I've had worse," you gritted.

He ripped fabric off a nearby curtain and pressed it to the wound. "Stop trying to be a martyr."

After the two of you got back from the mission, the team was having a movie night in the common room. Bob sat next to you while you had your legs resting over Bob’s legs and your head lying on the armrest. Yelena sat on the other side of Bob, with Alexei sitting next to her, rambling on about some story from something before the team formed.

You heard Bucky before say your name as he walked in, “Do you have to take up half the space on the couch?” You dangled your head over the armrest so you’re looking at Bucky upside down.

“There’s plenty of space on the ground, Terminator.”

“That’s very original, doll.”

A pause. You’re both staring at each other. Bucky with that stone-cold expression on his face, and you with your mouth parted slightly. You felt like you forgot how to breathe for a second.

You recovered as fast as you could, and you squinted your eyes at him. “God, you’re a fossil. Who says doll anymore?” You crack a joke to distract from the very fact that his little nickname had a slight effect on you. You’d felt a flutter in your stomach.

“Okay,” Ava pipes up from the kitchen where she’s making popcorn. “Moving on… movie time!” she exclaimed, walking over to a beanbag chair in the corner of the room.

“We’re watching Alvin and the Chipmunks.” You quickly grabbed the remote before anyone else could reach for it.

“Alvin and the… what?”

“That movie’s stupid.” You had forgotten John was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and now muttering something about talking chipmunks.

“No one asked you?” You started, “Alvin and the Chipmunks is a cinematic masterpiece. One of the greatest movies of all time.”

“I’m intrigued.” Bob chimed in, “I vote we watch it.” He smiled down at you.

“This, Bob, is why you’re my favorite.”

Ava threw popcorn at you while Yelena gasped, throwing a hand to her heart as if it were in pain.

“All of you are ridiculous.” There was a hint of a smile on Bucky’s mouth, a slight fondness. Maybe.

You rolled your eyes at Bucky and pressed play on the movie. “Shut up, it’s starting,” you said, giving Bucky a forced smile. Bucky decided he’d sit on the floor directly in front of you, leaning his back up against the couch. He was so close you thought maybe you could smell his hair. Or maybe you were just imagining things from being deliriously tired after the mission today.

You swore Bucky was sighing on purpose, deliberately trying to annoy you.

“You know,” you muttered, “if you sigh any louder, we’re going to have to give you a dramatic exit cue.”

“I’m trying to focus.”

“You haven’t looked at the screen once.”

“Because someone won’t shut up.”

You could admit, you couldn’t stop yourself from singing along with the chipmunks and had to mention that they’d have to speak and sing slowly so that when they sped it up it would sound normal.

You smiled, “Aw. Don’t like a little noise, Barnes? You didn’t seem to mind the gunshots this morning when I saved your ass.”

He turns to you fully now, blue eyes narrowed. “You didn’t save me. You distracted the target by getting yourself shot.”

“I call that multitasking.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re ancient.”

He leans toward you, something sharp behind his smirk. “Still managed to keep up with you in the field.”

You lean in, a whisper of space between you. “Only because I slowed down.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh my God,” Ava mutters, practically phasing out of the room. “Get a room. Or have a knife fight. Preferably not both.”

You scoff and fold your arms, laying back down. “Why does it have to be either?”

Alexei, currently halfway through a jumbo bag of kettle corn, gives you a wink. “This is better than the movie.”

An hour in, Bucky’s arm brushes yours. An accident, probably.

You ignore it.

Then it happens again. Deliberate, definitely. You stiffen, daring a glance his way. He’s pretending to focus on the movie, jaw tight.

The credits roll and all that’s heard are soft murmurs and loud snores. Alexei passed out in the corner of the couch, Yelena curled into Bobs’ side, and Ava getting up from the beanbag chair.

The team starts drifting toward their rooms, leaving the couch unoccupied. Except for you. Bucky still on the floor.

“I’m surprised you didn’t storm off halfway through,” you say, eyes still on the screen.

He hums. “Didn’t feel like giving you the satisfaction.”

You turn to look at him and he’s already watching you. Eyes unreadable, but softer than you expect.

You swallow. “Do you hate me that much?”

“No,” he says after a beat. “If I hated you, I wouldn’t sit through an hour and a half of weird talking and singing squirrels and Alexei’s snoring just to sit next to you.”

You blink. “Is that- was that a compliment?”

He smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

A long pause.

Then, “You’re not… the worst to work with,” you admit quietly.

He gets up to sit next to you on the couch, voice low. “You say that like it’s a confession.”

“Maybe it is.”

His arm brushes yours again. You let it stay.

For a few seconds, the silence is easy. Almost comfortable.

Then he adds, “Still could’ve handled that guy in the lab better.”

You shove him. “Oh, fuck off, Barnes.”

He grins, and this time, it’s real.

You should’ve just gone to bed.

That would've been the smart move. But no. Instead, you were going to the gym so you could work out until you physically couldn’t stay awake. When you found him in the training gym.

Sweaty and shirtless.

Punching the shit out of a sandbag like it owes him money.

You stood frozen in the doorway for a full second longer than necessary. Which he noticed. Of course, he did.

“Like what you see?” he asked without missing a beat, knuckles slamming into the bag in a clean rhythm, the metal of his left arm glinting under harsh overhead lights.

You rolled your eyes. “Only wondering how a guy that old can still be so dramatic.”

He caught the bag mid-swing and turned slowly, towel slung around his neck now, chest rising with each breath. He watched you stare at his hands and smirked. “You want to fight me, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Pretty sure I’d win.”

His grin turned wolfish. “Prove it.”

You were circling him on the mats, heart pounding like a drumline. Bucky’s in full defensive mode; legs planted, arms up, expression maddeningly calm. You’ve sparred before, but it’s never felt like this.

You lunge first, pretend to strike to the left, then a real strike to his ribs. He blocks, twists, grabs your wrist. You use the momentum, flip him over your shoulder, but he lands with a roll and springs back up, grinning like the bastard he is.

“Better,” he breathes.

“Don’t patronize me.”

You throw another punch, he dodges, but just barely. This time when he catches your arm, he pulls you forward, off-balance, chest to chest for one fleeting moment. His breath fans across your cheek.

“Getting sloppy,” he murmurs.

“Getting distracted,” you shoot back and slam your knee into his thigh.

He grunts, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips you to the mat like a damn magician, and suddenly you’re pinned beneath him. His metal hand is braced beside your head. His knee between your thighs. His face inches from yours.

Neither of you moves.

You can feel the beat of his heart, or maybe it’s yours, thundering between you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

You glare up at him, teeth clenched, and raise an eyebrow. “You think I want this?”

His gaze drops to your lips. Just for a second, but it’s long enough for you to notice. “You tell me.”

God, he’s so close. You could kiss him. Or kill him. You’re not sure which would be more dangerous.

You let your head fall back to the mat with a groan. “Get off me, Barnes.”

He hesitates.

Then slowly he shifts back, standing with a hand extended. You don’t take it and you get up on your own.

He watches you wipe sweat off your brow with your sleeve, his expression unreadable.

“You’re getting better,” he says after a moment.

“Don’t start being nice to me now,” you mutter, grabbing your water bottle.

“Fine. You’re still a pain in the ass.”

You smirk. “That’s more like it.”

Later, you're alone in the locker room, replaying it all in your head: the way his hand lingered just a second too long, the look in his eyes when he had you pinned, the question he didn’t ask out loud.

You’re in deep. And worse?

You’re pretty sure he is too.

It’s supposed to be a clean mission. Infiltrate. Secure the intel. Get out before anyone knows you were there. But of course, it goes to hell by the second checkpoint. A firefight breaks out. Ava disappears into the shadows. Yelena’s laughing while blowing up a generator. Alexei is… mostly yelling.

And you?
You’re pinned behind a half-destroyed column, out of ammo, and flanked on both sides.

Naturally, Bucky finds you first.

“Really?” he says as he slides into cover beside you, bullets zipping overhead. “Ran out already?”

“I was busy,” you snap, glaring at him.

“Maybe if someone hadn’t rerouted us-“

“Right, blame the guy who saved your ass twice tonight.”

“Once.”

“Twice.”

He huffs. “You are impossible.”

You lean around the edge of the pillar, then duck back. “And you’re still here.”

He glances at you, quickly but sharply. “Yeah. I am.”

The words sit heavy between you. Unsaid things lingering like smoke.

You escape through the east wing, alarms blaring behind you. The evac van is waiting two miles out. You and Bucky are the first ones to reach the rendezvous point. Lungs burning and adrenaline humming under your skin like electricity. He paces as you catch your breath, jaw clenched, hands still twitching like he doesn’t know how to be still.

You watch him, and he watches you watching him.

“You got a staring problem?” he mutters, eyes flicking to yours.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you shoot back, stepping closer.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to say something but won’t.”

He stops moving. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

His voice drops low. “You’re looking for a fight.”

You match him, toe-to-toe now. “Maybe I’m looking for something else.”

His eyes darken, scanning your face. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” you say, and your voice isn’t teasing anymore. “I think it’s dangerous how much I notice you. How close we get without crossing the line.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. You don’t back down.

“You look at me like that again,” you whisper, “and I will kiss you.”

Silence.

Heavy, loaded, silence.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “What if I want you to?”

The words gut you.

You’re still close enough to feel the tension rolling off him like a second skin. He’s all restraint, tight jaw, coiled muscles. Like he’s holding something back because he doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust himself. Your heart’s hammering now. You can’t look away, can’t step back, and neither can he.

“I should walk away,” he says, breathless.

“But you won’t,” you reply.

His hand twitches at his side. Like he wants to touch you. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You tilt your chin up. “Do it.”

He steps in.

And then-

“ETA 45 seconds,” Val’s voice crackles through the comms. “Keep it in your pants, Romeo and Juliet.”

You jump back. Bucky’s already turning away, cursing under his breath. The moment has been yanked from both of you.

You don’t speak again until the van pulls up and the side doors slide open. The team piles in. Yelena smirking like she knows everything, Alexei humming a Soviet battle song under his breath, Ava silent and unreadable in the corner.

Bucky sits across from you.

He doesn’t say a word.

But he looks at you.

And the next time he does, you don’t look away.

You can’t sleep, again.

The safehouse is too quiet. Rain taps steadily against the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance like a warning. Most of the team’s passed out or pretending to be, except for you. Pacing the empty hallway in a worn hoodie, mind spinning with too much adrenaline and too many unsaid things.

You don’t even mean to end up outside the gym.

There he is.

Bucky. Alone. Shirtless. Again.

Punching the training dummy like it insulted his dead relatives.

You lean against the doorframe. “You only hit like that when you're avoiding something.”

He doesn't turn around. “What are you doing awake?”

“You think I sleep well when you're in the next room breathing like a storm cloud?”

He stops.

Slowly, he turns toward you. Sweat clings to his collarbone. His hair’s damp and pushed back. That unreadable look is on his face again. The one that lives somewhere between fury and desire.

You fold your arms. “You keep looking at me like you want to say something. But all you ever do is run.”

“I don’t run.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been dodging me for a week.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want the truth, Barnes. Whatever the hell this is between us? I’m done pretending it’s not there.”

His voice is low, dangerous. “You think I don’t feel it?”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it?”

He’s in your space now. So close you can feel the heat rolling off him. “Because if I do, I’m not walking away from it,” he says roughly. “And I don’t know how to want someone without ruining it.”

That stuns you for a second. He’s not yelling. He’s not smirking. He’s just raw.

You swallow. “You won’t ruin it. You’re allowed to have good things.”

He laughs once, bitterly. “I ruin everything.”

“You’ve survived things. You have had other people ruin things and blame it all on you.”

That gets him.

He grabs your wrist, not hard, but firm. Anchoring. His breath is shallow.

“You push every button I have,” he murmurs.

“Then push back.”

His hand slides to your jaw. You tilt into it without thinking.

“I should walk away.”

“But you won’t,” you breathe.

His gaze flickers to your lips. “Say it.”

You meet his eyes. “Just kiss me already.”

And he does.

Hard. Desperate. Almost like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he wants. Like he’s been holding this in since the moment you met. His hands find your waist, your back, your hair, everywhere at once. You fist the hem of his shirt, dragging him closer, losing yourself in the taste of him.

It’s not slow. It’s not sweet.

It’s everything you’ve been holding back and then some.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing like you’ve just sprinted a mile. Your forehead rests against his, your hands still tangled in his shirt.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, his voice rough and honest.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

Another beat. Another look.

Then he kisses you again, slower this time. Less of a battle, more promise.

You don’t know what happens next. You don’t care.

You and Bucky don’t speak about the kiss.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not during briefing. Not during prep. And definitely not when you’re sitting side-by-side in the Thunderbolt jet, two feet apart, both of you pretending nothing’s changed.

(It has. It definitely has.)

You pretend not to notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you. He pretends he’s not tense every time you brush past him.

The others pretend they don’t notice the giant neon sign flashing over your heads that reads:

“WE MADE OUT AND DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO NOW.”

Spoiler: they notice.

The mission is simple on paper:
Clear the abandoned HYDRA facility. Gather whatever intel is still buried in the data vault. Extract. No drama.

You’re paired with Bucky, of course. Because fate is cruel, and Val is nosy and probably did it on purpose.

“Professionalism,” you mutter under your breath as the two of you move down a dark corridor. “We are professionals.”

“Right,” Bucky murmurs, checking corners.

“This is totally normal.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“Because if I do, I’ll remember how your mouth felt on mine.” He freezes at your words, “Keep up, Barnes.”

He curses under his breath and follows. You don’t look back, but your smirk betrays you.

You hit the vault room twenty minutes later. It's quiet, dusty, power barely running.

You kneel beside the terminal, fingers flying across the old touchscreen. Bucky leans over your shoulder to scan the files.

Too close. You take a sharp breath in. You can feel the heat of him. The way his breath brushes your neck. The air between you hums.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he says lowly.

“Doing what?”

“This. Circling it. Pretending like we didn’t cross a line.”

“We didn’t cross a line,” you say flatly.

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

He pulls back a fraction. “You regret it?”

You pause for a split second and then, without looking at him, “No.”

Bucky’s silent for a beat too long. “I don’t either,” he finally says.

And damn it, your hands stutter on the keyboard. You both fall quiet again. Too quiet.

You return to the safehouse just after dusk, mission completed. Data intact. Zero injuries.
Should be a win.

Except-

You open the door, and the team is waiting for you. Literally waiting.

Yelena, sprawled on the couch with popcorn.

Alexei is sipping tea suspiciously slowly.

Ava is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

Bob, who desperately wanted to come on the mission even if it meant staying in the safe house all the time, is sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a crossword puzzle.

And Val is reading a magazine upside down.

“…Hi?” you say slowly.

Alexei grins, getting right into it, “So. You and Barnes. How long?”

You blink. “What?”

Yelena’s eyes sparkle. “Please. The sexual tension in the jet was louder than Alexei’s breathing.”

“I do not breathe loudly,” Alexei protests.

Ava chimes in, monotone: “We took bets.”

Val doesn’t look up. “I said it would happen two weeks ago. So, I win.”

You stare. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, honey,” Yelena says sweetly. “You two were flirting like war criminals in denial from the beginning.”

Bucky enters behind you and freezes the second he sees the setup. “You told them,” he mutters.

“I did not tell them!”

“You didn’t have to,” Ava says. “We have eyes.”

“You’re the least subtle people alive,” Yelena adds. “You basically radiate ‘we made out and now we’re pretending we didn’t.’”

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “I am proud of you. Emotional growth!”

“I’m leaving,” Bucky announces, already turning.

“Run, soldier,” Ava says. “We’ll still know.”

You watch him go. Then turn back to the team, arms crossed. “Can you all just mind your own damn business?”

“Nope,” Yelena chirps.

“Never,” says Val.

You find Bucky on the roof. He doesn’t turn when you approach. He just sighs. “So, I guess they all know.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches.

Then,

“You really don’t regret it?” you ask quietly.

He glances at you, his eyes softer now. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

A beat.

“I’m not good at this,” he says again, his voice rough. “Letting people in.”

“You don’t have to be good at it.” You step closer. “You just have to stop running.”

He finally looks at you. He really looks. Then, softly but certain, “Come here.”

You feel a smile tugging on your lips as you make your way towards him. When he kisses you this time, it’s less fire and more gravity. Like he knows what he wants now. Like he’s not fighting it anymore. You don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You just kiss him back like you mean it.

Because you do.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ

authors note: hi! thank you so much for reading, if you have any requests for anything you want me to write feel free to send them in! xx

[lovely-4]

Finding you

regulus black x james potter

summary: James on a mission to confess his love for Regulus in a way that doesn’t spook him

wc: 891

warnings: none

a/n: just some cute jegulus, Regulus being straightforward and James being love sick

It was no secret that when James loved, he loved out loud and proud. Going out of his way to dedicate goals in quidditch, standing on a table in the common room and confessing his love like that. He would do it all.

But Regulus was a quiet lover. He’d sneak glances at the ones he found interest in, never making it known to everyone around him that he liked someone. And if someone was to ever express their love for him too loudly he was sure he’d die of embarrassment and vulnerability.

So knowing that, what was James supposed to do? Readjustment for sure. And after many hours of thinking and ranting to his friends he took it upon himself to wait in the library every day just to see Regulus. Maybe he would notice him and fall in love right? That’s what James thought at least and after Remus confirmed that he had seen Regulus there on certain occasions he knew it was perfect.

The first day there James thought he may have just died of boredom. Used to his active lifestyle and hanging out with his rowdy bunch, the library was hard to be in for long periods of time alone.

Sitting, waiting, pacing around the room in hopes that he’d just maybe see Regulus around somewhere.

He was even met with a few looks from the other people, mostly looks of confusion as to what he thought he was doing but James thought he looked natural, pretending to inspect a book that was actually upside down.

The next few days didn’t bring him much luck either. Days spent alone and bored, the two things James Potter hated almost more than anything else.

James knew it was a big school but how could he have missed Regulus every single day, not even noticing him in the great hall half the time.

“Mate you’re going to go insane if you keep this up.”

Remus spoke in a calm yet still concerned voice as he watched James drape himself across the couch in the common room, letting out a long sigh.

“Too late Moons. I haven’t even spoken to this guy and he’s already got me wrapped around his finger.”

Remus questioned why he wasn’t doing his usual big displays to confess his love. Announcing it on a big banner or going straight down to the Slytherin dungeons himself.

“Regulus doesn’t like big displays like that. He’s quiet. And he observes things instead.”

By that sentence alone he knew that James had really fallen for him. Cared so much about his feelings that he would do whatever Regulus needed to love him back. Even if that meant spending days on end in the stuffy library where there were too many people, all studying for OWLs and other exams and homework.

“I think I have to do something really desperate to get to him.”

Remus raised an eyebrow in question.

“I’m going to go talk to Crouch.”

It took way too long to even get back on the topic of Regulus as James spoke to Barty. Only after a promise of no pranks and a bunch of teasing from him, Barty let out the fact that Regulus had been spending more time studying in the astronomy tower because the library was way too crowded.

James was happy he was athletic or else that staircase he just ran up would be way too much for him.

But low and behold, Regulus Black.

He was curled up on the ground in a Slytherin jumper and black pants. Papers surrounded him, textbooks as well. James’s heart skipped a beat as Regulus’s face glistened off the moonlight. He had never seen Regulus in such a calm state. His eyebrows weren’t pinched together, no scowl, he didn’t seem tense.

Just when James thought he couldn’t be more astonished, Regulus looked at him.

In a panic he almost ran down the stairs, but Regulus’s stare had him in a chokehold now.

“Potter. You look like a deer in headlights.”

“Hi Regulus.”

James cringed at himself for saying that so quickly. Not even replying to Regulus’s first comment because he was so caught up in what he was going to say himself. The other boy hadn’t moved his gaze, completely unimpressed.

“Look I’m sorry for interrupting, you look busy. I just wanted to say that…youlookreallyprettyinthislightingandlikeallofthetime.”

The words came out quickly and almost tripped up on a few of them but he could have sworn he saw the edge of Reg’s mouth twitch up.

“I know you’ve been staying in the library waiting for me to show.”

James flushed and his mouth dropped a bit unsure of how exactly he knew that but had a feeling that Regulus didn’t plan on telling him either. The kind of mysteriousness that only drew James closer to the boy.

“Well yeah, I guess, I mean not in a stalkery way you know? Like more of, well-”

Regulus cut him off, noticing the pattern of his rambling.

“We’ll go on a date. Somewhere in Hogsmeade, Saturday morning. You can pick the place.”

James almost squealed like a little girl.

“Cool cool cool cool, sounds good bro- I mean.”

“Bye James.”

“Right- bye, I will see you then!”

Safe to say James was skipping back to the common room, convinced he couldn’t be happier.

[midnight-bay-if]

how would alek react to mc coming out as queer and being scared to tell him? bonus points if mc is sad that they can’t come out to their father.

(Answering asks has been a bit tough recently, so this was a nice palate cleanser. I also like an Alek ask when I need to change pace.)

Alek kept his promise today. All week, he had been planning to take a day off, spend time at home with you, and perhaps not forget about the case, but set it aside for at least one day. It was what you needed. It was what he needed. Often, these days off ended suddenly with an emergency call he couldn’t ignore—the downside of living in a small town with an even smaller police force. At the end of the day, when something terrible happens, Alek is the person people turn to first.

Today was different. His radio was off, and the landline was disconnected. There was no way he was risking being disturbed. But in his effort to be present, to make this day perfect for you, he missed the very real signs of your restlessness. You hadn’t spoken a word through breakfast, the drive to the local arcade, or the journey back. The ice cream in your hand slowly dripped down your fingers as you ignored it. Finally, when you returned home, he failed to make you smile even once, and he sat you down.

“Kid, I can tell something is eating at ya. Talk to me.”

So, you did. Slowly, with extended bouts of silence. But you did talk.

You explained the confusing feelings you'd been experiencing. You opened up about the self-reflections you had during quiet moments while he was away. He needs to stop his knee-jerk defence of his job then. This isn’t about him; it’s about you. So, he listens. And listens. When you finally use the word ‘queer’, realisation dawns on him about where this conversation was heading.

Every hair on his body stands on end, and he can feel himself bristling. His father is no longer hovering over his shoulder telling him exactly what an ‘alpha’ should be. He doesn’t have to hide behind this toxic idea of masculinity any longer. This is the perfect moment to finally share with you his own feelings. He can tell you how your father planted the seeds of his affection inside him and nurtured them to grow. He’s excited for you, for himself. This is it. No more secrets, no more—

“And I’ve just been really sad… that I can’t say any of this directly to my dad.” Alek feels as if he swallows his tongue. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here, Alek… I know you will support me… I just—”

No. This isn’t about Alek. He feels foolish for having forgotten.

He takes a deep breath, stands up, and gently nudges you over so he can sit beside you. Without a word, he wraps his arms around your shoulder, pulling you close into his chest. You hear yourself exhale a shaky breath, a sign of relief, he thinks, then he rests his chin on your head. “I’m glad you told me, kid. And I love you. I will always love you. And I know for a fact, even if James ain’t here physically, he’s doing exactly what I’m doing right now.”

[cowardlycowboys]

parents empowered need to hire like I dunno young people because I swear they are just driving kids to want to drink

[houseswife]

[bruhstation]

*Breaks into your house to stare wistfully out the window* Do you ever think that CTHenry is, at least by some perceptions, a corpse being kept alive by gold dust and the whimsy of a goddess whose motives are unknown? I do. *Puffs on bubble pipe* Anyway. I'm still holding out hope for a happy ending for our Miserable Train Gays. Iram gentlemen. Have a good day 💗

out of sight, out of mind

[apoetsworld]

Sorry, but Sirius would not be the rebel you think he is. Like sure he doesn't feed into all that blood purity shit but that boy was spoiled rotten. He grew up eating with silver enchanted utensils, wearing the finest clothing, eating the most precious foods and learning the most pretentious habits from the most pretentious people...he was posh, and so was James and so was Peter. It takes years to unlearn all that, to recognize not everyone had it as good as him (disregarding the neglectful treatment from his parents).

However, I will agree, his character development after meeting Remus is substantially impacted. Since a boy with absolutely nothing becomes Sirius' everything.