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mikaylathenerd5 · 3 months ago

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Little Champs, Big Hearts

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Pairing: Roman Reigns (Joe) x Isla Navarro (black oc)

Summary: Isla Navarro and her cousin Camila are in the bleachers, cheering on Isla’s 8-year-old twin cousins, Marco (the quarterback) and Mateo (the wide receiver), at their first youth football game. But Joe, aka WWE’s Tribal Chief, can’t make it due to his hectic schedule—leaving the boys heartbroken. Can Marco and Mateo pull off a win without their “Uncle Joe” cheering them on?

Content Warning: None

Word Count: 3.2k

The St. Petersburg sky smoldered with the tender blaze of dusk—pinks and oranges melting into the horizon like a child’s watercolor left to bleed unchecked. Isla stood on the sidelines of the youth football field, her cybersecurity-specialist instincts—a relentless churn of code and vigilance—hushed beneath a heavier rhythm. Her phone, a constant tether to WWE’s digital maze, lay dormant in her jeans pocket. Tonight wasn’t about thwarting breaches or tracing rogue signals; it was about two eight-year-old boys in helmets too big for their heads—her twin cousins, Mateo and Marco—stepping onto the turf for their first game. The air was thick with the sharp scent of clipped grass, the faint bite of sweat, and a whisper of salt from the nearby bay. She breathed it deep, rooting herself to this fragile, fleeting moment.

Beside her, Camila—the twins’ 27-year-old sister—bounced on the balls of her sneakers, her dark hair catching the fading light like a crown of chaos. “Isla, look at them,” she said, her voice a live wire braided with pride and mischief. “My little gridiron gods. Marco’s out there plotting like he’s channeling Tom Brady, and Mateo’s probably dreaming up a touchdown dance that’ll land him face-first in the dirt. This is our night, cuz—we’re making memories.”

Isla’s lips curved, but the smile felt brittle against the tightness coiling in her chest. “You’re way too hyped, Cam. Did you raid the espresso machine on the way here?”

Camila’s grin flashed, bold and unrepentant. “Nope, this is pure, uncut Camila spice—100% organic. I’m the unofficial cheer captain tonight—watch me turn these bleachers into a full-on fiesta.” She threw her head back and bellowed, “LET’S GO, TWINS! St. Pete’s finest, right here!” The shout ricocheted across the field, sparking laughter from a knot of parents nearby, and Isla felt a flicker of warmth pierce the knot she’d been nursing since dawn. Camila was a storm—wild, loud, and theirs.

Her gaze drifted to the field, where the twins painted a study in contrasts. Marco lingered near the bench, his quarterback stance rigid, small hands tugging at his helmet strap as if it could steady the world tilting beneath him. His seriousness—too heavy for an eight-year-old—echoed the weight she’d carried as a kid, always the fixer, the steady hand when chaos loomed. It clawed at something raw inside her, a pang she couldn’t shake. Mateo, meanwhile, flopped onto the grass a few yards away, his wide receiver spirit spilling out as he giggled, trying to balance his helmet on his nose like a circus act gone delightfully awry. The sight tugged a reluctant laugh from her throat, but it faded into the dusk, quick as a shadow.

Camila nudged her shoulder, her sharp eyes catching Isla’s drift. “You’re brooding over Marco, aren’t you? He’s got that ‘world’s collapsing’ vibe again.”

Isla sighed, her breath snagging on a confession she hadn’t meant to voice. “Joe’s not here. He wanted to be—he swore he’d make it—but Orlando’s a trek, and WWE doesn’t bend for little league dreams. Marco’s carrying it like a bruise.”

Camila’s grin softened, her usual spark dimming into something tender, almost fragile. “Joe’s their big shot, huh? The guy’s basically their Superman—cape optional. But you’re ours, Isla—you’ve got this locked down like always. I’ll bring the noise; you bring the soul. Deal?”

“Deal,” Isla murmured, squeezing Camila’s arm before stepping onto the field. The grass crunched under her sneakers, damp from an earlier drizzle, as she knelt beside Marco. His small frame seemed swallowed by his pads, but his eyes—dark pools swirling with storm clouds—locked onto hers with a weight that stole her breath and pressed against her ribs.

“Hey, QB,” she said, her voice soft but steady, like she was coaxing a crashed server back online. “What’s spinning in that big brain of yours?”

Marco’s gaze dropped, his fingers tracing jagged lines in the dirt, each stroke a silent plea. “Joe’s not coming,” he whispered, the words brittle as autumn leaves, cracking underfoot. “He said he’d be here, Isla. He said he’d yell my name so loud I’d hear it over the crowd, over everything. What if I mess up without him? What if I throw it wrong and everyone laughs, and he’s not here to say it’s okay?”

The crack in his voice sliced her open, raw and deep. Joe—her Joe, the man who’d crashed into their lives with a wrestler’s swagger and a heart softer than she’d ever dared hope—had become the twins’ anchor. She could see him now, clear as day: last summer in her backyard, kneeling in the grass with Marco, his big hands guiding the boy’s grip on a football. “Like this, QB—feel the laces, then let it rip,” he’d said, his laugh booming when Marco’s wobbly throw smacked into his chest. Another day, he’d shown Marco a fake handoff, grinning as the boy faked him out so slickly Joe toppled into the dirt, howling with pride. “You got me, kid—gonna be a pro someday!” he’d said, dusting off his jeans. He’d chased Mateo too, scooping him up mid-sprint until they both collapsed in a heap, breathless and tangled in laughter. Now, trapped in Orlando’s spotlight, his absence was a hollow, and Marco’s small shoulders sagged under it like a weight he couldn’t shed.

Isla’s throat burned, but she swallowed it down, resting her hands on his pads to anchor him—and herself. “Listen to me, Marco,” she said, her voice low but fierce, a lifeline thrown into the dark. “Joe loves you—so much he’d tear through walls if he could. He’s probably pacing some sweaty locker room right now, cursing the miles between us, wishing he could see you sling that first pass. Remember that fake handoff he taught you, when you tricked him so good he fell over laughing? That’s him, right there with you—every step, every throw. He’s not in the stands, but he’s in here.” She tapped his chest, right over his heart. “You don’t need him yelling to know he’s proud—you’ve got that fire in you, that quiet strength I see every day. You’re the leader out there, the one who keeps it together. Play like you’re showing him what he’s missing, like you’re proving you’re as tough as he thinks you are. Can you do that for him? For me?”

Marco’s eyes shimmered, a tear slipping free to streak down his cheek, but he swiped it away with a grubby hand and nodded, a spark flaring in his gaze. “I’ll do it for him,” he said, his voice small but steady. “And for you. I promise.”

She pulled him into a fierce hug, his helmet jabbing her chin, and pressed her forehead to his. “You already make him proud, Marco. Every single day—you’re braver than you know.” She held him until his trembling eased, until his small frame stilled against her, then ruffled his hair as he pulled back, tugging his helmet straight. He jogged to his team, cleats kicking up tiny clumps of earth, and Isla stood, brushing damp grass from her knees, her heart a tangled mess of love and ache.

The game kicked off with a snap that wobbled like a drunk duck, but Marco seized it, his voice—small but sharp—cutting through the chaos as he barked plays with a focus that swelled Isla’s chest. Mateo darted downfield, snagged a shaky pass, and spun into a twirl that ended with him flat on his back, grinning like a fool who’d won the lottery. The crowd erupted, and Camila leapt up, screaming, “THAT’S MY BABY BRO! Mateo, you’re a legend—Marco, hit him again!” She spun to Isla, eyes wild. “I’m gonna lose my voice, and I’d do it twice. These kids are my whole damn heart.”

Isla gripped her hand, her own heart thudding against her ribs. “Mine too, Cam.”

As the first half unfolded, Camila’s energy spilled beyond the twins. She leaned over the bleacher rail, catching the eye of a guy a few rows down—tall, scruffy, in a faded Bucs cap. “Hey, you!” she called, her voice a playful lilt. “You see that pass? My brother’s got an arm—think you could keep up?” The guy grinned, tipping his cap, and she laughed, tossing her hair. “Don’t get cocky—I’d smoke you in a sprint.”

Another dad—broad-shouldered, sipping a soda—chimed in, “She’s not wrong. You’ve got spirit, lady.” Camila winked, leaning closer. “Spirit and style, handsome. Stick around—I might need a backup cheerleader.” The flirtation danced through the stands, light and teasing, and Isla shook her head, smirking. Camila was a force—on and off the field.

The scoreboard flickered to a 7-7 tie by halftime, the crowd buzzing with restless energy. Isla lingered on the sidelines, her fingers brushing her phone as she typed a quick text to Joe—Marco’s killing it, Mateo’s a circus, we miss you—when the air shifted. A shadow fell, broad and familiar, and a deep voice rolled over her like a tide. “They’re looking good out there, aren’t they?”

Her breath snagged, a glitch in her system. She didn’t turn—not yet—letting the sound of him sink in, warm and rough-edged, a tether she’d know blind. Slowly, she pivoted, and there he was: Joe, still in his WWE travel gear—black hoodie, faded jeans—his dark hair pulled back, that smile breaking across his face like sunlight piercing a storm. “Joe,” she gasped, and then she was moving, crashing into his arms. He caught her, lifting her off the ground with an ease that made her heart stutter, and she buried her face in his chest, breathing in road dust, sweat, and him.

“You’re here,” she choked out, her voice thick with tears she hadn’t known were waiting. “How?”

“Show wrapped early,” he said, setting her down but keeping her close, his hands framing her waist. “Drove like hell from Orlando—broke every speed limit I could. No way I was missing their first game, not with you here holding it all together.” He tilted her face up, his thumb brushing her cheek, and kissed her—slow and deep, a vow pressed into her lips. Her knees buckled, and she clung to his hoodie, the world shrinking to the heat of his breath and the steady thud of his heart against her palms.

Camila’s voice sliced through the haze. “Well, hot damn! The big man arrives!” She threw her arms out, grinning like a ringleader. “Joe, you’re late, but you’re forgiven ‘cause you just turned Isla into a rom-com heroine. Get over here—my vocal cords need a break!”

Joe chuckled, a rumble that vibrated through Isla, and clapped Camila on the shoulder. “You’re a force, Cam. What’d I miss?”

“Marco’s throwing lasers, Mateo’s inventing new moves, and I’m the MVP of the stands,” she said, tossing her hair with a flourish. “Oh, and I’ve got half the dads up there eating out of my hand—catch up, big guy.”

The whistle blew for the second half, and Joe planted himself beside Isla, his presence a steady hum against her side. “MARCO! LET IT FLY!” he roared, his voice shaking the bleachers. Marco’s head snapped up, and a grin—bright and unshackled—broke across his face, banishing the shadows that had clung to him. Mateo flailed his arms, nearly tripping over his own feet, and Joe hollered, “MATEO, YOU’RE THE MAN!” The twins fed off it, their strides lengthening, their eyes blazing with something fierce and new.

The game tightened, the score seesawing as the minutes bled away. Isla’s nails dug into her palms, her breath hitching with every snap. Then it happened—Marco dropped back, his small frame taut with focus, and launched a spiral that sliced through the air like a comet trailing fire. Mateo, weaving downfield, stretched his arms, the ball kissing his fingertips before he tucked it tight. He stumbled, giggled, then bolted, dodging a defender with a wild, zigzagging leap that landed him in the end zone, grass-stained and triumphant. The crowd exploded, a tidal wave of sound, and Joe swept Isla into his arms, spinning her as laughter tore from his chest. “That’s our boys!” he said, his voice raw and breaking with pride. She clung to him, tears spilling hot down her cheeks, the joy too vast to hold.

The final whistle shrieked—14-10, a victory—and the field dissolved into pandemonium. Marco and Mateo sprinted straight for Joe, who dropped to his knees as they slammed into him, a tangle of sweaty limbs and helmets. “You came!” Marco sobbed, burying his face in Joe’s chest, his small hands fisting the hoodie. Mateo latched onto Joe’s arm, chanting, “You saw my touchdown! You saw it!”

Joe folded them into a bear hug, his voice thick as he pressed his forehead to theirs. “I saw it all, buddies. You’re unreal—I’m so proud I could burst.” He pulled back, ruffling their damp hair, and looked up at Isla over their heads, his eyes glistening with something that made her chest ache. She stepped closer, her hand finding his shoulder, and he reached up to cover it with his own, anchoring her there in the storm of it all.

Camila swooped in, her voice hoarse but fierce. “My little champs! I knew you’d crush it—didn’t I say so?” She ruffled their hair, then smirked at Joe. “You’re on uncle duty now, mister—I’m stealing a nap before I crash. Isla, keep him in line.”

Joe stood, pulling Isla against his side, his arm a warm weight across her shoulders. “How about a sleepover at our place?” he said, glancing at the twins. “Give Cam a break, let these champs celebrate.”

Mateo’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Can we watch Spider-Man?”

Marco nodded, quieter but eager. “And stay up late?”

Isla laughed, leaning into Joe. “Sure thing. Let’s make it a night.”

Camila grinned, clapping Joe on the back. “You’re a saint. I’ll swing by tomorrow—don’t let them con you into too much candy.” She hugged the twins, whispering something that made them giggle, then waved as she headed to her car, throwing a playful wink at the Bucs-cap guy as she passed.

The drive to Isla’s condo was a symphony of chatter, the twins’ voices tumbling over each other in the backseat of Joe’s SUV. “I threw it so far!” Marco said, his hands mimicking the arc. “And I ran like—zoom!” Mateo added, kicking his legs against the seat. Isla leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder, her hand resting on his thigh, the hum of the engine blending with the warmth of his presence. He glanced down, his free hand covering hers, and the look in his eyes—soft, steady—made her heart skip.

Her condo was a sleek sanctuary on the edge of downtown St. Pete—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline, soft grays offset by pops of teal that screamed her style. The twins barreled through the door, shedding cleats and pads in a trail of chaos. “Whoa, your TV’s huge!” Mateo said, flopping onto the couch. Marco lingered by the kitchen counter, eyeing the bowl of apples like a strategist plotting his next move.

“Shower first, champs,” Isla said, pointing down the hall. “You smell like a locker room.”

Joe chuckled, nudging them toward the bathroom. “Go on, listen to your cousin. I’ll handle snacks.”

By the time the twins emerged—scrubbed clean, in mismatched pajamas from Isla’s stash of guest clothes—the living room was a fortress of blankets and pillows. Joe had raided the pantry, setting out popcorn, apple slices, and a sneaky stash of gummy worms he’d smuggled from his gym bag. “Don’t tell Isla about these,” he whispered, winking at the twins, though Isla caught it and rolled her eyes with a grin.

They settled in for Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, the twins sprawled across the couch, Isla tucked against Joe’s side, his arm draped over her shoulders. She nestled closer, her legs curled under her, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her arm as the movie flickered across the screen. Mateo whooped when Miles Morales swung through the city, his small fist pumping the air. “That’s me—flying down the field!” he said, and Joe laughed, deep and warm, the sound rumbling through Isla’s chest.

“More like tumbling,” Marco teased, but his eyes sparkled, glued to the action. Isla watched them, her heart swelling—their energy, their joy, the way Joe’s presence seemed to stitch them all together. She tipped her head back, catching his gaze, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering until her breath hitched. “Love this,” he murmured, low enough for just her, and she squeezed his hand, her fingers lacing through his.

Halfway through, Mateo’s head lolled onto Marco’s shoulder, his soft snores blending with the movie’s soundtrack. Marco stifled a yawn, his eyes heavy but stubborn, fighting sleep like it was a fourth-quarter defense. Isla smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. “You’re fading, QB.”

“Alright, heroes,” Joe said, pausing the film. “Time for bed.”

The twins groaned but followed him to the guest room, a cozy nook with twin beds draped in navy comforters. Isla lingered in the doorway as Joe knelt between the beds, tucking Mateo in first. “You were a rocket out there today,” he said, ruffling his hair. “Dream big, okay?”

Mateo grinned sleepily. “I’m gonna score ten touchdowns next time.”

“That’s my guy.” Joe moved to Marco, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “And you, QB—those throws were fire. I’m proud of you.”

Marco’s smile was shy but real. “Thanks, Joe.”

As Joe stood to leave, Mateo’s voice piped up, small but curious. “Joe, are you and Isla gonna get married? ‘Cause then you’d be our cousin for real, forever.”

Marco nodded, clutching his blanket. “Yeah, are you?”

Joe froze, then sank back onto the edge of Marco’s bed, his expression softening into something so tender it made Isla’s heart clench. He glanced at her in the doorway, his eyes holding hers for a beat—warm, unguarded—then turned back to the twins. “You two wanna know something?” he said, his voice low and warm, like he was sharing a secret just for them. “Your cousin Isla—she’s my best buddy in the whole world. She makes me happy every day, like when you score a touchdown or catch a big pass. I love her a ton, and yeah, I wanna marry her someday ‘cause I wanna keep her with me always. But you know what? We’re already a team—you, me, Isla, Camila. Like the Avengers, but cooler. I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re my little champs, and that’s forever.”

Mateo’s grin spread wide, his eyes half-closed. “Good. I like you being our cousin.”

Marco’s voice was quieter, but steady. “Me too.”

Isla’s throat tightened, tears pricking as she leaned against the doorframe, overwhelmed by the simplicity of it—Joe’s words, so honest and clear, wrapping the twins in a promise they could grasp. He leaned down, kissing Mateo’s forehead, then Marco’s, and stood, crossing to Isla. His hand found hers, squeezing gently, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, right there in the dim light. “Love you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

“Love you too,” she whispered, her voice barely holding.

They flicked off the light, leaving the twins to drift into dreams, and slipped back to the living room. Isla curled into Joe on the couch, her head on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under her cheek. The St. Petersburg skyline glittered beyond the windows, a mosaic of light and shadow, and she traced the lines of his hand, memorizing the moment. The twins’ triumph, Joe’s race to their side, Camila’s fire—it was a messy, beautiful thread, binding them tight. This was her heart laid bare—loud, chaotic, and stitched with love she’d never trade.

Hey, lovelies—thanks for diving into Isla, Joe, and the twins’ little world with me! This story’s close to my heart—those messy, beautiful family moments that make you laugh, cry, and hold on tight. Did Marco’s nerves hit you in the feels? Did Joe’s surprise make you swoon? Or maybe Camila’s chaos had you giggling—I wanna know! Drop a comment with your favorite part, tell me about your own family game-night heroes, or just yell about how much you love these goofballs. Reblog if it tugged your heartstrings (or if you’d fight for a sleepover with Joe too). Let’s keep the love going—your thoughts mean everything to me! 💙

#roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns fluff #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns #wwe fic #the tribal chief #the bloodline #wwe fluff #wwe one shot #roman reigns one shot #open arms

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sapphicfromthehip · 1 month ago

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a look into the historical fashion of sfth characters

[—> angelina roland edition | see below the cut !!

first: what’s the time period and setting that the character is in?

the off season takes place in the late 1800s (more specifically 1895!) in england. we also know that angelina also lived in america for a decent amount of time. (or i assume it was a good chunk of time at least, long enough for her style to be influenced by it for the purpose of this analysis.)

general overview of the fashion for the period:

in both british and american fashion around 1895, the bustle was falling out of style, giving way to skirts with a more bell-shaped silhouette that skimmed the hips and flared toward the hem. at the same time, sleeves were growing more dramatically puffed, leading to the distinctive "leg-of-mutton" sleeve trend.

late 1800s british fashion:

british women’s fashion in 1895 was all about dramatic silhouettes and romantic details. bustles were officially out, and skirts started skimming the hips and flaring out at the hem in a smooth, bell-like shape. the waist was still tightly corseted, keeping that hourglass figure in style, but the overall structure was softening compared to earlier decades.

the real star of the year? sleeves. specifically, the iconic leg-of-mutton sleeve. they were huge—puffed up at the shoulder and narrowing at the wrist—creating a bold contrast that made waists look even smaller. bodices were fitted and often high-necked, though evening looks sometimes dipped lower.

fabrics were rich and textured: think velvet, silk, wool, and taffeta, often layered or trimmed with lace, embroidery, or ribbon. outerwear like capes and short jackets were popular, especially with fur or braid details.

hats grew wider to balance the sleeves, usually decorated with flowers, feathers, or bows. hair was worn up, softly waved or puffed to match the romantic, oversized look of the time. gloves were a daily essential, and parasols still made an appearance when the sun did.

late 1800s american fashion:

american women’s fashion in 1895 followed a lot of the same trends as britain, but with a bit more practicality woven in. the bustle was officially done, and skirts took on that smooth, bell-shaped silhouette—fitted at the waist and hips, flaring gently at the bottom. corsets were still a must, keeping the waist cinched and structured, but the overall shape was starting to ease up.

leg-of-mutton sleeves were everywhere. they hit their peak size around this time—huge at the shoulder, narrow at the wrist—and were a staple in both day and evening wear. they gave that bold, almost theatrical touch while still fitting into the modesty of the era.

day dresses were typically high-necked and long-sleeved, often with layered bodices or decorative panels. fabrics leaned heavy and durable—wool, cotton blends, and silk—especially for middle- and working-class women who needed practicality as well as style. wealthier women wore more delicate materials like velvet and taffeta, often trimmed with lace or ribbon.

outerwear included tailored jackets, capes, and mantles, many with bold collars or cuffs to match those big sleeves. hats were getting larger too—picture hats, bonnets, and toques all decorated with feathers, artificial flowers, and sometimes even birds (victorians were intense about hat decor).

hair was worn up and often softly waved or curled at the front, with pins and combs for decoration. gloves were a daily accessory, and parasols stuck around, though they were a bit more common in southern states where sun exposure was more intense.

so in 1895 america, fashion meant flared skirts, sky-high sleeves, cinched waists, and a mix of function and flair. victorian drama, but with a touch of that american practicality.

differences between american and british fashion:

british fashion was all about elegance and polish. upper-class women leaned hard into the drama—fabrics like velvet and silk, bodices with detailed embroidery or lace, and silhouettes that followed parisian trends to a tee. everything was a little more formal, a little more elaborate. even outerwear felt fancy, with lots of tailored capes and fur trims.

american fashion? still dramatic (those leg-of-mutton sleeves were everywhere), but way more practical. daywear often used sturdier fabrics like cotton-wool blends or plain wool, especially for middle- and working-class women. yes, rich american women wore silk too, but the average person needed clothes they could actually move in. plus, regional differences mattered—fashion in new york wasn’t the same as in texas or montana.

so while both had the same silhouettes—cinched waists, flared skirts, big sleeves—british fashion was more about looking luxurious, and american fashion was more about making it work.

now, on to what i think we’re all here for, what i think angelina would wear:

angelina’s clothing would most likely reflect how both places influenced her personal style. while her father’s status means she’s expected to dress in the traditional, formal upper-class style of late 1800s england, angelina’s more rebellious nature means she doesn’t fully conform.

she wears the classic 1895 silhouette—bell-shaped skirts, corseted waist, and leg-of-mutton sleeves—but her outfits are more practical and less ornate than typical upper-class fashion. sleeves are often rolled up for comfort and movement, and she incorporates pockets, a detail more common in american clothing.

her hair is most likely worn up but in a simpler, looser style than the tightly curled, polished look favored by british aristocracy. hats and outerwear are more modest and functional rather than heavily decorated.

overall, i think that she would blend these cultures together to express her individuality—combining british elegance with american practicality in a way that allows her to have the freedom she needs to do things. (like i don’t know, taking her injured lover to france or something? who knows?)

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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 6 months ago

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The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader - part1

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

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT in 2nd chapter. So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

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

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

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

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It terrified him.

---

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

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

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

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

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

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

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

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

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

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

Best regards.

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

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

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

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

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

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

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“You’re close with them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched. “What?”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

First, though, tea.

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

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

“Well, look who it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Today, he was ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” you asked gently.

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

It was time.

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

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

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

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

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

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Part 2

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implalazz · 1 year ago

Text

Asked for some yokai fusions on reddit, this is the first batch

L-R: Frostysol, Nonoko, Venyan, Lord Lie-in, Slimatina, Whisbuzz

Some thoughts on these designs under the cut

Yayyyyyy thoughts on these because I like talking, esp about my creative process

Frostysol: I WILL SAY RIGHT NOW I KNOW I FUCKED UP THE KOSODE MASSIVELY, IT DOESN’T HAVE SLEEVES & IT’S TOO BIG….. I literally only had two ideas for this desgin, one was inspired by the yuki onna segment's backgrounds from Kwaidan & the other was inspired by the spirits from Kuro Neko. The eyes in the backgrounds of yuki onna were so striking & I had just watched the movie recently so it was still fresh in my mind. I knew I wanted her to be closer to a real yuki onna rather than just a cute snow girl spirit. And in that regard Kuro Neko helped with that. I guess subconsciously I wanted her to give off vibes of an unsuspecting girl who kills you & turns out to be a yokai. I thought a kosode would make more sense historically than a random cape, but also idk if young girls wore kosode like that or if it was just adult women. Had no ideas how to incorporate pallysol so I just used him for little details. He's more prevalent in the design intentionally than physically

Nonoko: Pretty simple what do I say. Uh I thought I could do a clover for the tail rather than a heart like Bloominoko. Wanted to make him even fatter than he is cuz he's Noko x2, also made his spots clover shaped cuz what's more lucky than a four leafed clover? An eight leafed clover! Or two four leafed clovers..... Also gave him double teeth & some little wing shaped clovers on his head kinda like Dudunsparce. This one didn't have a lot of thought go into it, I just kinda did what felt natural

Venyan: The first thing I thought about was what colour to make the fur & what colour to make the hair. I decided on red hair cuz it would pop more with dark blue fur. Also made his face pattern a part of his hair cuz he doesn’t have enough room on his face for it with Venocts bangs. I wanted him to be kind of a shitty little bastard, a real cat kinda cat. A good mix of their personalities y’know. Didn’t have much going on with this design either other than I didn’t want the scarf to be all bulky with the dragons cuz Jibanyan is very squart, so I moved them to the tails. Also just because that looks cooler. Had a hell of a time drawing them, I have experience drawing dragons but I’ve always been bad at drawing them roaring or snarling, they look okay but not great.

Lord Lie-in: Also had a bit of trouble combining these two, makes sense cuz I put this one off for more than a few weeks. Didn’t wanna give him big spiky saiyan hair so he got some stray hairs in the front. Took his face framing bangs & tied them up cuz I always like that look (They’re two different pieces tied individually then tied together, so there’s two mini ponytails instead of one. Also had to deliberate on the hair colours cuz I knew I wanted him to have white fur. One of my favourites was red hair with light blue ends but I didn’t go with that one cuz his outfit is mostly red. I also DID NOT feel like giving him a whole kimono (mostly for silhouette reasons) so I just gave him Miku-like sleeves. I originally wanted to give him split leg hakama but when looking at reference I remembered “Oh yeah these things have a lot of pleats & the crotch is pretty low so that’s not great for the silhouette I have in mind.” I gave him harem-esque pants & if you look closely at the upper thigh you can see a little slit in the side of them. Underneath his waist plate & top, the pants tie together like hakama do so I guess I got the hakama in a little bit. I didn’t have any room for his arm warmers so I made them into gloves & gave him the kind of socks that I don’t know what they’re called (Catra has them & I think they’re cool). Also gave him tengu cuz they look cooler than whatever Lie-in Heart has going on. Also cuz it makes him more like “Woah what a bold guy/character!!” And don’t ask how the sword fits in that sheath, idk magic or something he’s the king of the yokai he can do whatever he wants

Slimatina (or Frostymander): Again not much going on here it’s pretty simple. Gave the lower body muscles cuz I noticed the lower body of Slimamander kind of looked like a chest & also just cuz that makes it more creepy. I gave the main body/head some hair clips resembling the patterns on the bulbs of the other heads. Also made the openings in the head look more like a woman’s mouth cuz again, makes it creepy, but also I just thought it would fit more with the Frostina part. Also gave the main heads head eyelashes that look like the openings on the other heads. Decided to give her a cape this time cuz I’m not fuckin around with another kosode. I don’t know if it comes off in the piece but I wanted her cape to be flying up like she just summoned a harsh wind. Last thing is I gave her an eye ornament on her obi & a specially tied obijime cuz I saw one tied like that on google & I thought it looked cute

Whisbuzz: YET AGAIN SAY IT WITH ME! NOT! MUCH! GOING! ON!!!!!! Uhh gave him a frown cuz he’s depressed or whatever, made the top of his hood look like Whispers…… ahoge???? Made his wings wispy on the ends. That’s about it. Fun fact before I drew that one I had another one but I scrapped it because it looked too much like a sperm cell :]

#🎋.my art #I’m aware the kosode is deeply fucked forgot it was an actual garment & not just a cape #yokai watch #yokai oc #fusion #noko #jibanyan #venoct #frostina #pallysol #lord enma #lie-in heart #slimamander #whisper yokai watch #negatibuzz

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yuma-mukami-garden-god · 26 days ago

Note

how’d the boys react to their s/o being the BIGGEST ally ever? Like she’s dragging them out to pride parades, waving around a rainbow flag, telling them ‘Happy pride!’ Every time she sees them

SAKAMAKI BROTHERS

Shu

“…What’s Pride?” He says this while you're painting rainbow hearts on his cheeks. Doesn’t care as long as he can nap on your lap after. But if anyone dares insult you for your support? He’ll lift one eye open and make the floor tremble. His support is low-energy but loyal.

“Tch. Happy Pride, I guess. Now stop yelling and lie down with me.”

Reiji

Initially baffled by the public celebration of identity, but he reads up on the history and significance because he wants to understand why it's so important to you. Eventually joins you at Pride events in a pressed, rainbow-accented suit.

“Your enthusiasm is… unruly, but admirable. And you’ve made your point. I’ll accompany you.”

Ayato

“HELL YEAH, BABE!! WOOO!!!” He doesn’t even fully know what’s happening but he’s so hyped by your energy that he’s waving a flag and yelling “GAY RIGHTS!” with you, chest puffed out like he started the movement. Probably ends up shirtless and in glitter.

“CHAMPION OF THE ALLIES—THAT’S ME!”

Kanato

Very confused, very offended when you throw rainbow confetti at him and yell “Happy Pride, my spooky babygirl!” But then you give him a little pride flag with teddy bear stickers on it and he holds it the rest of the day like it’s sacred.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND, BUT I LIKE THE COLORS!!”

Laito

Thinks Pride is one big sexy party at first—flirting with everyone and anyone. But then you sit him down and explain what it’s really about. He listens, then wraps a trans flag around both of you and says,

“Let’s be loud, chérie. Loud enough to protect those who can’t be.”

Subaru

Blushes so hard when you drag him to Pride. “Th-this isn’t really my thing…” but then someone gives him a “STRAIGHT BUT SUPPORTIVE” button and you yell “HAPPY PRIDE, BABY!” and his heart melts. He stomps a bigot’s sign later that day.

“I’m not into crowds… but I’m into you, idiot. So I’ll go.”

MUKAMI BROTHERS

Ruki

Raises an eyebrow at first—“Livestock, is this necessary?”—but once you talk about the historical oppression of LGBTQ+ people, he’s all in. Silent but strong support. Holds the umbrella over you at the parade. Brings books on queer history.

“You’re radiant when you stand up for others. That alone is reason enough to attend.”

Kou

Already knows everything about Pride from social media and LOVES how loud and bold you are. Brings his own custom glittery cat ears and matching rainbow outfits. Will definitely record TikToks with you.

“You’re my sparkly little ally queen~! Say hi to my followers, baby!”

Yuma

Was confused until he saw a little nonbinary kid smile when you cheered for them—then it clicked. Now he wears rainbow suspenders and makes cookies shaped like flags. Protective AF of queer youth.

“Yeah, yeah, Happy Pride. Now eat somethin’, ya tiny glitter stick.”

Azusa

You whisper “Happy Pride, angel boy” and give him a pastel flag to wear like a cape and he almost cries. He’s quiet but fiercely supportive, holding your hand tightly at events and asking what all the flags mean.

“It’s… beautiful. All the colors… like you…”

TSUKINAMI BROTHERS

Shin

At first he’s like “Ugh, humans and their weird holidays—WAIT, THERE’S A PARADE?” He’s instantly obsessed. Will absolutely walk shirtless with glitter on his abs while holding a bisexual pride sign, even if he’s not bi, just because he likes the drama.

“Yeah, Happy Pride! Now where’s the body paint, babe?”

Carla

Refuses to go at first. Too dignified. Too ancient. Then one year you surprise him by sewing a custom pride-themed cape for him and he actually shows up. Regal, reserved, and oddly radiant.

“If this cause brings you such joy… I shall lend it the weight of my presence.”

OTHERS

Kino

Absolutely down for chaos. Wears like five different pride flags because he doesn’t know what they all mean and refuses to admit it. Shouts “GAY RIGHTS!” with you on rooftops.

“I don’t get half of this but you’re hot and I support chaos sooo… HAPPY PRIDE!”

Karlheinz

Amused by your enthusiasm at first, but deeply respectful once he sees how earnestly you advocate. Shows up in subtle royal fashion—embroidered pins, discreet rainbow cufflinks. If anyone tries to hurt you or your friends? They vanish.

“Ah, the spectrum of love… fascinating. And quite divine, when expressed through you.”

Richter

Grumbles. Rolls his eyes. “This is ridiculous.” But he goes anyway. Stays glued to your side and glares at anyone who looks at you wrong. Eventually softens when you slip a rainbow heart into his breast pocket.

“Tch… fine. Happy Pride. Let’s get this over with.”

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patchwork-crow-writes · 2 months ago

Note

If you went to a dark world what do you think your DW outfit/abilities would be like

Bold of you to assume I'm not already a Darkner, anon XD

But let me think a moment, this is a neat question! I suppose it'd depend on whether I was human or not in the Deltarune canon, since as far as we know humans can't use magic in the dark world (which is actually such a strange limitation now that I think about it, huh). But let's assume that I'm a pretty typical crow-type monster - black feathers and all - I suppose my feathers would become all multicoloured and shiny, and I'd end up rocking a big patchwork cape stitched together from all different materials.

Now, for abilities - given that my strengths seem to lie in writing, it'd make sense for any battle abilities to follow suit. So, here's a couple of spells/skills I've mocked up:

Word Salad - for 25 TP, bombard all enemies on the field with all sorts of trivia about obscure words, confusing them. For regular enemies, this makes them TIRED. For bosses, however, it would instead slow down their bullet patterns ever so slightly, and also add a small percentage to their mercy meter.

Words of Encouragement - for 5 TP, subject allies to a rousing speech that fires them up. This would make it so that grazing enemy bullets gives more TP - however, it would also make the SOUL move quite a bit faster, making it harder to manoeuvre around. Not for the faint of heart!

Words of Affirmation - for 40 TP, utter soothing words to allies to bolster their self-esteem. This would heal all allies for around a third of their total health, but it would have no effect on the caster.

I even came up with a funny title for this hypothetical class: "Vocabulist - uses fancy words to support allies. Incomprehensible."

Haha, this was really fun actually! Thanks anon for the ask - and hey, if anyone else wants to get in on this, feel free to reblog/comment with your ideas! It'd be awesome to see what people come up with :D

#ask #answered #anon #deltarune #deltarune oc #deltarune self insert #(i mean technically this is true?)#though actually I realise that I may have already done this with Grandfather Rook #He's a boss though and vastly op so I don't think it'd have been in the spirit of the exercise XD

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space-age-bachelor · 3 months ago

Text

Accidents Yet to Be (2/?)

Chapter One

Steve gets a phone call in the middle of the night from an unexpected source.

ao3

Steve didn’t know how Batman got his phone number. Sure, the man had rescued him and Dick from a few kidnapping attempts, and there was that thing with Two-Face at the botanical gardens, but he’d never given the man his number. Unless he stole it from a police report. Regardless, he didn’t appreciate getting woken up in the middle of the night by Batman growling an address at him.

“And why do I need to go to crime alley?” He grumbled, already pulling on his pants and a sweatshirt that was probably his. He figured the caped crusader would have a good reason, even if it was annoying.

”There’s a child here. I trust you can deliver him safely to Wayne Manor.”

Steve was suddenly wide awake, growling back. “Did that little shit tell you to call me?” As soon as he got there, that kid was dead.

Batman took a second to reply, sounding more uncomfortable than Steve thought him capable. “He may have implied that you were the best person to handle this.”

”I’ll be there in ten.” He hung up without an ounce of remorse.

His Hawkins kids have given him heart attacks before. Nothing could really top finding himself in the backseat of the Beemer as Max sped towards an extra dimensional monster, but he’d been with them. The thought of Dick alone in crime alley , ending up in a situation where Batman had to step in…Steve was channeling his terror into fury.

Five minutes later, he was screeching to a halt behind the Batmobile.

“Where the hell is he?” He barked as he slammed the car door, scanning the dingy street for his charge. “Richard John Grayson, you better have an explanation for this.”

Batman held him back from the two small forms huddled on the hood of the, frankly, kick-ass car. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The kids turned around and Steve’s concern melted away. The unmasked child wasn’t Dick. Even in the dim streetlights, he knew that wasn’t his kid. For one, he was younger, probably even small than the boy had been a few years back when they met. He was pale too, with sunken cheeks stained with dirt and a few random scratches.

Steve must’ve scared him because he turned his eyes were blown wide with fear as he tucked himself closer to the Boy Wonder, using his cape as a shield.

“Bruce asked you to have me pick up an emergency foster placement.” He relaxed into the grip. After what happened with Dick, neither of them trusted the Gotham foster system to place a kid in a safe home, especially not one so noticeably traumatized. “You should’ve led with that. I thought Dick—“

Batman nodded, and, softer than Vicki Vale would ever believe, said, “His name is Jason Todd. He’s seven years old. Robin caught him trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile.”

“Bold little shit,” he laughed. “Has he eaten?” They could swing past a drive-thru on their way to the Manor.

”Robin got him Batburger before I called you.”

Probably not the best meal for a starving child, but it was about the same as what Steve would’ve given him. Though his Midwest sensibilities make him a Big Belly Burger fan. Besides, Alfred’s meal plan wouldn’t leave much room for fast food.

He took a deep breath to settle himself even further and made his way towards the boys.

“Hey, Robin,” he gave the masked kid a quick smile. “Heard you made a new friend.”

He lit up, pulling the smaller boy closer by an arm around his waist. “Yeah! This is Jason. He got three of the wheels off the Batmobile. I helped him get them back on in exchange for some food.”

“That’s great.” He waved to the new boy. “I’m Steve. Batman asked me if I could drive you to Bruce Wayne’s place.”

”How do you know Batman?” Jason scrunched his face up, showing what he thought of that association.

Steve opened his mouth to explain, only to be cut off by Robin. “He’s what Bats calls a ‘high profile target.’”

”Why is a driver a target?”

”Because I’m not a driver, I’m a babysitter for Bruce Wayne’s kid. When people want him, they usually have to get through me.” He smiled gently at Jason. “And now, he asked me to protect you.”

Robin nodded, “He knocked Two Face out with a baseball bat.”

Jason eyed him with a new form of awe. “What about Wayne? All I know is that he’s some rich bastard. How do I know he’s better than any other fosters?”

“Batman called us because we don’t trust the system. Richard Grayson had some bad experiences with it, and we’d all feel better knowing you were somewhere safe until we get this all sorted. I’m not gonna promise it’ll be perfect, B can be a bit ridiculous sometimes, but it’ll be safe.”

After a small smile from Robin, Jason took his hand and eased off the hood of the car. He grabbed the tire iron too, but Steve let him have that for protection.

Before they left, after he got Jason tucked into the back seat, Steve hurried over to Batman. “Hey, thanks for taking care of Jace. I might work for Wayne and the commish, but if you ever need anything, you have my number.”

Steve didn’t leave Jason’s room until he was positive the kid was asleep. Batman had claimed he was 7, but tucked into the full-size bed with Ace curled up beside him, he looked so small. It was hard to come to terms with all the pain and tragedy that had haunted his Hawkins kids, and Dick, before they had met. Jason was a whole other story; he was far too young, younger than all of them, and he’d been alone.

“Thank you,” Bruce spoke from the top of the stairs, startling Steve from his musings. “I know this was well outside the scope of your duty—“

Steve waved him off. He didn’t want Bruce worrying about his job description next time there was an emergency. “You needed help and Jason’s a sweet kid. I’m glad you called me.”

“No one better.” He smiled, focusing on Steve with his undivided attention. His gaze had a weight to it, like gravity pulling Steve further down the darkened hallway. “Alfred could’ve gone, but… you’re good with them.”

He understood where Bruce was coming from. While Steve would argue that Alfred was better in general, the butler could be a little intimidating. He’d been terrified when he met the true head of the Wayne household. Despite passing an incredibly thorough background check, Steve had felt like he was going to melt under the pressure of his expectations. For someone like Jace who wasn’t used to adults caring about him, it could have complicated the whole pick-up more than Steve’s mistake had.

“It’s just experience.” He soothed the new foster father. “You’ve been doing great with Dick.” He winced, a thought crossing his mind. “What are you planning on telling him? Is he okay with sharing his home?” The ‘and his dad’ went unsaid.

Bruce chuckled. “When I woke him up to tell him, he insisted on bringing Jason here. I think he just wants a little brother.”

That sounded like his kid. Steve couldn’t help a small smile at the idea pf these two boys being brothers.. He’d grown up in a big house, all alone except for the cleaning company that came every other week. It would be nice for Dick to have someone to keep him company, and he had so much love in his heart. “He’ll be a great brother, and Jason needs someone in his corner.”

”I might be calling on you more often.” He admitted, looking sheepish at the prospect of upping his hours. “It’ll be beneficial for Jason to have an adult he trusts around the house.”

“For stability, of course.” Steve had a feeling it wouldn’t just be for the boys. It would be easy to make the time for his favorite family. He only really had two regular clients, including the Waynes. Everything else was just one or two time gigs, and he was sure the commissioner would understand if Bruce needed him. “Just let me know when. I’ll smooth everything over with Gordon if there are any conflicts.” He started to head past him to the staircase, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulders.

”It’s late.” Bruce nodded down the hall towards the family rooms. “Alfred’s had a room made up, stay the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he was staying over. He’d been watching Dick overnight whenever Bruce had a business trip. But there was something about staying in the family wing, being offered a place in the home that left Steve’s mouth dry.

He agreed. He had to. It’d be nice to see Jason in the morning, and when Bruce asked him like that, it was hard to say no.

#batfam fic #batman #steve harrington #babysitter steve harrington #jason todd #dick grayson #robin dick grayson #bruce wayne #stranger things

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severeaesthetic · 1 year ago

Note

I see that you are accepting requests so I would love to request a 7 minute in heaven scenario with all the dorm leaders plus Lilia. You can make it fluffy/suggestive and if you wanted to do an 18+ continuation. You can if you want to. Thank you

7 minutes too little

For the sake of keeping it gn as possible I will refer to the reader as Yuu and you

Some you're dating them some you're not

⚠️some NSFW content, mentions of male genitalia, some strong language⚠️

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle is already uncomfortable being at a party with the rest of the heartslabyul. Cater had the idea to play 7 minutes in heaven. Trey collected all the names and Riddle being the dorm leader pulled out two names. He got a little pissed off when he read it was You. he begrudgingly unfolded the other paper and let out a surprised yelp when he read his name.

I'm not gonna name names, but Cater charmed the fake papers to only say Riddle and Yuu.

I can feel the heat radiating off Riddle's nervous body as you two walked into the closet. Now this can go multiple ways. All of them involve him being in love with you.

So, if you return his feelings and haven't made them obvious, like me. I would be just as nervous as him and be awkward.

But if you are the opposite and constantly flirt with him, you might make the first move.

kabedon him. Or don't. I would. his face would be funny.

I don't think Riddle would last the full 7 minutes.

He would probably get a boner and a nosebleed just from kissing you.

He would be too embarrassed after time is up and cover his boner with his cape and quickly walk out of the room.

This is when you slip Cater and Trey their 20 Thaumarks each for helping you make a move on Riddle.

Leona Kingscholar

Smug mfer.

There was literally only five of you. Leona, Ruggie, Jack, and Rook.

Leona didn't even read the name on the paper before he threw you over his shoulder and took you out of the common room leaving grossed out jack and Ruggie and a smirking Rook.

I hope to God that Leona knows a silencing charm like in Harry Potter.

Let's go with Beastmen have heat/mating cycles. and lets say leona had just started his the day you were all hanging out. Beastmen get time off from classes for their heat cycles, so their partners do too. So for the next week you are Leona's prey and I wish you luck. All you wanted to do was play a game of 7 minutes in heaven, not 7 days of rough sex (that was followed up by soft aftercare cause Leona is soft for you)

Azul Ashengrotto

Okay so you weren't actually playing 7 minutes in heaven. You were actually on your way to see Azul to work on a project. Floyd just so happens to scream really loud that Azul likes you and says that you should kiss and barricades you two in his office.

Azul wants to hide in his octopot. He is bright red.

He desperately tries to avoid looking at you as he tries to focus on the project you two are supposed to do.

Me personally I would wait until he thinks I forgot about what Floyd did then I would attack. A single kiss on the cheek then back to work like nothing.

"Are ya kissin em' Azul!?" Floyd yelled loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear which made him even more embarrassed.

The best you would get from him if he didn't have a heart attack would be a kiss on the hand before you leave.

If you made a move you could kiss him and he wouldn't complain.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim has no filter. So you might be playing 7 in heaven but there wouldn't be time for a closet before you could see big hearts in his eyes and gasping before immediately kissing you even if everyone was complaining.

He is super excited and he sits next to you after kissing you and holds your hand the entire time.

no joke there is no need for 7 in heaven. All you have to do is ask this sweet boy for a kiss or hug and he'll give it to you.

Vil Schoenheit

Bold of you to assume he would stoop to the level of childish games such as that. No no. He would never, especially if it would ruin his makeup or disrupt his necessary sleep.

No. He will not play. He only uses smudge proof makeup and so he will give you a kiss. A single kiss. Not only does he respect you not to go overboard with PDA but he also has an image to keep up.

So don't ask him to play that stupid game, just ask for a kiss little sweet potato (his words, not mine)

Idia Shroud

Nononononononononononononononononononononononononono

He doesn't ever leave his room, he would rather be caught dead than in a situation where this game would be played.

However, you would make your Thems (Sims) characters play this game which would still make his heart melt. I mean, he would call you a cringey normie but still. He absolutely thinks it's cute. He would record it and watch it over and over and over again. He won't tell you that though. (Ortho would sow you the video and Idia watching it)

Malleus Draconia

What is this heaven and why do you have to go in a closet to get there?

Poor baby is so confused. If you want him to kiss you why do you have to go to a different realm to do it?

I think Lilia would put you two up to it, not necessarily playing the game as Malleus wouldn't understand the concept. Probably like Floyd he locked you guys in a room in Diasomnia. He would be polite about it and ask to kiss you. Straight up no shame.

He wouldn't make out with you like a horny teen. All kisses would be romantic. However, he would absolutely tangle his fingers in your hair or put his hand on the back of your neck not letting you get away from the kiss.

He would not have sex with you in a stuffy closet if it escalated to that. That is for peasants. He's gonna treat you right with his incredibly soft bed and incredible love making. Also literally the king of aftercare. Any pain you have is taken away when he gives you a potion.

Lilia Vanrouge

you would literally just be walking down the hall and Lilia would appear and drag you into a closet

Cheeky mf

Literally would make a huge show of setting his timer. Actually it's an hourglass cause he's old. 🙃

He would take his time rolling up his sleeves like he's about to cook that nasty wonderful cooking he always does.

He would draw everything out to tease you saying shit like 'Oh I'm not as young as I used to be I don't know how to kiss anyone' like he didn't make out with you before class Spiderman style???

Anyways, after he makes this grand show he finally gets ready to kiss you.

He puts his hands on your cheeks, looking into your eyes all sweetly. He teases a bit by looking down to your lips and back to your eyes. He asks if he can kiss you, such a gentleman. You close your eyes and prepare for a kiss. You feel his breath on your skin.

Just as you expect to feel his soft lips against yours

.........

YOU FEEL HIS TONGUE ON YOUR CHEEK!!!!!!!

Then you hear his little keehee tee laughter before he disappears and leaves you in the closet.

This man can't be serious in his old age. Ever.

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rkay07 · 2 years ago

Text

The Traveler

c!Technoblade x fem!reader

(I don't have time to put warning so read at your own risk I guess and this is an UNFINISHED fanfic so sowwy (:)

Word Count: 6.1k (that's a big number)

Living alone has its benefits, privacy, everything and anything is on your own time, and you don’t have to worry about anybody. At least almost anybody.

You were having some time up in your attic reading about potions, even though you’ve read that book about seven times already. You zoned out, staring off out the window. It took you a second but you came back and focused on the snow that was falling outside, you smiled at yourself knowing that you haven’t gotten fresh snow for a good couple days. Admiring the scenery, you stared off into the distance at the trees. Beautiful spruce trees, covered in white powder is something you couldn’t get enough of when you looked out from your house. In all the years you’ve lived here alone, you never took them for granted. You get up from your chair and stand in front of the window, opening up your view to the whole field of snow you had. You leaned on the window sill and closed your eyes as you felt the coldness from the glass pane kiss your face.

You grinned and opened your eyes. But as your eyes adjusted, you could see wrestling off to the side of the tree line. The tree branches tossed and turned with leaves falling from the disturbed sticks, you were eager to see what it was but you didn’t have a great view. So as fast as you could possibly go, you booked it for your ladder, sliding down and hopping over your stairs to get to your front door windows. You grabbed your bow and arrows as you flew through your room, setting up right in front of the tree that was still moving rapidly. Honestly, you weren’t scared but confused, you thought the thing was trying to get something out of the tree but what? There was no food in the spruce trees. It was very strange to you. You thought about it again and took a deep breath setting your bow and arrows down under the window. You unlocked your door and headed out onto the porch, you had your sword with you in case of an emergency.

The tree line was a great deal away from your house, 25 yards to be exact. As you slowly walked up to the forest you thought it might be your horse that had gotten lost a couple days earlier while you were hunting for rabbits in the same forest but he could have been anywhere. You got a few feet away from the forest when you heard murmuring like someone was talking to themselves so you held your ground, planting your feet in the snow and having your sword ready behind you. You hesitated to speak but then it stopped, the talking had stopped. You froze at the sound of silence, your eyes narrowed in on the trees, jolting at the slightest movement. You held your breath but your heart rate sped up, skipping a beat when a rabbit jumped out a little ways down the tree line. You focused on the place in front of you trying not to become impatient with the lack of noise. You took one step forward but a voice from beyond the trees' bold and thick vibrates your head, “Don’t.” It said. So you stopped, daring not to take another step for the sake of not knowing what’s back there. The voice speaks again but sounding softer this time, “I’m just passing through but I think I have something that’s yours.” You scrunch your eyebrow together, not really thinking of what this person might have.

You hear sticks crack and see branches move as the person steps closer towards you. You take a big breath and a single step back when you finally see what was talking to you, tall, short pink hair, and tusks. Wait, no, he’s wearing a mask but still tusks? Huge cape too, gosh he looked like royalty. You slid your sword back into its spot and straightened up, “Sorry.” Was all you could muster at the sight of him. He continued to walk out from the forest, making a path with his sword through the branches. He had a horse with him, it was walking behind him, slow and tired, it looked like it hadn’t rested in days. When the man finally got into a good spot off the tree line, he turned around and clicked his tongue, “Is this your horse?” Your horse came running out of the trees, bucking and trotting around the snow like he hasn’t seen snow in forever. You chuckled and smiled at the sight of your horse prancing around, “Oh my goodness, Rusty! Where have you been?” You glance at the man petting his horse and decide to walk over to Rusty, your horse.

When you got Rusty settled down you walked back to the man and stuck your hand out, “Thank you, sir.” He looked at your hand, finger tips red and cold from standing outside for a little too long. He took your hand and firmly shook it. His hand was warm despite it being frigid outside. You took your hand back and turned to look at your house and back to him, “This sounds odd but would you like something to eat? I just got done making some mushroom soup and I think your horse would enjoy hanging out in my barn for a little bit.” You gave him a weak smile and cocked your head. He looked over your shoulder towards your house and at the barn that was a bit farther away. He looked at his clock and finally back at you, “I don’t think so.” He started to walk off, every step going deeper into the snow. You press your lips together at his statement, “It’s the least I could do for you because you found my horse.” He shook his head and kept on walking but his horse stopped behind him. The man turned around to his horse and gave the reins a tug, signaling that he wanted to keep going but the horse had other plans. His horse turned around and walked back to you. He nudged your arm and rubbed his face against it, “How long have you guys been walking?” You tried to sound caring more than anything. He exhaled and walked to his horse, mumbling under his breath, “A day or two.” He took his horse by the reins and pulled him away from you. “Have you rested at all?” You ask, trying to look around his horse and at him. You could hear him murmuring to himself again, the same exact tone you heard earlier behind the trees. You could tell the horse was tired the moment you saw it and now questioning if he’s even rested for a straight day or two. You look at Rusty and signal him to go to the barn, he stomps his foot and trots off to the barn as you walk with the man and his horse.

“I think you would get to wherever you’re going faster if you rest for a couple hours.” You said quietly, wondering if he even heard you. It takes a couple seconds before the man stops in his tracks making the horse bump into him. The man turns around and faces you. Not prepared for you to be so close to him, he stepped back, “Fine. But when I’m done, I’m gone.” You smile and start walking to the barn.

You made a bowl for you and the man as he sat over at the table, you occasionally looked back at him sitting there very quietly. You hadn’t had another person in your house for a very long time and it felt weird but not uncomfortable. You grabbed the two bowls and took them to the table. You sat across the table from the man, you had so many questions and you didn’t know why. He probably didn’t know the answers to them anyway so you asked a more relevant question to break the silence, “So where are you traveling to?” You had looked up from your bowl but he didn’t, he kept his eyes on his bowl. Looking at it like it was going to be the last meal he was going to eat. You put your eyes back on your bowl and took a sip from your spoon, you were a little surprised, you had made the soup very good this time. You got a little excited because you got to share with someone else but you kept your cool and kept eating.

He looked up from his bowl and at you, seeing that you were eating the soup, that made him feel a little better about eating it but it was still questionable. His skepticism got in the way of him actually enjoying a meal with you, he couldn’t go anywhere without feeling like everyone was out to get him. He was looking at you longer than he should have, observing a person that he had never seen before. His eyes widened when he realized that he might have a crush on you, he immediately looked back at his bowl and started eating. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he would see you. And next time wouldn’t be an accident.

He did what he said, he was gone when he was done. You watched from your porch as he galloped away on his horse, set off down the field and into the forest again. He was gone in a blink of an eye. You felt this warmth inside you that you had never felt before, you were outside on your porch in freezing temperatures and you felt warm, you thought you were going crazy, it was so unknown to you. You walked back inside and closed the door behind you. You sighed leaning against your front door. You thought about the man and buried your face in your hands, you never got his name. You were ashamed of yourself, asking where he might be going instead of asking him what his name was. You couldn’t believe yourself. You pushed off the door and started to walk to the stairs when you saw a napkin still on the table where the both of you ate. You picked it up to throw it away in the trash but it had writing on it, you couldn’t help but read it.

The name’s Technoblade but you can call me Techno, I’m headed off to the town a few miles from your house. If you don’t mind, I'd like to stop by your house again on my way back.

You smiled at the note and walked up to your room, happier than ever.

You waited for him to come back, you were excited to see him again but got a little worried when it hit the fourth day. You tried your best not to think about it like hanging out with Rusty and moving hay bales but it was hard not to.

You were outside when you heard trotting in the distance, a big smile was plastered on your face when you saw Techno on his horse. You stopped what you were doing and walked to your porch to greet him. You took your gloves off and set them on the thick railing of the porch and crossed your arms. You grinned as he slowed down. He got off and whispered to his horse, the horse pranced around finally making its way to the barn where it found Rusty eating some hay. He took one step onto the stairs but stopped, he looked across the field from where he came from and took a second to stare. You noticed he had a little more emotion on his face than last time, he looked worried. You pressed your lips together, “What’s wrong?” You asked, taking a step down. He closed his eyes and was still facing the field, he didn’t know how to put it but he wasn’t at all worried. He turned back to you, “Nothing.” A smile tugged at his lips but never seemed to form. You nodded your head and walked into the house, he followed close behind, closing the door to not let the nice warm heat escape the house.

It was colder than usual at your house so you had the fireplace going. Techno sat in the seat he sat in the previous time, staring at the fireplace. He couldn’t tell if the heat was coming from the burning wood or his blushed cheeks. To be honest, he was also delighted to see you again and he was hoping that he could spend more time with you and not just on this occasion. He liked the company, and knew you did too but he didn’t know if you liked him. He whipped his head towards you when he heard you speak, waiting to hear that lovely voice of yours for days. “So do you have family? Brother, Sister, Father, Mother?” He was caught off guard by your question, he thought about an answer, one that wasn’t so complicated. He didn’t want to lie so he only said the basics, “A Father, a wonderful Mother, and…” he paused, you thought you heard him sniffle but it was probably you. He rubbed his chin before he finished his sentence, “And a little Brother.” You smiled at yourself, knowing he had family made him seem not so big and scary but a lovable giant. You picked up the board of bread, cooked chicken, and two wooden plates and walked over to the table sitting in the same spot as last time. You notice that he took off his big cape, exposing the rest of his figure. You thought you were prepared to see but he looked too hot. He was wearing a tight wool long sleeve making his arms seem massive, and brown wool pants that looked comfy as clouds. You didn’t know if he knew what he looked like but if he didn’t you would show him one day.

It seemed like the both of you talked for ages but when Techno checked his clock, only three hours had passed. He wanted to hit the road but he didn’t want to leave you here all alone. He was tempted to ask you if he could stay the night but his mind quickly discarded it. When you saw him check his clock you knew it was time for him to go, you got up and stacked everything. You made your way to the sink, rinsing the board and plates off. You rinsed your hands, drying them off with a towel. You started walking back to the table but Techno was already sitting on your couch watching the wood pop and sparks flying in the air. A smile tugged at your lips as you looked at him, you walked over to the couch across from him and sat down. You looked at the fire mesmerized by its light, your gaze trailed off to Techno. Your eyes met his, that made heat rush to your cheeks and your eyes widened slightly. He had taken off his mask before you guys ate but his facial feature glowed in the light of the fire, you couldn’t help but stare.

He leaned back onto the couch, putting his foot on his knee and resting his arm on the back of the couch. You had to look away before you walked over to him and kissed the living daylight out of him. You grinned as you looked down at your hands, “You’ll be traveling in the dark if you don’t leave soon.” You sounded as if you were trying to convince not only him but yourself too. He nodded and tapped his leg. He knew he had to go but he was convinced that you liked him back. He didn’t want to push it though and tapped his leg again. He got up and walked over to you. He held his hand out and waited for you to take it, “Thank you for letting me stay.” You took his hand but didn’t expect him to pull you into his arm and hold you by the waist. You were starstruck looking up at him, he was so tall and muscular, at that moment you didn’t know what to do.

Your brain froze for a second from being so close, his body was at your fingertips. But you knew better if you wanted him to at least have some sun for his travels you would have to let him be for the time being, “Anytime.” He leaned down as if to kiss you but hugged around your waist, bringing you up on your tippy toes. You hugged him back, wrapping your arms around his neck and burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. He hugged you back even tighter when you did that, moving his hand from your back to the back of your shoulder basically strapping you against him. You felt safe, that was something you didn’t feel very often but with him you were never going to get hurt. You ran your fingers through his surprisingly untangled hair, you leaned back but he held you close. You chuckled, cupping his face with your hands, “Would you like to take anything for the road?” The words of your request slipped your mind but he took notice of your ‘mistake’. He opened his eyes and looked deep into yours, if looks could kill. He tucked some hair behind your ear, “You.” Your lips curled into a soft smile and butterflies formed in your stomach. You shook your head and patted his shoulder, not believing what he said, “I meant food, Silly.” You made your way back to the kitchen and he followed you, walking incredibly quiet, “And I meant you.” You shook your head once more.

He ended up not taking food but he did take some night vision potions you had and some fire resistance. He was impressed by how many books you had of, well, everything. From potions to cooking, from ruins portals to strongholds. He had mentioned earlier that he was the boredest man alive when he was traveling through the tree because he couldn’t go fast unless he wanted to hit a tree at 35 mph. So you gave him a book of his choice because you don’t like being bored yourself and that gives him a reason to come back but to be honest he didn’t need a reason to come back to you.

It was over two weeks until you saw him again. It was a relief to see him and his horse walking out of the forest and finally getting to have time with him. You weren’t letting him leave until you got at least one kiss. You leaned on the porch watching him signal his horse off to the barn, the horse trotted away behind the house but you kept your gaze on Techno. He kept his eyes on the ground for his own reasons, walking up the stairs and finally looking at you. He looked sad but smiled anyway. You smiled back at him as you cocked your head, tilting up when he got close to you. You blinked at him, you would never get used to his massive stature, you were tiny compared to him and you think he liked it. He moved some hair out of your face and behind your ear. He glided his thumb across the skin of your cheek, you were cold and hot at the same time. You closed your eyes as you melted into his touch, “We should get inside.” Your voice soft and shy. He was taken aback with the sudden change of appearance, he nodded and let you lead the way with his hand on your back.

You went to the kitchen as usual but he followed this time. He hung his cape and mask up and walked over to the counter that you weren’t using and leaned against it. Your back was turned to him but you knew he was staring, tracing your body with curiosity and affection. A slight smile appeared on his face as you turned to give him a bowl of beetroot soup, your shocked expression came across your face when your eyes met his. And it didn’t help when you saw his smile get bigger, his canines showing and his hands on the counter. You raised the bowl to him and he took it, sipping on it as he looked at you. You didn’t know what to make of it, you stood there quite flabbergasted and he liked every moment of it. You stepped closer to him and leaned against the same counter he was, you finally felt ok to eat. You didn’t if you were uncomfortable with it or if it was just awkward to you but it didn’t matter because you snuggled next to him and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He rubbed your arm and took a sip from his bowl. The both of you sat in silence for a while before speaking, enjoying each other's company.

You guys had a few things in common, like you both lived alone, you both lived in snowy areas, and you both liked reading. Not much but it was enough to get on topics you could talk about for hours. You and Techno were sitting across each other on the couch, the fire going ablaze and your conversation getting hotter by the minute. You felt the tension between you and him but you were nervous, you didn’t know how he was going to respond so you stayed put, holding your tongue every time you thought your remark was too much.

He saw how jittery you were and wanted to make sure you were ok, “How long has it been since you’ve had someone else in your house?” He leaned forward his elbows on his knees, your mouth parted slightly at the sight but you were brought back instantly, thinking about his question for a moment. You messed with your fingers as you spoke, “Honestly I can’t remember the last time I had company other than you in my home…” you trailed off, your gaze landed on the very bright fire, dancing in the fireplace. You had the sudden urge to cry, tears filled your eyes and you didn’t know why. You quickly rubbed your eyes and face, trying to remove any evidence of sadness off. You felt the couch shift and strong arms wrap around your shoulders, big hands softly rubbing up and down your back. He was unbelievably soft to the touch, he wasn’t scary at all to be clear, someone couldn’t be any further from the truth if they said he was scary. Sure, he was humongous and built like a spruce tree but that wasn’t even close to his heart, he cared, he cared about you. He had one leg on the couch and one foot on the ground, you moved in between his legs and leaned against his chest. It didn’t seem like he was phased but he was, but not because you were close to you know what but because you were so small, you fit perfectly between his legs and he couldn’t get enough of it. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you as close as possible which was actually quite close but you didn’t care. You settled into him and held onto his arms, you couldn’t believe how thick his forearms were so you stared at them as you tried to calm down.

He couldn’t help but think that it was his fault that you started crying. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck and whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He nuzzled even further into your neck to hide his flushed face. You chuckled lightly, “No…no, you didn’t make me cry.” You brought your hand up to his hair and ran your fingers through it. He chuckled and came out of his hiding place, resting his chin on your head for a second. You looked up at him and gave him a soft smile, he cocked his head and smiled back. You moved your hand down to his jaw and gave his lips a couple glances. He took notice and cupped your cheeks with a free hand, wiping a tear that had escaped from your eye. He examined your face and gave your forehead a gentle kiss. You looked up at him with pure fondness, you didn’t kiss him, it wasn’t time but maybe you should have because before you know it someone’s knocking on your door.

You looked at the door shocked, almost scared. You never get visitors, never. This was frightening. You look at Techno, he saw how scared you were and told you to either not move or go up to your room and see if you can see anything. You nodded and quietly sprinted up the stairs, finding your bow and arrows and peered out the window. You had a perfect view but the porch was covered by the awning. You saw no horse standing out in the snow so you were confused by how anyone could get to your house from anywhere if this person didn’t have a horse. You sat up there, waiting for absolutely anything, then you heard Techno open the door.

Techno watched as you ran up the stairs making sure you got up before he pulled anything out. He was silent, not making a sound whatsoever, he picked up his cape and satchel from the bench next to the front door and pulled out his sword. He looked through the window next to the door, being as stealthy as possible. How could he miss the guy standing outside? It was the last person he ever wanted to see, especially at your house. It was like seeing a ghost, this guy was thought to be dead but he was standing right outside the front door. He took a deep breath and gripped his sword behind his back. He put on his mask and opened the door slowly. “Hi.” The man spoke as if he was waiting for this moment his whole life. He had a huge scar across his eye that the one and only Technoblade had given him not so long ago. Techno held the blade by his side to show that he wasn’t messing around. “Oh come on, Techno. I’m just here to chat. Nothing more should happen unless you decide to be difficult.” Techno narrowed his eyes and scanned the man, he trusted him once but after what happened, after he tried to execute him, it would be the last time he could ever trust that man again. Techno stepped out onto the porch, appearing much taller than said man, “What do you want, Quackity?” Quackity grinned looking all around the porch, the floor, the walls, the windows. He sighed, “Techno, you know how it goes- I find you…I kill you.”

You stared at the tree line, questioning if this person had more people with them. You could hear muffled conversation, a short conversation, from downstairs. You slowly opened your window to pull your bow back, ready for some action. You stepped back to be more in the room, hidden in the dark shadows. Straight away you saw movement in the trees and pulled back all the way. You saw a person, who seemed to be taller than Techno, walk out of the forest holding an axe. Then right after him was another person, shorter than the one before, holding a crossbow already loaded and pointed at the porch. You had multi-shot on your bow so this was a piece of cake, it seemed as if time slowed to a snail’s pace. Your eyes jolted around the treeline, no one else was coming, you could feel it so you lined up for a shot but they dropped their weapons.

Two guys emerged out of the trees, one after another. One holding an axe and one holding a loaded crossbow. Techno chuckled at their gesture, “You really think you can kill me, after you failed to do it the first time.” He steadily raised his sword, resting it on Quackity’s chestplate, “Put it down Tubbo.” He said looking over Quackity’s shoulder, “You too Ranboo.” They only gripped their weapons tighter, eager to get a hit but knew they had to wait for the signal. Techno breathed out in disappointment, he really thought after everything they’ve been through he would put it down, for him. Techno leaned down to Quackity’s ear, “I can kill all three of you in a heartbeat.” Quackity gulped as Techno leaned back, straightening up he let the tip of his sword drop to the ground. Making quite a loud thud but surprisingly you didn’t hear it. Techno glanced at all three of them knowing they weren’t leaving until he was finally dead, “Fine. One last fight. But first let's get even, you take off your armor and I’ll take off mine and we’ll only use swords.” Quackity stared at Techno for a second to see if he was kidding but he was not. He turned around and gestured to lower their weapons, they dropped the weapons in the snow. The axe sank lower than the crossbow into the fresh blanket of snow that came that morning. Techno watched as they threw the weapons, taking a breath as a sigh of satisfaction. Techno and Quackity took off their armor at the same time, not breaking eye contact from one another. An evil grin appeared on Quackity’s face, “You’ll be lucky if you even get a scratch on me.” He threw a right hook to Techno but it couldn’t compare to his reflexes as he caught the punch and twisted around to his back, making him walk towards the porch stairs as Techno’s sword was held across his neck. They got to the first step of the stairs, Tubbo picked up his crossbow but it was too late, an arrow went straight for his shoulder, sending him to the ground. Ranboo looked up to see where the arrow came from but he saw nothing but an empty window, he went for the crossbow hoping to grab it before the next shot came but another arrow went right through his forearm. It sent a shock of pain through his arm up his shoulder making him wince and grip where the arrow was. Techno pressed his lips together, “See, told you I could kill all three.” Quackity stared at the aching bodies in the snow, “Well where’s the third one?” His breathing was now heavy, probably from adrenaline and the lack of heat running through his body. Techno shook his head and pushed Quackity into the soft snow, “I was going to spare you but I guess I’ll have to put another scar on you for you to understand.” As Techno talked he took a small step down the stairs, one after another after another and after another, making each second more painful than the last. Until he was standing over Quackity with his sword in his face, waiting for him to make the last snarky remark he would ever make for the rest of his life.

After shooting a couple shots, you saw a man fly down the stairs of your porch into the snow. Techno walked down the stairs, talking while he was taking steps, finally getting to the man and looking down at him with the sword in the man’s face. You had your bow ready for another shot, ready to take it whenever. You saw Techno kneel down to the man, gliding the sword not even an inch over his skin. Your eye caught the guy with the crossbow, trying to take a shot again. You fired and missed by a centimeter, as you quickly grabbed another arrow you heard someone gasp in pain. Pulling back and firing again. You sent the arrow straight through the guy’s other shoulder, he poofed into thin air before he hit the ground.

Techno knelt down to the ground and glided the sword across Quackity’s face, “You can avoid all pain if you leave right now.” Two arrows were fired, one missing and one hitting Techno’s right peck, he hummed in pain trying to keep his noise level to a zero. There was a moment before another arrow was fired hitting Tubbo and sending him back to respawn, wherever that may be. Quackity looked to see who was shot, his eyes widening when he only saw Ranboo. He looked back at Techno, who was trying to stop the bleeding, he looked up past his shoulder and saw you standing in the window with your bow pulled back aiming at him. He tried to squirm out from under Techno but he pierced Quackity’s leg before he could get away, “Finish him!” Techno yelled, knowing you were up at the window. You breathed out and let go of the arrow, it went flying straight for him, penetrating him and he was gone in a cloud of dust with only a blood stain left behind in the white snow. Techno was unbalanced and dizzy from losing blood. Stumbling to get up, he used his sword as a cane to help him. He looked up at Ranboo, “Go. It would be a waste of your time to try and fight me.” Ranboo honestly didn’t know what to do, he could either fight and die or run and hide. And he chose the better option. Run and hide. He disappeared back into the woods and ran for his life.

You ran out to Techno to help him get up the stairs, he was slow but ‘stable’ as you took off his mask. You got him inside, setting him on the ground with a pillow to rest his head. You laid him down on the floor and took a look at him, it didn’t hit anything severe which was great. You moved some hair out of his face and slid your hand to his neck, “You’re going to be fine.” He nodded and let out a light cough. You got up and ran to your kitchen, grabbed your box of potions and pulled out regeneration and healing potions. You also grabbed a bunch of bandages from your box and quickly get back to Techno. You set all the bottles down and gave it to him one by one, you could already see he wasn’t so tense anymore. You asked him if he could take off his shirt, for medical reasons, and he said yes but he also told you that this wasn’t the only way to ask him if he could take it off. You scoffed and helped him take the shirt off. He was more handsome than you could ever imagine, his pecs were huge, his shoulders also huge and those light abs. You blinked away the images and carefully pulled the arrow out, you tried your best to be soft but it was an arrow. You swiftly wrap him up in the white bandage, applying all your pressure to the wound so it would stop bleeding.

When you were done, he took your hand. His touch was gentle as he ran his thumb up and down the back of your hand. His hand was cold for once, it felt like you were holding ice that was never going to melt away. You put your hand under his, raising it up and rubbing it against your cheek. He looked at you with love in his eyes, “Thank you.” He gave you a small smile and you smiled back. You set his hand down beside him and leaned down, giving him a kiss on the forehead. He leaned into the kiss wanting you to stay there for a little longer. You gave him a couple more kisses on the forehead before resting against his. You moved more strands of hair off his forehead as you spoke, “You need to rest.” He looked up at you, lightly gliding his fingers up and down your arm. He nodded and you nodded as well, you got up to go make something to eat but he held onto you. You looked back at him concerned but he had a smirk on his face, “Stay with me.”

#last fanfic #technoblade fluff #technoblade fanfic #technoblade x reader #technoblade #dream smp #dsmp

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