#dogs weaponized against people

[halflifebutawesome]

genuine question am I the only one around here that sees the gman as actively antagonistic or am I the outlier

[vilecrocodile]

the reason K9 units are largely unethical is because theyre used as weapons. a german shepard is large enough to severely maul or even kill someone. a corgi can bite you, sure, but to the average human is pretty puntable. unless that reply was coming from a place of concern for the dog's welfare, which im willing to wager it is

[sunsetsilvally]

Because Masculinity gets vitrified and treated as an aggressive, angry language that has nothing but violence and abuse in it. Because even in queer/LGBT spaces, you get people who flinch at the slightest use of talking even a tinge too loudly and that if you're being masculine a little bit, you're being aggressive.

It's the same logic that attacks a lot of black women for being loud and angry when they are, because it's all that it gets dressed down to, anger and violence. Even when they're not being masculine, racist assign them masculine traits to dehumanize them.

There's then the AMAB Nonbinary people who don't reject masculine traits but all the nonbinary representation we get are all feminine, often time pushed into women-lite category because nonbinary people have to still meet beauty standards or hit in a box for many people. And if a nonbinary person, especially AMAB Nonbinary people, are aggressive or angry or don't look any way that matches the image of nonbinary by being masculine, then it becomes dehumanizing.

Treating masculinity as completely toxic and not unlearning the toxic masculinity bits and pieces harms EVERYONE in the long run because it doesn't allow a safe space for anyone gay, and punishes trans men and lesbians/gay women further away from those who don't fit into the image.

By punishing anyone who explores any form of masculinity and dehumanizing them for it, you continue the cycle of it all.

Why is it so easy for people to understand that gay men may want to appropriate and play with femininity but so hard for them to understand gay women might want to do the same with masculinity

[ent-is-indecisive]

I understand peoples obssession with the butcher better on a relisten

[florallylly]

steve harrington and his coke addicted wall street hedge fund manager father like does king steve associate partying with networking. probably not but something something emotionally intelligent popular on purpose steve harrington pls

[arabian-batboy]

The pager terrorist attack Israel did on Lebanon was so fucking disgusting. There's no line these Zionist animals will not cross, there's any crime they will not commit, no form of privacy they will not preach and no type of violence that is too dirty for them.

They're already making jokes about all the innocent people that are dead or injured and justifying it by saying they're just targeting Hezbollah's "terrorists," because apparently Hezbollah is just the Lebanese version of Hamas to them.

A boogeyman they will blame all their crimes on.

It doesn't matter that Hamas is literally just the name of the government or that Hezbollah is just the name of a political party, so their members includes normal civilians just like any other government in the world and their assassination is against international law (not that Zio dogs care about international law), but even if we assumed that every single member of Hamas and Hezbollah are weapon-wielding combatant, which is completely unrealistic, it still wouldn't justify this sleazy cyber attack that injured and killed innocent bystanders, including children (not that Zio dogs care about murdered children) who were simply standing next to those Hezbollah's members, which again, included civilian members who were off duty and doing normal daily tasks in public places such as shops, hospitals and schools.

But since The West has racialized the word "terrorist" so much to the point where fascists just use it as a synonym for Middle Eastern people, these actual Zionist terrorists can get away with killing, torturing and raping any innocent civilian they want from our region by turning around and calling them the terrorists.

They can kill any Palestinian person they want and excuse it by calling them Hamas terrorists or being used as a human shield by them, they can kill any Lebanese person they want and excuse it by calling them Hezbollah terrorists or being used as a human shield by them, they can kill any Yemeni person they want and excuse it by calling them Houthi terrorists or being used as a human shield by them.

They can use all the money, weapons and impunity that is unconditionally given to them by the US + The West to terrorize as many people as possible and in the end of the day, their victims are the ones that get demonized and have their death justified by being accused of being terrorists while their killers, the actual terrorists here, continue to victimize themselves and claim self-defense.

Find a protest near you here: X, X, X, X & X

Donate or join Palestine action here: PALESTINE ACTION

[hellfirebarnes]

A Touch Of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!thunderbolts!reader

Contains: Angst, touch-starved Bucky, fluff, slow-burn, platonic Bob-reader, your hair is described to be long enough to braid and it's also descibed as silk once

Sum: Physical affection and touch comes easy for you, and it's making Bucky wish for the ability to be more like you

10k+ words (I went overboard with this shit)

I have a serious obsession with slow-burns and platonic Bobxreader being clingy besties, sue me.

(I cannot find who created the divider, if you know please tag them so they get credit)

NOT PROOFREAD

Enjoy :)

The Thunderbolts Tower was rarely quiet.

Not because of the chaos; although Alexei belting out 80s Russian rock in the kitchen or Yelena wrestling John over breakfast cereal certainly didn't help - but because it was full of life. People laughing, living, healing. A kind of noise Bucky didn't mind.

He sat in his usual chair on the far end of the room, worn leather, tucked into the shadows like a spectator watching a play where everyone else knew their lines.

And there you were again. Center stage. Sunshine incarnate.

You were cross-legged on the couch, giggling so hard your nose scrunched and your eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles of happiness. Bob was beside you and you were leaning up against him without a second thought; arms wrapped loosely around one of his, your cheek resting on his bicep.

Bucky watched. He always watched.

It wasn't creepy, he told himself. Not in a leering way. It was just... fascination. You moved through the world like the rules didn't apply to you. You touched people like they were meant to be touched - casually, kindly freely. No tension or hesitation. No fear.

You tousled John's hair like he was your annoying little brother, clung to Ava's arm when you were bored, made faces at Alexei during movie nights, and once kissed Yelena on the cheek for winning at Uno. You were always smiling, always glowing, always warm.

But never him. Not out of avoidance. No, you were never unkind to Bucky. You greeted him with the same energy as everyone else, your laugh just as sincere, your banter just as quick. But it always stopped just short of a touch. A hand wave instead of a hug, a wink instead of a squeeze to the shoulder.

And now, as he sat in his quiet corner, watching Bob shift a little so you could get even more comfortable against his side, something hollow twisted behind Bucky's ribs.

It wasn't jealousy. Not really. Bob was a friend, a soft-spoken powerhouse who loved puzzles and kittens. And it wasn't like Bucky wanted you to lean on him like that. Except...maybe he did.

What he wanted- no, what he missed, was that kind of affection without expectation. Touch that wasn't calculated or careful. No mission, no seduction, no pity. Just... closeness.

He blinked. You were laughing again, eyes shining, and Bob had just placed a hand on your head in that absent-minded, affectionate way people pet their dog without even realizing it. And you leaned into it. Let it happen like touch was a language you spoke fluently and everyone else just stuttered through.

Bucky hadn't been touched like that in... He didn't know. He really didn't.

The realization hit like a whisper, cruel in its softness. It wasn't that you hadn't touched him like that. It was that no one had, not in a long, long time. He could still remember how it felt, though. A hand through his hair, a lazy cuddle on a rainy afternoon. Arms slung around his shoulders, not for protection, but for comfort.  But now people touched him like he was either a weapon or a wound.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. Ava glanced over at the sound but didn't say anything. She was on the floor, legs stretched out, balancing a tablet on her knees. Your laughter trailed off slowly, and you looked up just in time to catch his eyes across the room.

You smiled. He didn't. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure how. You had a thousand-watt smile, the kind that could make flowers grow in winter. His was more... dusty. Like an old light switch that hadn't been flipped in years.

But you didn't flinch, didn't falter. You just gave him that same warm look you gave everyone else. Like he belonged in this room, in this team, in this strange, patchwork little family. And then you turned back to Bob, reaching for a blanket and tossing it over both your legs. Cozy and casual, like touch was no more complicated than breathing.

God, he wanted that. Not even you, not like that. He just wanted someone to lean against him like that. Wanted to be touched without flinching. Wanted to relax against another body without wondering if it would be the last time he ever did.

Later, when most of the team had filtered out, Bucky was still sitting there. Alone in his corner. You passed by with a yawn, blanket still draped over your shoulders.

''You should sleep,' you murmured as you walked past. ''Or at least stop brooding. You'll get forehead wrinkles.''

He didn't answer. Just raised an eyebrow in response.

You paused at that, eyes flickering to his. Something unreadable danced across your face for a second. Concern, maybe? Or understanding? But then, with the gentlest flick of your fingers, you reached out with just a brush of knuckles on his vibranium arm, Barely there. Like asking a question without saying a word.

''Goodnight, Bucky.''

And just like that, you were gone. He stared at the spot where your hand had been, no more than a ghost of contact, and felt something tight and quiet unfurl inside him.

Bucky was a student of war. Tactics. Movement. Survival. But lately, he'd started studying something entirely different: affection.

More specifically - how people touched you.

It started small. A passing observation. The way Ava brushed your arm when she walked by, Yelena leaned into you on the couch like it was second nature, how Alexei let you play with the ends of his beard while he grumbled but never pulled away.

But mostly it was Bob. Always Bob. It was effortless how you two fit together. How you moved around him like you were in your own orbit. How his hand would rest lightly on your shoulder during conversations, how you'd slide under his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave you piggyback rides in the hall, and you played with his fingers absentmindedly while reading on the couch. You were close in a way that made Bucky ache.

Because he wanted that. And he didn't know how to ask. So, he watched. He watched the patterns, the rhythm, the openings.

He noticed that Bob always smiled first, open and unguarded, and you responded like it was an invitation. He noticed the pauses too, the way you always gave people the space to say no, the flick of your eyes that asked ''is this okay?'' before leaning in.

Bucky started mentally rehearsing those small things. Little touches. A guiding hand to the lower back, a light graze on the wrist when handing you a mug. Not big things, not all at once. Just something.

But he couldn't do it. He'd get close. He'd raise his hand, and then his brain would flood with every warning it had ever learned. Not you. Not yet. Not like this. You'll mess it up. You don't know how. So he'd shove his hands back in his pockets and let the moment pass. Because you deserved better than someone who needed to rehearse basic closeness like a goddamn speech.

So he watched some more.

You first noticed being watched when Bob teased you at dinner. Something about the way Bucky looked up from his plate. Not irritated, not amused, just watchful. Your elbow had been pressed into Bob's side as you leaned over his tablet, your laughter easy and loud. And when you leaned back again, a flash of something flickered in Bucky's eyes. A breath too long, a blink too slow.

He looked like someone trying to memorize the moment. Just... what it looked like. What it felt like, to see it.

You weren't oblivious. You just didn't push. Didn't ask. Bucky wasn't the kind of man you cornered with feelings he hadn't invited yet. He operated like a tide - pulling away before he let anything close.

So you waited. And you watched, just like he did.

The mission was rough. Nothing catastrophic, just... messy.

Bucky took the brunt of it, as he usually did. No complaints, no calls for backup, just relentless movement until the job was done. You admired him for it. Always had. But you also hated it - how he treated his body like it was still someone else's to throw into war zones.

He slipped away afterward, as expected. No one really noticed. John was patching up his arm with Ava's help, Alexei was bragging about his kill count, and Yelena was already raiding the fridge. But you noticed. So, you gave it a few minutes, just enough time for him to think he'd gotten away with, before you padded into the lounge, barefoot and quiet.

And there he was. Facing away from you, shirt off, arms raised as he tried to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders. You could see it - all of it. The stiffness, the tightness, the way his body moved like an old machine that hadn't been oiled in years. He didn't hear you right away.

You stood in the doorway for a second longer than you meant to. Not staring, not quite. Just... seeing. The way he rolled his shoulder with a grimace, the muscles twitching under scarred skin, the metal arm glinting in the low light like something out of mythology. He was strong, yes, but he looked so tired.

''Bucky.''

He turned a little too fast, like he thought you'd caught him doing something shameful. You saw the flicker in his expression - the mask dropping into place. That same unreadable look he wore like armor. You didn't comment on it.

''You okay?'' you asked softly, stepping further in.

He gave a grunt that wasn't quite a yes.

You tilted your head, arms crossed loosely over your chest. ''You look like you lost a wrestling match with a garbage truck.''

''I won,'' he said, deadpan.

Your lips twitched. ''Barely.''

He huffed. Maybe a laugh, maybe just air. You moved a little closer, enough to notice the fine sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The tension in his shoulders was visible, like tight ropes drawn too hard.

''Sit,'' you said.

He blinked at you. ''What?''

''Sit,'' you repeated, nudging the back of the couch with your foot. ''I'm giving you a shoulder massage.''

He hesitated. A long beat of silence passed. You could practically hear the war happening in his mind. The part that didn't trust comfort, the part that didn't know how to accept it.

''I'm not gonna charge you for it,'' you teased gently. ''And it's not a trap. I'm just not a monster and I hate seeing you look like you've been folded in half and left in the sun to dry.''

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. And he sat. Stiffly, cautiously. Like the couch might bite him.

You stepped behind him, already rubbing your hands together for warmth. But you didn't start right away, gave him that last window to change his mind. He didn't move. Just exhaled slowly, like he'd decided to let the tide roll in. Your hands touched his shoulders and God. You felt the jolt before he even reacted. Like the contact itself was something he hadn't expected to feel. Not like that. Not innocent. Not kind.

You didn't speak. Just worked quietly. Gently. Your fingers kneading into muscle and scar tissue, slow and careful, no agenda, no teasing. Just... touch.

Bucky's jaw clenched. His eyes were closed now, head tilted ever so slightly forward. You could still feel the effort it took him to stay still, to not flinch. Like every cell in his body was trying to not run away.

But you kept going. You worked over one knot at a time. One shoulder. Then the other. Your thumbs dug into the curve of his traps and you felt the smallest, tiniest exhale escaped his lips. Relief, or surrender, or maybe both.

''You don't have to be made of steel all the time,'' you whispered. Still not pushing. Just offering.

His voice, when it came, was rough. ''It's not about being steel. It's just...hard.''

''I know.''

He shifted slightly, just enough to lean a little more into your hands, and it felt like trust. It felt like an entire chapter unwritten. And you didn't need him to explain it. You already understood. And even though he hadn't said a word, it was all there.

You pressed your palm flat against his shoulder blades, heat seeping into him. ''You're allowed to want this, you know,'' you murmured. ''To be held. Even without reason.''

He didn't answer. But his hands unclenched in his lap. And that was enough.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. When you finally stepped away, you did it slowly. Gave him space to rise again, if he needed to. But he didn't move. Just sat there, like the couch had claimed him.

You didn't ask if he was okay. Didn't need to.

''Get some sleep,'' you said gently.

He nodded. Still quiet.

You turned to leave, but just before you crossed the threshold, his voice caught you.

''Thank you.''

And when you looked back, his eyes met yours; unguarded. Just for a second. The door cracking open and the warmth finally starting to seep in.

Movie night was always a disaster. Loud, chaotic, half the team arguing about genre and popcorn flavors, and Bucky stuck in the corner, pretending to mind the noise when secretly he didn't. Not at all.

Tonight was no different. You were already curled up on the couch, head in Bob's lap, your legs stretched across Yelena's. Ava was on the floor beside you, leaning back against the couch. Alexei was dramatically recounting the story of the time you once braided his beard into a Viking pattern, and Bucky had to bite back a smile when you proudly confirmed it, already digging through a box of hair ties and clips.

And that was how it started. First, Alexei. You pulled him in front of you, knees to your chest, and with your tongue poking out in concentration, you began weaving his beard with surprising speed. He looked like a grumpy Norse god by the time you were done.

Then Bob. ''Ohhh it's your turn, you big beautiful labradoodle,'' you sang, tugging him down by the hand.

He didn't protest. Just sat cross-legged in front of you with the dopey smile of someone being completely adored. You started working small braids into his hair, murmuring nonsense as your fingers moved expertly, occasionally swatting his shoulder when he moved too much.

Bucky watched from his usual spot. Quiet, still, fascinated. You weren't just touching, you were focusing. You were being deliberate. This wasn't just casual affection - this was attention. Care. The kind that said: I want to do something just for you.  He wanted that. Badly. Desperately. Not even for what it would lead to, but just for that. To be someone you focused on. Someone you chose, even just for five minutes, to pour softness into.

You finished with a flourish, tied off the last braid in Bob's hair, sat back with a pleased grin, and then - without fanfare - you pointed across the room. Right at him.

''Your turn, Barnes.''

The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to him.

You didn't flinch. Your smile didn't even waver. You just tilted your head and gave him that same sunlit warmth you always carried, like it had never once occurred to you that he'd say no.

Bucky blinked. What. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He gestured vaguely to himself like he didn't understand the language you were speaking.

''You've got hair,'' you said, as if it was obvious. ''You've got a good head for braids. Longish, soft, a little tragic. I can work with that.''

''Tragic?'' he muttered before he could stop himself.

''Emotionally,'' you replied, already patting the floor in front of you. ''Now come on, don't make me beg. I'm on a roll.''

Bucky hesitated again. Not because he didn't want it But because the moment was so fragile. So bizarrely, heartbreakingly normal. Like if he moved wrong, it would shatter and you'd realize what you were asking. For him, not just some teammate, not just a body in the room, and you'd take it back.

But you didn't. You just kept smiling. So slowly, he stood up. Crossed the room, sat down, back straight and stiff as a board.

''Relax,'' you whispered behind him. ''I won't break you.''

You ran your fingers through his hair once, and he nearly forgot how to breathe. It wasn't just the sensation. It was the care, the softness, the quiet focus. You smoothed his hair gently, like it was worth something. Like he was worth something. And then your fingers started moving. Slow, practiced, weaving warmth into every inch of him.

The room around him faded. It was just your touch. Your hum under your breath, the warmth of your knees and either side of his back, the way you occasionally brushed a thumb over his scalp to settle a strand.

You didn't tease, you didn't rush, you just touched.

And Bucky sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, letting the door inside him creak open just a little more.

He wasn't in love with you. But in that moment, with your hands in his hair and his heart so soft it almost hurt, he thought: maybe I could be.

Bucky wasn't a man who touched first. He could take a punch without blinking, disarm a bomb with minutes to spare, and walk into a firefight like it was a coffee run. But reaching out to you? Terrifying.

Especially now that you'd touched him. Really touched him. Not on a battlefield, not in passing. But on purpose. With care.

You'd braided his hair like he was something worth decorating, worth sitting with, worth smiling at. And for the first time in years, he hadn't wanted to move. Hadn't wanted to retreat. He'd just wanted... more.

He thought about that moment for days. The warmth of your fingers, the way your voice softened near his ear, the lack of expectation. You hadn't asked for anything. You hadn't tried to pull him out of himself. You'd just sat with him, and for Bucky, that was almost more intimate than anything else.

So now he watched you even closer. Not just to learn - though, yes, he was still studying you like he might someday earn a master's in ''How To Be Near You Without Dying'', but because now... he was looking for openings. Tiny ones. Like the way you greeted Bob with a forehead bump and a grin, or how you'd slip your fingers into Yelena's sleeve when she was anxious. You didn't cling to people. You anchored them, And God, did Bucky want to be anchored.

So he tried. Tiny experiments. He started holding the door for you. At first, it was mechanical, just something to do, but you'd always smile and touch his shoulder on the way past. Every time. Like a thank you, like a secret handshake.

Next, he started handing you things. If you were sitting and someone tossed you a water bottle or remote or snack, Bucky would intercept it. And instead of just tossing it to you, he'd hand it. Palms brushing a second too long. Once, your fingers lingered. Just a beat. It nearly leveled him.

He started sitting on the couch instead of in his corner. Not next to you, not yet, but closer. Close enough to hear your breathing change when you laughed. Close enough to hand you the blanket when you curled up.

But what really broke him, what cracked something clean open, was when you fell asleep on Bob's chest again.

Movie night, a lazy rom-com. You'd started upright and within fifteen minutes had curled up under Bob's arm, your cheek pressed against his chest like you belonged there.

And Bucky? He didn't even feel jealous. He just felt cold. Not bitter or angry. Just... cold. Because now he knew what that felt like; your hands in his hair, your voice at his back, and he was starving for more.

He decided to try after the next mission.

Something low-risk. A simple retrieval, in and and out. You were paired with him this, which was rare, and he tried not to let it mean anything, but it felt like the universe had handed him a cheat code.

The mission went fine. A couple of close calls. You handled yourself like usual - confident, lethal, laughing through it all. And he admired the hell out of you for it. On the way back to the jet, you reached out instinctively and grabbed his wrist to yank him behind cover.

That one moment. That touch. He felt it in his teeth.

Once back in the tower, you peeled off first, stretching and yawning, calling goodnight over your shoulder with a lazy smile.

Bucky stood there in the hallway, still half-armored, heart thundering. Try now.

He walked to the kitchen and found the snack you always reached for after missions - those weird, spicy chips you claimed tasted like ''victory and regret''. You never bought them for yourself, said they were a ''reward food'', but you always lit up when someone remembered. So he took a bag. Bribery. Weak, but a start. Then he walked to your room.

He stood outside the door for at least a full minute. What am I doing? What if she's asleep? What if I look insane? But he made himself knock. Softly.

''...Come in!''

He stepped in like he was walking into a temple.

You were on the floor, stretching, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized hoodie he tried not to notice was Bob's. You grinned when you saw him.

''Well, hey Barnes. What's up?''

He held up the chip bag like it was evidence. You blinked, then beamed.

''Holy crap, you got the good ones!''

He nodded. ''Figured you earned it.''

You sat back, crossing your legs, tearing the bag open with a happy hum. ''You wanna stay?''

His brain short-circuited. ''If- yeah. If that's okay.''

''Duh,'' you said, patting the carpet next to you. ''I don't offer this floor to just anyone.''

So he sat, and you shared and talked. Then finally, he decided: now.

You were laughing at something he said. Your hand was on the floor beside you, his was a few inches away. Just do it. He slowly, carefully, let the side of his hand brush yours. And then... rested it there. Just barely touching.

You didn't look down, didn't call it out. But you did move your pinky until it hooked his. And Bucky forgot how to exist. You didn't say anything about it. Just kept talking, like nothing had changed. But your fingers stayed. Light, soft, reassuring.

And Bucky sat there beside you, pinky to pinky, the contact small enough to be missed by anyone else, but monumental to him. Because he'd finally done it. He'd reached out, and you'd reached back.

Bucky had a plan. Sort of. He'd been replaying that pinky-touch moment for days now. The smallness of it. The deliberate sweetness. How you didn't tease him or pull away. You just let it happen, and he didn't have to explain why it meant so much.

Now, he wanted to try something more. Not huge. Just... bolder. A tiny step forward. He wanted to initiate something. Not because it meant love or romance, but because his body was beginning to crave it. Crave that soft connection. Crave you, in the most innocent, desperately human way. He wanted to know what it felt like to hold you, even for a second.

So he planned for it. Not out loud, not with words, but with a thousand little hypotheticals in his head.

After a mission, maybe. Or in the hallway when you weren't looking. You'd be laughing, or tired, or just there, and he'd go for it - a simple hug. Arms around you. Quick, no pressure. But every time the moment came? He choked.

He was so close tonight.

Mission done. Exhausting but not dangerous. Everyone was filtering into the tower one by one, and you were the last to come in; suit half-zipped, hair stuck to your cheek, laughing at something John said before he peeled off down the hall.

And there you were. Worn out, but happy. Still glowing like you always did. You turned to him, smile softening, and said, ''You did good today, Barnes.''

That's all it took. The moment presented itself like a gift. Do it. Just reach out. He took a breath, stepped forward, his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides. Just a hug. Just a hug. But his body locked. What if she pulls away? What if it's weird? What if it ruins everything? His hands jerked back down.

Too late. You saw. Your eyes flickered to his. Quick and quiet. Understanding dawned across your face like a sunrise. You didn't make it a thing. Didn't joke or ask or tilt your head like are you okay? You just took a small step forward and opened your arms.

''C'mere, tough guy,'' you said.

You stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. A real hug. Chest to chest, face to shoulder. Warm, present, soft.

Bucky stopped breathing. He didn't move. Didn't know how to move. His hands hovered behind your back, unsure, trembling slightly like they'd forgotten what to do. And then you gave the smallest squeeze. Gentle. Safe. That did it, his arms came around you. Slow, careful. And then... all at once. They locked behind you, strong and tight and desperate, like he'd finally given up the fight and was clinging on for dear life.

He didn't mean to hold you so hard. He didn't mean to breathe you in like that. But he couldn't stop. Because your body was real. Warm, solid. And you weren't backing away, you weren't treating him like glass. You were just... holding him.

You shifted slightly to lean into the hug more, and he swore he could feel your smile against his neck. ''See?'' you murmured. ''Easy.''

He could've laughed at that. It wasn't easy, not for him. It was terrifying, dizzying, earth-shaking. But it was also the first time in years that someone had wrapped him up like this without blood or death or adrenaline. No life-or-death panic. Just arms, just warmth. And for the first time, he let himself sink into it. His heart was pounding - slamming, really, and he was sure you could feel it. He didn't care.

You didn't let go until he did. And when he finally eased back - slowly, reluctantly, like his arms had been superglued in place - your eyes met his, steady and bright. No teasing, no awkward silence.

Just, ''Anytime, Bucky.'' And a little smile. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and pulled tight.

He nodded. Couldn't speak even if he tried to. Could barely breathe. And as you turned and padded away down the hall, humming softly under your breath, Bucky stood alone in the hallway like he'd just come back from war. Except this time, someone had brought him home.

Bucky didn't sleep after that hug. He laid in bed, eyes wide in the dark, heart still thundering against his ribs like it hadn't gotten the memo that the moment was over.

You had held him. No flinching or pulling back, you let him cling like he needed it. Because he did, and you made it feel like it was okay. Like it was normal. You never said another word about it. And Bucky walked around the tower for the next few days like someone had filled his veins with warm honey and static electricity.

But with every inch you have him - every smile, every brush of a hand, every shoulder lean or passing touch - Bucky found himself wanting to give something back. He wanted you to know what that hug meant to him. Not in words. He wasn't there yet. And not in touch, his body still rebelled at the idea of starting something again. So instead, he watched again. Carefully, obsessively. And started to notice things about you. Little things.

You hummed when you were nervous, you always pulled your sleeves over your hands when you were cold even though you owned about sixteen hoodies, you liked your tea with honey instead of sugar, and you made up nicknames for everyone. He still wasn't sure if ''Ice Cream Soldier'' was supposed to be a compliment.

But most of all? You loved weird little things. Knickknacks, trinkets, gimmicks - stuff that made everyone else roll their eyes. You kept a plastic dinosaur on your nightstand, and you used pens with flitter ink. And you once got into a thirty-minute debate with Alexei about whether a wind-up chicken toy should be considered ''practical combat gear''. Somehow, you won that debate.

So Bucky made a decision. He couldn't hug you back. Not yet. But he could give you something.

A little mission in Eastern Europe. A side errand in Dubai. A stakeout with nothing to do but sit and watch. And right there, buried in a dusty antique shop next to a faded deck of Soviet playing cards and a pair of rusted brass knuckles, he found it.

A tiny, worn metal figurine. A cat. Its tail curled into a spiral, its ear too big, one eye slightly chipped. It looked hand-forged. Utterly ridiculous and useless. Perfect.

He bought it without hesitation. No one saw, no one knew. He brought it home and sat with it for an hour in his room. Just turning it over in his hands, wondering if this was stupid. If it made him look childish. If you'd even like it.

But then he remembered the way you looked when someone gave you something with no strings attached. He remembered your smile. And that settled it.

He didn't give it to you directly. He couldn't. So, he waited until the next movie night. Same couch, same usual crew. Everyone loud and sprawled and tangled up in a pile of popcorn and dumb banter.

You were curled up in your usual spot with Bob, your legs across his lap, a bowl balanced on your knees, laughing so hard you snorted. And Bucky sat one cushion away. Close enough to hear your laughter, far enough to not panic.

You got up halfway through to refill drinks, and Bucky slipped the little metal cat into the space you'd just left. Just where you'd see it. Not wrapped, not labeled... just there. And when you came back, you saw it immediately. You blinked. Picked it up. Held it up in the light with the kind of gentle curiosity that made Bucky want to crawl under the couch.

''Hey,'' you said aloud, holding it up, ''who left this little guy?''

Bob shrugged, Ava didn't even look, and John made some joke about it being cursed. Yelena grabbed it from your hand and examined it.

''It's ugly. I like it.''

You laughed and took it back, fingers closing around it protectively. ''Well, whoever left it - it's mine now.'' And then you smiled. That kind of soft, knowing smile, and your eyes flicked to Bucky. Just a second. Just long enough.

He didn't say a word. Didn't have to. You tucked the cat into your hoodie pocked and curled up again. And Bucky let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The next morning, you passe him in the hallway. No one else was around. You didn't stop him. Just walked by, slow and casual, and bumped your shoulder into his with a quiet, ''Thanks, Barnes.'' And kept walking like it was no big deal.

But he stood there in the hallway for a full minute, stunned stupid by how good that felt Not the thanks. The shoulder bump. Small, warm, and his.

From then on, it became a thing. You never asked for more, but Bucky... he started giving it anyway.

A protein bar slid across the table on mornings you looked too tired to grab one yourself, a spare set of hand warmers in your tac vest before cold missions, and a weird sticker he peeled off a vending machine that said ''KICK BUTT, GLITTER GIRL'' that he knew you'd absolutely slap on your laptop.

All of it anonymous, none of it subtle. And every time, your eyes would flick toward him with that soft little grin. You'd touch his arm when you passed, or lean your head briefly against his shoulder, or bump hips when no one was looking.

And Bucky... he thrived on it. Still unsure, still hesitant. But opening, inch by precious inch.

The team didn't mention it aloud. Not once. Not to him, not to you. But they noticed. They noticed that Bucky stopped bracing when someone walked behind him on the couch. That he started answering more questions with actual words instead of shrugs. That he let you rest your head on his shoulder once and didn't move a muscle the whole time.

They noticed how he watched you when you weren't looking. With that quiet awe of someone who's been in the dark so long that the sunlight still hurts, even as it heals.

And on a quiet afternoon when rain still misted against the windows everyone was off doing their own thing - Bob reading a fantasy novel upside down on the couch, Alexei asleep with a magazine over his face, and the rest scattered through the tower. You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, twirling the end of your braid between your fingers, frowning.

''It's coming undone,'' you muttered.

Bucky was seated on the end of the couch with a cup of tea he didn't remember making, and glanced over. ''Want help?''

You blinked. Then your eyes lit up, slow and warm. ''Yeah. Will you braid it for me?''

Silence. Utter, world-shattering silence. Bob looked up from his book like he'd just heard a hun go off and Bucky froze mid-sip.

Your tone had been casual, like asking someone to hand you the remote. But Bucky felt his spine lock up like a snapped wire, his pulse suddenly very loud in his ears. His brain full-on short-circuited.

You tilted your head back to look at him, smiling. ''You don't have to if you don't want to-''

''No- I mean-yeah-no, I'll-sure,'' he stammered. ''I can try.''

You turned back around, still grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Bucky set his tea down, his hand was already sweating. What the hell did he just agree to.

The moment your back was to him, Bucky realized how close you were. Your bare shoulders peeked out from the loose neckline of your oversized shirt, and the soft scent of your shampoo drifted up to him like a punch to the senses. He reached toward your hair, paused, and immediately pulled his hands back.

''I-uh-I don't know how to braid,'' he said, voice strangled.

''That's okay,'' you said easily, not turning around. ''Just do your best.''

That was not helpful.

Bob, mercifully, looked up from his book again and took pity. ''Hang on, Sergeant,'' he said, reaching for his phone. ''We're gonna get you through this.''

Bucky shot him a look.

Bob raised both eyebrows. ''You wanna bail now or impress the girl with your incredibly subpar braiding skills?''

''I'm not trying to impress-'' Bucky began, but Bob had already opened Youtube.

''There are hundreds of tutorials on this. Oh! Here's one: ''How to braid your girlfriend's hair without making her leave you for someone who owns a comb''. Seems fitting.''

''I hate you.''

''You love me.''

The video started playing - hosted by a chipper woman with perfectly braided hair and way too much optimism, and Bob propped the phone against his knee, narrating helpfully.

''Okay, part it into three sections. Three, Barnes. Not two. You're not tying shoelaces here.''

Bucky narrowed his eyes. ''I know what three is, Bob.''

''Do you, though? Because you're holding two and looking confused.''

''Shut up.''

You were definitely holding back laughter now, your shoulders trembled with it. He finally managed to divide your hair into three semi-even pieces.

''Now cross the right over the middle,'' Bob instructed. ''Wait. Your right. No, her right. Shit- that's the same right. Okay... look, follow the lady in the video.''

Bucky glared at the screen. The woman made it look so easy, the braid just formed like magic. Meanwhile, his hands felt like they were wearing boxing gloves. He tried once. Fumbled. You laughed under your breath.

''Sorry,'' he muttered, fingers clumsy against the silk of your hair.

''No, don't apologize,'' you said, voice light and warm. ''This is the most fun I've had all week.''

He tried again. And this time, the strands twisted more like a loose knot than a braid.

Bob squinted. ''That's... something.''

You snorted. ''It's fine. Just keep going.''

And somehow, despite the odds, the braid started to form. Wobbly and uneven. Your hair curled under his fingers like it belonged there. And Buckt didn't realize he'd started smiling. When he tied the braid off with a small elastic you handed him, you reached back and touched it, beaming.

''It's perfect,'' you said, even though it absolutely wasn't.

Bucky looked away, ears pink. ''Glad I could help,'' he said, voice a little hoarse.

You leaned back slightly, head resting against his shin now, looking up at him with bright, grateful eyes. And Bucky carefully, shyly, reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it needed fixing. Just because he wanted to touch you again. And this time? He didn't panic.

Bob watched the whole thing from behind his book and just smiled. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

Gala nights were always chaos wrapped in satin. Everyone was too dressed up, the champagne was too expensive, and the music was more noise than melody. Somewhere between government posturing and forced socializing, it was easy to forget the mission was just to show up and look like you weren't going to level the place.

You, of course, were having the time of your life. Your gown, shimmering and slinky, dangerously backless, drew eyes across the room. But you didn't give them a second glance. You were too busy spinning in circles on the dance floor with Alexei, barefoot now, laughing so hard you nearly tripped over the hem of your dress.

''Is that-? Oh god, is that the cha-cha?'' Valentina muttered from the sidelines, looking scandalized. ''Tell me that's not the cha-cha. In front of the senators.''

''Mm,'' Ava hummed beside her. ''Technically, I think it's the drunk uncle version of the cha-cha. But yes.''

Valentina groaned, lifting her wine glass as if to drink away the embarrassment. ''She's going to give me a migraine.''

''She's not the one doing the shoulder shimmy,'' John said dryly, nodding toward Alexei.

And sure enough - there he was, twice your size and grinning like a man who had never known shame, twirling you dramatically and nearly taking out a waiter's tray in the process.

You didn't care. You threw your arms up, laughed like it was the only thing that mattered, and kept dancing.

Ava turned slightly, her gaze catching on the tall figure lingering near the edge of the ballroom. ''Barnes,'' she said, low enough that only he could hear. ''You gonna sit there forever?''

Bucky didn't look at her. He was too busy watching you. His tie felt too tight, his palm was clammy, and his heart was beating like he was in combat. He hadn't been able to look away from you all night. Your laugh, your touch, the way your eyes sparkled under the chandeliers like you belonged there more than anyone else in the room.

You'd already danced with Bob, who kept spinning you like he'd just watched Dirty Dancing. Then John, then Alexei. You flowed from one person to the next like it was nothing, like joy was just something that spilled out of you onto anyone willing to catch it.

And Bucky wanted to catch it. He almost stood. Almost let himself go to you like Ava was silently urging. But then the music changed. Soft strings. A slow waltz. Couples began to pair off, the lights dimmed slightly, warm gold flickering over crystal and silk. And Bucky panicked. Too intimate, too close. He sat back down, jaw tight.

Missed my chance, he thought bitterly. Typical. But then you were there.

Your voice gentle, like the music itself. ''Dance with me?''

His head jerked up. You were smiling. Hand out, hair a little wild from all your earlier chaos, eyes impossibly soft.

He blinked. ''Me?''

You tilted your head. ''Unless you know another hundred-year-old war criminal with a metal arm in this room?'' That started a laugh out of him, sharp and short. You stepped closer. ''Come on. One dance. I won't even try to spin you. Promise.''

His brain screamed run. But his heart? His heart stood.

Eyes drifted toward you and Bucky as you walked to the dance floor. He didn't look at them. He was too busy not tripping over his own thoughts.

You took his hands in yours and guided them to your waist with a warmth that had no edges. No agenda. Just you, radiant and calm, like you had all the time in the world to teach him what safety felt like.

''Just sway,'' you murmured. ''That''s all you have to do.''

So he did. You led, really. Kept the rhythm soft, let him find his footing. And Bucky was panicking. Because you were right there. So close. Too close.

Your cheek was nearly against his collarbone, your perfume was like summer and sugar and sunlight. Your hands were draped around his neck. And he was certain you could feel his heart pounding.

''Bucky?'' you whispered, barely audible. He grunted in acknowledgment, throat too tight for words. You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth tugging up. ''You're doing great.''

His breath stuttered. I'm not. Because it was too much. The warmth, the softness, the utter lack of fear in you. You danced with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't spent years pushing people away. Like he hadn't built an entire life around silence and distance.

You didn't ask to be let in. You just walked through the door. And Bucky had no idea what to do with that. He kept waiting for the tension to snap. For someone to step in. For you to pull away. But you didn't.

The song ended slowly, fading into something else. And Bucky felt the loss of it like a pulled stitch.

You stepped back just slightly and smiled up at him. ''Thank you,'' you said, voice as soft as velvet. Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek. A brief press of the lips, barely a breath long.

But it dropped like a bomb in his chest. Your smile didn't fade. You just slipped away, walking off with Yelena toward some obviously doomed scheme involving the catering table and the rooftop.

And Bucky stood there. Absolutely still. A hand on his cheek like the world had just tilted sideways. He barely noticed Ava join him a minute later, champagne glass in hand.

She didn't speak at first, just stopped and looked where you'd gone. Then it came, ''So.'' She glanced at him. ''You okay?''

''No.''

Her mouth twitched. ''Realized it, didn't you.''

Bucky didn't answer. Didn't need to. Because holy fucking shit, he did. He didn't just want affection. He didn't just want safety. He wanted you.

He didn't sleep the night after the gala. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fully clothes, jaw locked and heart loud, your kiss still pressed to his cheek like a brand. Because it had just been a thank you, right? Just a soft, casual thing. You did that with everyone.

You kissed Ava on the head when she gave you the last slice of pizza, you curled into Bob's side during movie nights like it was your assigned seat, you ruffled John's hair when he was being a sarcastic little shit, and you let Alexei carry you around like a sack of potatoes whenever he pleased. You gave affection like it cost nothing. And maybe it didn't. But to Bucky it cost everything. And now he wanted more. God help him, he wanted you.

It got worse the next day. You were still you - sunlight in human form, skipping around the tower in mismatched socks, humming a tune no one recognized.

You found Bucky in the kitchen, your hair a little damp from a shower, eyes sleepy. ''Hi, soldier,'' you said, bumping your shoulder gently into his arm. ''How are your feet after that dance? Did I bruise you?''

He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Because you were wearing his shirt. Not like, his shirt - but the same Henley brand he wore all the time, one of those oversized soft cotton ones in a color that made his brain hiccup. And he couldn't breathe.

''I-fine,'' he croaked. ''You didn't. I mean. It was fine.''

You beamed. ''Good. Then you can dance some more with me next time.''

He nodded dumbly.

You reached for the cereal box above him, your arm brushing across his chest. He flinched, but not away, from surprise. From the way even the most accidental contact with you lit him up from the inside. You poured a bowl, hummed again, and wandered off like you hadn't just leveled his entire nervous system with a smile.

Later he sat on the couch while you tangled yourself into a pile with Bob and Yelena. Legs over laps, arms slung around shoulders. Bob played with your fingers absentmindedly while Yelena used your stomach as a pillow. You were laughing at something stupid Bob said, glowing with ease, and Bucky watched.

Not like a creep. Just like a man trying not to fall apart. Because every time you touched someone else, something in his twisted. Not jealousy, not quite, just a raw aching hunger.

You're not mine to touch, he reminded himself. You weren't. But God, he wanted to be yours.

And the team noticed. Not loudly. Not with teasing. But they saw.

Yelena caught him watching you over the edge of his book. She didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow when he looked away too fast and pretended to care about page 62. Bob lingered in the kitchen one morning and passed Bucky a mug of coffee with a quiet, ''You know, she really likes it when people play with her hair without asking first.'' Bucky nearly broke the mug. Alexei gave him a firm, understanding nod once when he caught him staring at you. Didn't say a word just nodded like a man who'd once been there and survived it. And Ava? She said it best.

''Don't rush him,'' she told John one afternoon when the he scoffed at Bucky choosing to sit beside you instead of his usual armchair.

''I'm not rushing him,'' John snapped, adjusting his sunglasses. ''I'm just saying - either kiss her or don't, Barnes. This isn't high school.''

Ava, who had been watching you patiently teach Alexei how to play Go Fish, shook her head. ''She doesn't know,'' she said softly.

John scoffed again. ''She's not blind. She kisses that man on the cheek like it's a Hallmark movie.''

''She kisses everyone. But she's patient with him. Slower. Gentler. More careful. And I don't think she even realizes it.''

John looked unconvinced. ''She's affectionate with everyone.''

''Yes,'' Ava said. ''But she waits for Bucky. She reads him. She's been loving him in a language he can understand.

That shut John up for a full three seconds. ''...Disgusting,'' he muttered. ''You should write poetry or something.''

Ava only smiled.

It was a rooftop night. Cool breeze, blankets, and pizza boxes spread out across mismatched furniture like a half-hearted picnic.

You were leaning over Bob's arm, laughing too hard at something Ava said, and Bucky was trying very hard not to be annihilated by it. You wore shorts and an old hoodie that definitely wasn't yours, hair pulled up with strands curling at your temples. Your bare legs were tangled over Bob's your hand casually resting on his chest while you picked a fight with Alexei about movie trivia.

No one else thought twice about it. They were used to you - your sunshine, your warmth, the way you radiated affection like a second skin. It was just you, untamed and fearless. But Bucky? You were shattering him. Every time you laughed at Bob's stupid joke, every time you reached over to adjust John's hoodie string, or brushed Yelena's hair behind her ear. Every time your eyes sparkled and your hand stayed just a second longer than strictly necessary... it burned.

And it wasn't jealousy. It was a need. Please look at me like that. Please lean your weight against me. Please laugh into my chest. Please, please, choose me, without even realizing it.

The ache was getting harder to hide. He'd tried. God, he'd tried. He still sat closer to you now. Still let you rest your head on his shoulder sometimes. Still awkwardly and terribly braided your hair when you asked. But there were limits he didn't know how to cross. Like now.

When you leaned over Bob and mock-whispered something into his ear, giggling when he gasped and dramatically clutched his heart, pretending to faint. It was nothing. A joke. But Bucky felt it like a sucker punch to the ribs. And you didn't even notice.

''You okay?'' Ava murmyred from beside him.

He didn't look at her. ''Fine.''

She didn't push. She never did. Just handed him a beer and let the silence fill in what he couldn't say.

I'm not okay. I want to be the one she teases like that. I want her hand on my chest. Her eyes on me like I'm the reason she's smiling. I want-

He swallowed he cracked the beer open.

When the wind picked up and everyone started packing up, you wandered over to him. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, cheeks rosy from the cold. ''Hey, soldier,'' you said softly.

He looked at you, and God help him - he melted. You gave him that smile. The one that made his lungs forget what to do. The one that used to feel like sunshine but now felt like the slow pull of a tide trying to drown him.

''You looked a little quiet tonight,'' you said, gentle, concerned. ''Everything okay?''

He nodded too quickly. ''Yeah. Just tired.''

Your hand reached up, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. He froze. ''Okay. Well, if you need to not be okay sometime, you know I'm here, right?''

Do you know what you're doing to me? He wanted to ask. Wanted to grab your hand and keep it. Just hold on to something warm for once. But instead, he just nodded. And watched you walk away.

The rooftop cleared, but he stayed behind. Alone, now. Just him and the wind and the echo of your laugh in his ears. And for the first time, the truth didn't whisper. It roared.

I don't just want touch. I don't just want softness. I want her.

In and out. Secure the intel. Light resistance. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn't. And when the explosion went off - too close, too sudden - it was your name that ripped out of Bucky's throat. He didn't see the flash. Just felt the shockwave. And then you were gone from his side.

You weren't dead. You weren't even seriously hurt. Just thrown, bruised, scraped up where you'd hit the wall, comm crackling as you cursed and coughed and told them you were fine.

But Bucky wasn't. He couldn't breathe. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling on the trigger of his rifle. He kept his body moving, eyes scanning, instincts in full soldier mode. But his heart was gone, back there, with you.

He didn't remember finishing the mission. Didn't remember getting on the jet. Didn't remember sitting beside you in the medbay while a nurse patched you up, your voice stubborn and playful as always. What he remembered was the sound of the blast. And the way his entire world collapsed for a second.

He didn't talk on the ride back. You kept glancing at him, frown between your brows, but he didn't look at you. Couldn't He just sat with his hands clenched between his knees, eyes blank, jaw locked like he was holding back a scream. The others noticed, but they knew better than to push.

You knocked on his door that night. Three soft raps. No answer, but you opened it anyway.

Bucky was sitting on the floor beside his bed, back against the wall, breathing hard. Still in his gear. Dog tags clenched in one hand, shaking. He looked up... and shattered.

''You shouldn't be in here,'' he rasped.

You stepped in anyway, gently closing the door behind you.

He shook his head, almost violently. His breath hitched and he pressed his palm to his chest, like he could physically hold something in. ''I thought you were gone.''

You paused. And then moved closer, sinking to your knees in front of him. ''I wasn't.''

''I thought you were.'' His voice cracked. ''I saw that explosion and I thought-I thought-'' He couldn't finish. Just closed his eyes, chest heaving. And then he reached. Arms out. Not confident or practiced, but desperate. Like he couldn't stand another second not touching you.

You moved into the hug without hesitation, and he broke. He held you like a drowning man. Like you were oxygen and he hadn't breathed in weeks. His arms crushed you to him, face buried in your shoulder, fingers twisting into your hoodie like they were terrified you'd slip away again. It wasn't soft, or gentle. It was fierce. A hug with everything he couldn't say.

''I'm here,'' you whispered, hand smoothing up his spine. ''I'm okay.''

His voice was low and hoarse, almost childlike. ''I can't lose you.''

You froze, just for a second. Then melted against him, curling into his lap like you belonged there. You didn't speak. Didn't need to. Because you felt it, now. The weight in his arms, the panic, the relief, the need. You'd hugged Bucky before, but he had never held you like this. And something changed inside you. Because suddenly all the times he'd flinched away, all the walls he kept up - it all made sense. He was afraid of it. Afraid of needing it. Afraid of losing it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' you said softly.

And his eyes- God, his eyes. Like he wanted so badly to believe you, but didn't know how. You cupped his cheek and pressed your forehead to his.

You didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. Because the next day, Bucky sat a little closer on the couch. He lingered when you leaned into him. And when you rested your head on his shoulder? He leaned back.

And you started giving him more. More of your touch, more of your time, more of you. And the others noticed.

It was a quiet change. Not a thunderclap, not a confession, just... little shifts. Like how you still curled against Bob during movie nights, but now your feet somehow always ended up in Bucky's lap. Or how you'd still lean into Yelena's side, tug on John's sleeve, braid Ava's hair while teasing Alexei - but Bucky was the one whose hand you reached for when you needed comfort.

And Bucky... God, Bucky was changing. Subtle things. To anyone else, probably invisible. But not to the team. He never flinched now. Not when you brushed your knee against his, not when you tossed a blanket over both of your legs. Not when your head dropped to his shoulder and stayed there through an entire episode of Jeopardy.

He even initiated things, once or twice. A hand on your back, a squeeze to your arm. The kind of touch that was casual from anyone else, but from Bucky Barnes? It was a goddamn declaration.

Ava watched the way Bucky's eyes always found you first. Not just when you entered a room, but when you laughed, when you moved, when you fell quiet. She saw it like a pulse - how in tune he was with you now. Like he was always listening for your heartbeat.

Alexei didn't understand it in so many words, but he stopped teasing Bucky about being grumpy. Just gave him a single, hearty slap on the back one afternoon and said, ''You are less haunted now. Good. Keep petting her hair, it seems to be working.''

Bob never said a damn thing. He just started sitting a little farther away during movie night, with a small, knowing smile.

John was the only one brave enough to ask: ''So... is this a thing now?'' and got and simultaneous death glare from Yelena and you that promptly shut him up for a week.

And Bucky felt it all. Not just your hands, not just the way your affection lingered now - longer hugs, softer looks, quiet touches that felt like they meant something. No. He felt the way you chose him. You still loved everyone. That hadn't changed. You were still sunshine, still chaos, still a tangle of hugs and shoulder squeezes and kisses on the cheeks and tangled limbs. But when it came to him? You were gentler. Like you were holding something sacred. And it made his heart ache in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You never talked about it. But one night, when everyone else had wandered off, you padded up to Bucky's room and knocked twice. When he opened the door, you were already stepping in, hoodie sleeves over your hands, bare feet quiet on the floor. You didn't say anything. You just curled up next to him on the bed, on top of the blanket, side pressed to his - cheek on his shoulder. And Bucky wrapped his arm around without hesitation. Like he'd been waiting. And maybe he had. Because something had shifted. You weren't just affection now, or just comfort. You were something that scared the hell out of him. Something he wanted.

You and Bucky were in the common room long after everyone had gone to sleep, arguing about which of you could win in a game of ''sneak tag'' - a stupid version of hide-and-seek Alexei had invented with suspiciously complex rules and the very real possibility of someone getting a concussion.

You were giddy with exhaustion, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket like a cape. Bucky was stretched out on the rug, shirt untucked, hair messy, smiling that quiet way he didn't even realize he was doing now.

''You forget I used to rob people,'' you'd said, gesturing dramatically with a Snickers bar. ''I'm a ghost in socks. A phantom.''

''You tripped over a chair yesterday.''

''That chair moved, Barnes.''

He chuckled, and you decided then and there that the sound was your new favorite thing.

Somehow, between laughter and whispered trash talk, the game actually began. You set the timer. Ten minutes to sneak from one end of the tower to the other, tagging your opponent before they reached the kitchen. Simple.

Except Bucky was fast. And quiet. And probably cheating.

You darted through darkened corridors, ducked behind furniture, and nearly screamed when he appeared out of nowhere beside the elevator. He didn't tag you, just grinned - wild and sharp and boyish - and ran. You chased him like a storm. By the time you skidded into the kitchen and cornered him, breathless and flushed, your laughter was nearly silent. So was his. You had him trapped against the counter, both of you panting, noses inches apart in the dark. He was smiling. But his eyes were wide. Almost awed.

''You lost,'' you whispered.

''I let you win.''

''Liar.''

He didn't argue.

You were both still catching your breath when you looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the moonlight hit his face, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd just run through something much more dangerous than a hallway. And it hit you. How much you wanted him. Not affection, not comfort. Him.

And before your brain could catch up to your body - you kissed him. Soft. Barely more than a breath. Your lips pressed to his like a secret. Like a question you didn't mean to ask. And for one perfect second - he kissed you back. Then he blinked, and he was gone.  

No words. No anger. Just... retreat. Like he couldn't breathe. Like he had to escape before he shattered completely. And you were left in the quiet dark, your fingertips and lips still tingling from where you'd touched him.

You didn't sleep that night.

You knocked on his door at 7:04 a.m. No blanket, no jokes, just you.

The door opened slowly, and there he was. Hair wet from a shower, hoodie pulled on inside out, eyes tired - but calmer.

''I'm sorry,'' you said, voice small. He stared at you. ''I didn't mean to do that. I mean- I did, but I didn't think, and you panicked, and I get, I just-''

''Don't apologize.''

Your mouth snapped shut. Bucky stepped back, letting you in.

''I wasn't mad,'' he said softly. ''Just... scared.''

You nodded, stepping inside. ''I know.''

''I didn't want to run.''

''I know.''

''I've just never wanted something this much and not known how to have it.''

You looked up at him, something tender folding open in your chest. And Bucky didn't think this time. He just moved. Closed the distance, tilted his head, and kissed you. Not soft. Not unsure. But with all the weight of what he'd been trying to hold in. Days, weeks, months of trying to bury a feeling that refused to die.

You melted into it, hands finding the collar of his hoodie, lips curving into the kiss even as his hand cupped the back of your neck like he was still afraid you'd slip away. But you didn't. You stayed.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together in the quiet...

He whispered, ''You didn't steal that kiss.''

You smiled. ''Did I not?''

''No,'' he murmured. ''I gave it to you.''

And just like that... Bucky Barnes stopped running.

[ausetkmt]

Protest observer (Walter Gadsden, 17) in Birmingham, Alabama, USA, on 3 May 1963, being attacked by police dogs during a civil rights protest.

On July 11, 2017, a video circulated throughout social media depicting the San Diego police deploying a canine against an unarmed suspect. Posted by a bystander named Angel Nunez, it revealed a large police dog lacerating a Black man’s arm while he was handcuffed and subdued on the pavement. The officers appeared to lose control of the animal, while the man screamed in agony as the dog ripped his flesh. Since the video did not reveal the events leading up to the attack, some viewers suspected the man surely antagonized the animal. Shortly after the original post, however, Nunez provided a second video depicting the preceding events. It revealed no premise for the dog’s attack. The suspect appeared to simply hold his arms in a defensive posture as the dog lunged and tackled him to the pavement.

The image triggered various reactions throughout social media. Though skeptics attempted to explain the procedure, and deny its racial overtones, many believed it manifested yet another example of police brutality. Though police shootings and violent beatings typically dominate mainstream perceptions of police violence, the use of canines to subdue people of color has a deeply racist history that not only engulfs the United States, but much of the western hemisphere.

Scholars note that European colonists brought dogs to the Americas and used them as tools for intimidation and violence against indigenous populations, but the deliberately racialized breeding of canines occurred during the expansion of Black chattel slavery. As slave rebellions erupted throughout the western hemisphere in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a breed called the “Cuban bloodhound” was diffused throughout the slaveholding colonies. Named for the island from which they hailed, they were physically imposing and extremely aggressive. Used in Cuba to confine slaves to the plantations, they were eventually exported to quell Black revolts. The British used them against the Jamaican Maroons in the late eighteenth century and the French engaged their services during the Haitian Revolution in the early nineteenth century.

A few decades later, the US government was engrossed in a lengthy conflict with the Black Seminole Indians in Florida, and military officials followed the French and British examples by importing Cuban bloodhounds to help crush the revolt. Following this event, entrepreneurial white southerners interbred the dogs with local breeds, birthing the occupation of professional slave hunting in the antebellum South.1Cuban Mastiff

The targeting of enslaved men and women was so pervasive that Black authors called them “Negro Dogs,” as the fugitive comprised the most lucrative target for the dogs’ owners. These animals held a prominent legacy in the testimonies of former slaves, as their oral histories recollected stories of pursuit, evasion, and, oftentimes violent, capture. The assault on Black people was so widespread that a reader gains a sense of its normalcy in the literature. According to one former slave from Mississippi, “Some folks treated the slaves mighty bad, put nigger dogs on ‘em” Far from a haphazard practice, the business of hunting Black bodies was ritualized throughout the South.

Emancipation brought little relief. The legal subversion of Black Americans continued after the Civil War and the backbreaking requirements of southern agricultural labor during the Jim Crow period largely mirrored its antebellum predecessor. One 1903 headline entitled, “Slavery in Alabama,” accused southern sharecroppers of developing a system of neo-slavery by preying upon impoverished African Americans who remained in perpetual debt: “Planters in want of labor…paid the fines and took the negroes into slavery, ostensibly to ‘work out’ their fines.”2 Such economic exploitation perpetuated debt bondage that mirrored antebellum slavery, and the report detailed how the workers were treated with “great severity” and received whippings for disobedience. Upon any attempt to abscond from the plantation “they were hunted down in the old slavery day’s fashion with bloodhounds.”3

Being “hunted down” with bloodhounds became a familiar experience for Black fugitives, but canine violence was also used to dismantle peaceful protests in the 1960s. Though the “Dogs of Birmingham” often dominate images of violence during the Civil Rights era, the practice spanned much of the Deep South. In 1963, the New York Times reported that police in Greenwood, Mississippi, a city notorious for its violence against Civil Rights workers, used canines to perpetuate anti-Black oppression. James Farmer, national director of the Congress of Racial Equality, condemned the attack of a Black minister by police dogs, declaring, “When that dog’s fangs sank to the ankle of the young minister…they also sank into the hearts of the Negroes of Greenwood.”4 By the time of the passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965, canine units had threatened and intimidated Black protestors throughout the South.“The author caught by the bloodhounds.” Illustration from Narrative William W. Brown: An American Slave

Despite the public’s outcry against southern police tactics, the violent images of dogs attacking Black victims did little to curb the persistence of this practice throughout the United States. Though police departments assumed that “many lessons were learned since Birmingham,” largely through better training approaches for handlers and their canines, modern statistics remain quite troubling when viewed through a racial context.

The Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) is one of the worst repeat offenders. Throughout the 1980s, African Americans leveled complaints that officers jokingly called Black suspects “dog biscuits” as they deployed canines against them. The issue came to a head during the 1991 class action suit Lawson v. Gates, which spotlighted the LAPD’s unlawful use of canines as vehicles of terror and intimidation against minority communities.

Evidence was especially damning, and the plaintiff’s attorneys were able to prove the LAPD deployed dogs principally in African-American and Latino communities, even though “crimes for which dogs are used occur at equal if not greater rates in communities with substantially higher Caucasian populations.”

The case was settled with a monetary payment to 54 plaintiffs, and that the LAPD would institute reform measures for how officers deployed canines. Law enforcement agencies in Los Angeles would later celebrate these reforms throughout the 1990s, claiming bite ratios were markedly down from previous years. However, recent data from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department (LASD) provides a vastly different picture.

A recent study from the LASD revealed that canine bites in the Los Angeles area were leveled solely against people of color for the first six months of 2013, and the bite ratios against Blacks and Latinos remain disproportionately high. But these contemporary problems do not lie solely in southern California. Following the killing of Michael Brown in 2014, the Department of Justice (DOJ) uncovered that police units in Ferguson, Missouri, persistently used dogs to attack Black suspects, including teenagers. Ultimately, the DOJ report concluded that Ferguson police “appear to use canines not to counter a physical threat but to inflict punishment.”

Including animals in the histories of racial violence, in both colonial histories and the African American experience, contextualizes how conceptions of race are made, consolidated, and reimagined by human populations. We must realize that enactments of police brutality are not solely human-to-human phenomena, but such state-sanctioned patterns of violence are deeply rooted in American history.

[sunsetmade]

Grumpy?

Bucky Barnes x Receptionist! Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes— who is cold and curt with everyone— always lingers by the front desk smiling and flirting with the receptionist.

The Avengers Tower was a well-oiled machine—structured, efficient, humming with the quiet chaos of genius and responsibility. There was a rhythm to it all: debriefings in the morning, security rotations in the afternoon, and the occasional power surge from one of Tony’s questionable late-night experiments in the lab.

But nothing in the building ran more smoothly—more dependably—than the front desk.

She sat at the heart of it, tucked behind the sleek counter with a sharpened pencil between her fingers and a soft, welcoming smile on her lips. She was the calm in the middle of a storm of superheroes, double agents, and billionaire tech mishaps. She knew every name that walked through the lobby, every coded schedule shift, and exactly which agents tried to sneak in late without scanning their badges. She remembered who took their coffee black and who needed two sugars. She remembered birthdays. Allergies. Dog names.

And when the lobby was quiet, like it often was early in the morning, she pulled out a folded crossword from her bag. Always in pencil. Always neat. She’d sit with her brow furrowed and her lip tugged gently between her teeth, fully focused, as if solving those little squares could somehow bring order to everything else around her.

And every morning—every morning—Bucky Barnes walked by just to see her do it.

To the rest of the Tower, Bucky Barnes was an enigma wrapped in leather and combat boots.

He was cold. Quiet. Always two steps ahead and impossible to read, with a stare sharp enough to cut through glass and a silence that seemed louder than most voices. He moved through the halls like a ghost—efficient, intimidating, all coiled muscle and mission focus beneath that black leather jacket. He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t attend team dinners. He didn’t linger longer than necessary.

And he never smiled. Not at anyone.

Except at the front desk.

There—just there—he was different. Softer, somehow. Less winter soldier, more man. He’d slow his stride before he reached the counter, his posture easing, the tension around his eyes loosening the moment he spotted her behind the desk. Sometimes it was just a glance. Sometimes it was a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he caught her mid-crossword, her pencil tapping against the laminate as she chewed the end of it in thought.

But other times—on the mornings when the sun streamed through the tall lobby windows and she was already laughing at something under her breath—he’d stop. Lean one elbow against the desk. Say something in that low voice of his, rough with sleep and just the tiniest hint of amusement. And when she looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling, something would flicker behind his carefully guarded expression. Something warm. Real.

No one else ever saw that version of him.

So when agents passed through and caught a glimpse—when they saw Bucky Barnes smiling, actually smiling, as he leaned in a little too close to the girl at the front desk—they usually did a double take. Whispered to each other in disbelief.

Because everyone knew Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt.

Bucky Barnes didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He didn’t laugh, and he definitely didn’t smirk.

He was the kind of man who carried silence like armor—sharp, impenetrable, and constant. Most people in the Tower had never heard him say more than a few clipped words at a time, let alone seen him do something as human as chuckle.

But then there was her.

And somehow—impossibly—he was doing all of those things. Because of her.

Because of the way she’d look up from her crossword puzzle with that curious little tilt of her head. Because of how she smiled at him like he wasn’t a weapon in a jacket, but just a man passing through her morning. Because she didn’t flinch or force conversation—she just saw him, and he didn’t feel the need to disappear.

So yeah, Bucky Barnes was grinning at the front desk now. Letting out quiet laughs under his breath when she got frustrated retelling a story. Teasing her gently, just to see that spark of amusement in her eyes. The unshakable Winter Soldier—grinning like a fool because she told him he looked tired and then offered him a travel-sized coffee creamer from her purse like it was contraband.

To anyone else, it would’ve seemed impossible.

But to him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world when he was with her.

“Hey, doll.”

His voice was smooth, low, and unmistakably fond as it drifted across the lobby, cutting through the usual morning quiet like it belonged there.

She looked up from her crossword puzzle, already smiling without meaning to. Bucky Barnes was leaning both elbows onto the marble counter, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of his metal forearm, posture relaxed like he had nowhere else to be. As if the world outside didn’t expect him to be a weapon.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she teased, pencil still in hand.

He groaned, dragging a palm down his face in mock frustration. “I told you not to call me that.”

She shrugged, unfazed. “I like it. It suits you.”

He didn’t answer right away—just stared at her, trying not to smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she teased him, the softness in her voice… it undid him more than it should’ve. His stomach flipped like it always did around her, and he prayed it didn’t show on his face.

Then she laughed. That warm, honey-sweet sound that filled the wide, sterile lobby like sunlight through the glass-paneled windows. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just easy. Natural. And it made something in his chest settle.

She twirled her pencil between her fingers before tapping the paper in front of her. “Stuck again,” she sighed. “Ten-down: ‘Hard exterior, soft center.’ Five letters.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Me.”

She blinked at him, then let out a small chuckle. “That’s not you.”

He raised a brow. “It fits though.”

“It does fit,” she admitted with a hum. “But you’re more of a marshmallow all around.” He smiled liking the way she thought of him as.

He leaned in slightly, looking amused. “Told you I’m good at these.”

“I thought your specialty was knives, not wordplay.”

He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I have layers.”

She gave him a playful look. “I’m starting to see that.”

He tried not to react, but the words struck a quiet chord. His gaze drifted to her hands—delicate, thoughtful, a little lead-smudged from the crossword—and he watched as she absently brought her nail to her mouth, chewing gently while focused.

His lips twitched, eyes fond. “You do that when you’re thinking.”

She looked up, surprised. “What?”

“That thing with your nail,” he said, tone casual. “You do it when you’re thinking too hard.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “You notice that?”

He shrugged, doing his best to play it cool even as warmth crept up his neck. “I notice a lot of things.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Like what?”

His voice dipped just a bit, low and steady. “Like how you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. Or how you always read the clues out loud, like you’re hoping someone’ll come help—even though you act like you want to solve it alone.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head, smiling despite herself. “I might be,” she said quietly.

Bucky grinned, unguarded for a moment. “Well,” he said, voice teasing but soft, “keep waiting for me, doll.”

And she laughed again—just for him.

Unaware that moments like this didn’t happen with anyone else.

Unaware that Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t linger.

Except at the front desk.

Except with her.

Meanwhile, Sam Wilson had just stepped into the Tower lobby, sunglasses still on and a fresh coffee in hand. He wasn’t planning to stop—he rarely did on the way in—but something caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

There, at the front desk, was Bucky Barnes.

Again.

For the third time this week, Sam slowed to a stop near the entrance, brows drawing together as he watched the interaction unfold from a distance. Bucky was leaning on the counter like it was his second home, posture casual, shoulders relaxed. He was smiling—an actual, real smile that reached his eyes—and laughing softly at something she said. He even nudged her pencil with the edge of his finger before giving her a lazy little wave, like he was any other guy.

Sam’s jaw was practically on the ground. Bucky Barnes—Mr. Scowl and Grunt—had waved. Waved.

“The hell…” Sam muttered to himself, lips pressing into a line as Bucky finally turned and strolled past, his usual cold stare meeting him. Classic.

But Sam didn’t let it slide.

He changed direction and walked straight to the desk, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion as he approached.

She looked up, bright and cheerful as always. “Morning, Sam! How’s it going?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, setting his coffee down with a thunk and eyeing her. “Don’t ‘morning’ me. What’s going on with you and Bucky?”

Her eyes widened slightly, innocent and confused. “What do you mean?”

Sam crossed his arms. “Don’t play coy. I just watched that man smile—smile—like he wasn’t a certified menace fifteen minutes ago.”

She laughed, the sound sweet and light. “He’s always like that.”

Sam’s brow shot up. “No, he’s not. Not with anyone. The man barely makes eye contact with the rest of us, and he just waved at you like y’all are in a damn Hallmark movie.”

She tilted her head, still looking genuinely puzzled. “Really? He’s never been anything but sweet with me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What does he even talk about?”

“Books. And puzzles. And snacks.”

Sam leaned in eyebrow raised. “Puzzles?”

She nodded looking at him as if he was going crazy— which may or may not be true.

Sam stood back like he’d just solved a case. “You’ve cracked the code. Bucky Barnes has a crush on you.”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious. I’ve known the guy for years. He’s glared at me more than he’s spoken to me. But you? You get crossword help and puzzle talk.”

Sam leaned in slightly, half-conspiratorial, half-stunned. “You realize you’re like… his favorite person in this building, right?”

Her cheeks warmed, and she gave a shy laugh. “I think he just likes the crossword banter.”

“Sure,” Sam drawled, grabbing his coffee. “That’s why he acts like a golden retriever who just found his favorite tennis ball every time he sees you.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her blinking after him—confused, smiling, and maybe, just maybe, starting to wonder what exactly Bucky Barnes saw when he looked at her.

⸻

Sam’s words stuck in her head.

She started paying closer attention—something she was usually great at. It came with the job. She noticed things. Like who avoided eye contact after a rough mission. Who needed to be buzzed in early on Mondays. Who always brought back an extra pastry for the agent next to them without ever saying why.

But now, she was noticing Bucky. (Way more than she usual did)

And he was… not like he was with her. At all.

With everyone else, Bucky was courteous, in that distant kind of way. Polite nods. Quiet acknowledgments. He spoke when necessary, nothing more. Even around the people he trusted—Natasha and Sam—he always held part of himself back. Like he was there, but not fully. Always watching, calculating. Like his presence was borrowed, temporary. Controlled.

But with her?

It was different. So noticeably different that almost everyone already picked up on it.

He lingered.

He’d drift by the front desk in the late afternoon, when the tower was quiet and the air felt still. Sometimes, he mumbled something about needing to double-check the mission schedule or update his clearance log—things she knew damn well he could’ve done from his tablet or comms.

But instead, he’d end up leaning on the counter with his forearms, half-facing her, voice softer than usual. He never seemed in a rush to leave. And on multiple occasions, he would laugh at something she said—not a breathy huff, but a real laugh. Low and warm and surprisingly easy. The kind of laugh that curled around her like a blanket, and made her freeze for half a second with flushed cheeks.

That sound stuck with her. It came back to her later, in the quiet of her apartment or in between elevator dings, like a little reminder she hadn’t imagined it.

And then there were the smaller things.

Like when he walked by two days after Sam’s visit.

She hadn’t even noticed him coming. One moment she was scrolling through reports, and the next, his knuckles tapped gently on the marble edge of the counter—soft enough not to startle, firm enough to pull her attention.

“Hey doll,” he said, his voice almost careful. Not shy, but not overly confident either—just… gentle. Thoughtful. “Brought you something to have with your crosswords.”

She blinked, gaze dropping to the small brown bag he set in front of her. A blueberry muffin peeked out the top.

Her favorite.

She stared. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it,” he said, tone quiet, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Last week, when you said the banana ones ‘scarred you for life.’” He gave a slight grimace, mimicking her dramatic tone, and it made her smile.

“You remember that?” she asked, still a little caught off guard.

Bucky leaned forward just enough to rest his arms on the counter, head tilted, eyes steady on hers. “Told you,” he smiled. “I notice things.”

The air between them felt softer somehow. Still. Like it had narrowed to just that space—just them.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the bag without opening it, eyes still on his. Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t sure what to say, but it felt like she didn’t have to say anything at all.

Because in that quiet look he gave her, there was a kind of ease she hadn’t seen in him before. Not even with the people who knew him best.

A few days later, it happened again.

She was seated at the desk, trying to pull herself together after a chaotic morning. Her hair was scooped into a rushed bun that wasn’t quite secure, strands already slipping loose. One sleeve of her cardigan was pushed up, the other still falling over her wrist. There were two half-finished coffees beside her keyboard, and she looked—by her own admission—a bit of a mess.

She didn’t even notice Bucky until he passed by, slowed, then took a step back like something had caught his eye. He leaned in close enough that she glanced up, startled.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice low and even.

Before she could respond, his hand reached out—delicate but sure—and tugged gently at a loose thread unraveling at the shoulder seam of her cardigan.

She froze.

Not because he touched her exactly, but because of the way he did it. So careful. So familiar. Like it wasn’t a big deal at all. Like fixing her sweater was second nature.

His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and then he let the thread fall into his palm.

“There,” he murmured, standing straight again, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk—something softer. “Didn’t want you walking around looking like a walking unraveling mystery.”

She blinked, still caught between the ghost of his touch and the way his eyes had flicked down so briefly, so purposefully.

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

He was already turning, already moving away down the hall in that unhurried way he always did. But he glanced over his shoulder, soft, a little smug and a knowing glint in his eye.

“Only if you want it to be.”

And then he was gone again.

She sat there for a long moment afterward, eyes on the empty hallway, lips parted slightly in surprise. He always did that—left her sitting there, a little breathless, a little confused, like she was still trying to catch up to whatever moment just passed between them.

It was maddening. And a little addictive.

⸻

But then came the moment that shifted everything.

She was kneeling near the cabinet by the elevator, half-crouched with a clipboard balanced on her thigh and a box of laminated visitor tags in her lap. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, and she was quietly humming to herself, content in the calm of a late morning.

The ding of the elevator barely registered at first—just another routine sound in a day full of them—until the doors slid open and she glanced up.

Bucky stepped out, flanked by two unfamiliar agents.

She smiled without thinking, her automatic greeting already forming on her lips.

But something happened.

He didn’t spare so much as a glance at the others. Barely a grunt of acknowledgment as they moved past him, mid-conversation, unaware or maybe just used to his silence.

But Bucky—he looked straight at her.

And just like that, everything about him changed.

His shoulders relaxed, tension sliding off like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His expression softened, that faint edge in his jaw smoothing into something gentler. His eyes brightened—not wide or dramatic, but unmistakably warmer, like the sight of her tugged some invisible thread inside him loose.

“Hey, doll,” he said, low and fond, like she was the only person in the room.

She froze, lips parting as her breath caught for half a second. She was used to his visits, his little teasing comments, the quiet smiles he saved only for her—but this?

This was different.

He walked toward her without hesitation and crouched beside her, his long legs folding with casual ease. He didn’t ask what she was doing. Didn’t make it awkward. Just reached for a neat stack of folders beside her and handed them over, his sleeve brushing hers.

“You always do this stuff alone?” he asked, glancing briefly at the mess of papers and lanyards around them.

She nodded, adjusting the clipboard in her arms, still caught off guard. “Usually. It’s just part of the prep for tomorrow’s visitor batch.”

“Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to hers. “You shouldn’t have to do it all alone.”

The words weren’t dramatic. There was no flourish, no deliberate charm.

But the way he said it—quietly, like a simple truth—made her chest go warm.

Their fingers brushed as he passed her the folders. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.

And then he hesitated—just for a beat. His gaze dropped to her hands, then lifted again, slower this time. She felt it before he even said anything, like the air shifted.

“Hey,” he said, licking over his bottom lip. “You got plans after your shift?”

She blinked. “Um… no, not really.”

Bucky gave a tiny nod, thumb grazing the edge of one folder like he needed something to fidget with. “There’s that little coffee place down the block,” he said, eyes still on hers. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could go. If you want.”

The way he said it—low and nervous—sent her heart into a full stumble. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a date.

Her mouth opened, then closed again, and when she finally managed a breath, she nodded—too fast, maybe, but smiling. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He stood, the faintest tug of a smile playing on his lips—not cocky, not proud. Just quietly pleased.

“We can do your crossword while there.” He said smiling. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, “You’re such a dork.” He only smiled harder in response.

The two agents, now at the far end of the hall, had turned back to look.

They were staring.

And for once, she didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, it clicked. He really was different with her.

Not just less guarded—but open. Gentle. Grounded in a way she hadn’t seen him be with anyone else.

And maybe—maybe Sam was right. Maybe this wasn’t just one-sided. Maybe it hadn’t been for a while.

Because the Bucky Barnes standing in front of her wasn’t the cold soldier everyone whispered about. He wasn’t sharp-edged or haunted or unreachable.

He was steady. He was thoughtful.

And he looked at her like she was something soft in a world that had never been kind to him.

And she was starting to realize—with a quiet, breathless sort of clarity—that she liked this version of him far more than she’d ever meant to.

[thatshadowcomic]

The toll, page 12

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Hmm... Did Sonic tense up because of the Spark of energy or just the "Spark" he felt when Shadow rubbed against him? Either way he's great at snapping back like nothing happened : p

Sorry Ive been away for a while, but Im back to kick some butt in wild canyon-- btw the "event" he's referring to is the ceremony for the Doom memorial, marking both the defeat of Black Doom and honoring those lost/displaced by the battle. There's apparently some reveal of a special plaque.

For many people, Shadow helps Eggman try to blow up the Earth, and later he lost his mind and Helped Doom... Sure he turned it around before it was too late, but really, that makes him scarier. He's unpredictable and dangerous. "Evil Sonic", "GUN's guard dog", "the last Blackarm", "Living weapon".

it goes on.

[eleu22]

You guys do not appreciate Gaz enough so I’m here to sell him to you

this shit is important so yall better read

I truly don’t understand the lack of Gaz love -

ok well

I do at some level

I think the argument usually levied against his character id that he’s boring

but beautifully stated by tumblr user mockerycrow in their character analysis of him

CHARACTERS DO NOT HAVE TO HAVE A TRAGIC BACKSTORY TO BE INTERESTING CHARACTERS

press keep reading to fall in love with Gaz

Who is Gaz?

I’m going to start out with who Gaz is as a character

morality

Gaz is someone who has a strong sense of morality and struggles with the balance between doing the right thing and doing the morally right thing, there’s this debate between long-term morality and situational morality that Gaz struggles with

look im maybe not the most linguistically talented person on earth so im just gonna throw in a few quotes which i think gives Gaz

Gaz is someone who admist chaos and war is trying his best, trying his best to be a good person, to be reliable and to do the right thing

if thays not lovable idk what is

relationship to price

ok so i think this aspect of Gaz’s character is what people tend to focus on

and as much as the omg price’s son shit is cute i think he’s become a vehicle for people to emphasise price’s daddy factor (which like dont get me wrong keep up the good work)

but i think theres so much more to that

i forgot who wrote this but someone said something about Gaz trying to follow in impossibly large footsteps and i think thats so accurate

going back to Gaz’s struggle with morality there’s so much untapped potential in the idea that his idol, may not be an amazing person, having to come to grips with the idea that Price, his role model can look at a woman and child as interrogation leverage is something that i think people need to look into more

OK so now

Untapped Potential

so here are somethings which i

idk if this is like the correct phrasing

headcannon? idk i just think these are parts of Gaz’s character which could be rlly interesting to explore

ahem

yes Gaz is a good guy, but that doesn’t make him passive Gaz has shown moments of anger, like in the interrogation with the butcher when he lunges at him or when him and price first meet

i think the fact that Gaz is so calm and collected but has these moments are cracks in the facade he creates

i believe personally he has a lot of repressed anger whether it be at the world, at himself, at his captain hes an angry dude hes just better at keeping it under wraps

and i know we don’t really have many details on his backstory but cmon there’s no way u sign up for a job like this and don’t have any issues whatsoever

i think this quote is so good for this because he’s harnessed his anger, it’s what makes him good at his job, a knife, a weapon

i think another interesting concept for Gaz is guilt

the fact that he cares about whats right and wrong how does he feel going to sleep at night? do these things haunt him? is he irredeemable?

i think its like that one quote “the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. My guilt does not purify me.”

Final Thoughts

anyways guys thanks for coming to my ted talk

i know this was really messy but i just want to encourage some Gaz love because i think he’s a really interesting complex character who we just need to dig a little deeper into

i hope this incites some more gaz love

THANK YOU 😳

[viaxslz]

⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. “I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It’s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght

[sqgeism]

Sage sage imagine dueling w Phainon and he gets distracted by reader and loses to them, and while reader is packing up their weapon to head to home, Phainon follows them around like 🧍🙂 waiting for kisses bc apparently they're supposed to kiss his pain away (he's a lil delusional and really in love)

𓎟𓎟 a sweet request from an angelic anonnie 𝄞 a love letter signed with phainons initials 𓂃𓈒

ℒ.ove mail ┈ 🍒 ꫂ are we ignoring the fact the header is a tot card? yes we are ! hi again its me 🐥 i remember when id write 5 fics in one day. or 11 people in one post.. where does my motivation go, i wonder. does it stay dormant till triggered by an event or what? okay bai :p

sparring with you is the closest thing to ecstacy that isn't.. ecstacy. phainon's addicted to it, not the rush of battle, but seeing that determined look in your eyes. each slash of your blade, every time your fists made contact with his body, and the moments where you threw him to the ground.. call him obsessed, cause he is. your display of strength has always been attractive to the hero, and he'll be damned if he isn't into it.

"i yield." he says breathlessly, face first on the floor and disarmed as you hold his arms behind his back. "aha! i win!" you always do, most of the time was a fair fight—but this was one of the times he let you get the upper hand. mostly because he wanted to partake in a little bit of *shenanigans afterward.

you watch from the corner of your eye as phainon stands there, smiling sweetly despite the cut on his lip, his bruised eye, and probably an aching body that's all done by you. although you know that the boy could be thrown into four different buildings and ask you to do your worst on the fifth—this was usually the time he.. patches himself up. not watch you put your stuff away like an eager puppy.

"phai, shouldn't you start... you know, fix yourself up?"

if your earlier statement of him being a dog was true, you're sure his ears and tail would've drooped low the moment those words left your lips. "i wanted you to take care of me." he huffed, leaning down to press his forehead against your shoulder, damn near whining.

you roll your eyes at him, lifting him up by his cheek as you meet his gorgeous, sapphire eyes. he was always too pretty for is own good.

"ange—mmhn.." he never gets sick of you shutting him up with your mouth, he'd talk for *hours if it meant you'd eventually get sick of it and he does this routine over and over.

he has hearts in his eyes when you pull away, licking his bloodied lip before chuckling. "happy?"

"oh, simply euphoric."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[sangunary]

hear me out, batfamily with a teenage reader that gets in trouble for fighting...BUT the reader won because they had used a move they saw that member of the batfamily do. For example, Reader jabs the other kid in the throat to choke them up then suplex's them or something😭 OR Reader uses a weapon they might've used and won that fight (obviously not Damian's or Jason's because they can be lethal) but it can't be Bruce's either because that's just straight hands and reader isn't that advanced yet lol. So i'm just gonna go with Dick or Tim's weapon of choice. Say for example there's for some reason a heavy but thin lying pole around, Reader just grabs that and starts beating on the kid with it but with Red Robin's moves for some reason(or nightwing's). this is purely just for fun but tysm for reading it at least. if you do write it may it PLEASE be separate with the characters? like to each their own scenario, or not it's up to you

- Teenagers Are Scary.

BatBoys × sibling reader ( Platonic )

SYPNOSIS: Copy and Paste but just make it more violent.

You were never one to hesitate every since you were born, that's how you were raise. The one that hesitate will be left to starve and the ones who never hesitate got to see the daylight again.

Simple and easy rule, nothing complicated about it.

Growing up in the street really build characters in people.

Hesitation doesn't run in the blood, an unattended belonging? yours, a wallet that is very visible? yours, random money on the ground? yours. If it's not by someone side it's yours.

Even if angry dogs are surrounding it, you would fight them. Older kids trying to steal something you already set your eyes on? Just use the plank or brick to scare them or better hit them hard enough to scare but not hard enough for jail.

That's how you and your mother survive for eight years, it wasn't fancy like in the books but it was something. You can't blame a kid for trying to survive.

After a long day of running from people's and cops that want you dead you went home, your mother laying dead on the ground.

You sit near her body for a day straight without moving, no tears, no panick, just processing the moment and trying to find a way to escape the orphanage system.

Then he came, batman. One look at your rough and dirty self suddenly you got adopted by a rich man the next day.

Who you later found out to be batman.

You had promise yourself to forget about the past life and finally choose the peaceful way of life when you had an option.

But, boy do you wish to raise your hand.

"Do you have Asthama?"

You asked the boy who had been bothering another girl for sometimes, she herself clearly told him to stop but he doesn't seem to understand english.

"No... Wh-"

Before he could answer you, you jabbed him on the neck.

Turns out defending people against annoying people is a bad thing and got suspended for a week.

"Little wing, why would you jab him? You do realise that you are suspended right? It better be for a good reason, you're lucky B isn't here"

Dick the moment he saw you walk inside began to lecture you on behalf of Bruce, well let's be honest he's alot more kind but his word hold more significant since he's the eldest.

"He was annoying"

You answered simply, you didn't understand what you did wrong you just simply defend a harmless girl.

Why is everyone so mad for? A rematch would be a good way to get everyone off your back.

"Little wing, this isn't like the street you can't harm people for that reason here... Now what did he do exactly?"

After explaining what had happened he seems to be relaxing... But still not happy with the way you had handle it.

"He could have hurt you... And thank God he didn't cause I won't be able to stop whatever forces that will be seeking revenge on your behalf."

Dick added to lighten the mood up, he meant Damian and Jason would definitely terrorise the kid if he touch you.

You have learnt how to jab people without any long term damage by watching him... So he was also involve one way or another.

He doesn't know if he should be mad or impress that you learn such move by just watching and somehow practising.

"Don't tell B, im proud of you for handling the case maybe next time just not too much violence?"

He pat your head as he smile, his siblings are so diverse one doesn't even realise what hesitation is...

"Still, pretend to be upset Alfred might catch on that I let you free"

Jason on the other hand was excited to meet you after he got news that you got in another fight.

Jason understand your anger and lack of hesitate alot better than anyone else.

He was also from the street and surprisingly when he was your age he was very kind compared to you.

He can see that you were trying your best to not go back to your old life style but it's hard when it's everything you ever knew.

At the park while you were going out with a friend this new girl with the entitlement of an European monarchy came up to her and push her.

Well for any mature person they would let it go and talk about it later.

Not you, never you.

You wouldn't let another hand touch your precious friend like that, from where you were from that was the biggest sign of disrespect and that isn't alright.

You complete forgot about the fact that you were no longer obliged to follow that rule and went after her.

The poor girl was running for her life as you continued to chase her, thanks to the fact that you were used to running from cops you caught to her quick.

Although you weren't stupid enough or mad enough to just yank her by her hair you insted hug her.

She was utterly confused and did try to struggle her way out of your grip.

But Instead you held tighter, not forgetting that adult's were indeed present.

"The leaf are slippery"

After that sentence you accidentally fell backwards while still holding onto the girl and lifting her, suplexing her.

You've saw Jason did it before infact he taught you that move.

He was always the one who brought up on how you would be able to defend yourself from bully without any warning or problem.

Basically Jason train you to beat others without getting into trouble, he was a professional.

"So you use the move?"

He asked curiously, afterall he had been waiting to hear the result of his teaching for a while.

"Yup, they actually check up on me first than her"

"Good, I supposed teaching you the art of violence in disguise is a great bounding material. I am a better mentor than that bat"

Jason exclaimed, he wanted to say he was proud but he need to hold back so you'll continue to work harder.

"Can you teach me how to terrorise people without direct involvement next?"

Yup, you're the best sibling he could ever ask for.

Tim on the other hand seeing you with no hesitation scared him, abit.

You had been accompanying him during his patrol, although you weren't a vigilante yet Bruce insist that you learn the route and other small matters. (He wants you to bound with your siblings more)

As a result you were tagging along with Tim, with a paper bag on your hear with a hole for an eye. Your fashion was unimaginable.

You were learning good and overall a good night. Bruce did gave you a uniform but you like to wear a normal' pants and shirt with sneakers and a paper bag from the last fast good you order.

While chasing after a kid that you absolutely hate you managed to catch him before he could due to pure hatred.

Picking up a thin metal pipe and hitting him on the leg as he kiss the ground hard. Tim notice the way you hold it, just like he did.

He did remember during the latest patrol you two had he did use the same move just yours was sloppier and you hit them alot harder.

It was like looking at the past, you really did learn everything from the way he hold it to even how you were standing... He's abit scared on how fast you catch up.

The kid was squirming on the ground cause you did hit him on the knee with a loud thud.

You on the other hand place your foot on him to stop him from moving, yes it wasn't necessary but you took your chance.

"Cuff him"

You demanded still holding onto the pipe.

Tim doesn't know if he should tell you or let Bruce take his part as your father... Well he would most likely be drag in since he is his son as well...

"You hit him too hard, don't step on him either he isn't resisting"

He told you, he can't let Bruce know about this.

"Could have done worse"

you mumbled, listening to your older brother.

Damian was picking you up from school when he saw you getting pick on.

He saw the other kid tugging at your hair more then once and you were surprisingly calm. Damian was disappointment at that moment.

He doesn't like seeing people just taking it when they're being bullied and he was thinking about teaching you how to fight.

Last time he check you beat the life out of Tim with a pillow. Maybe you weren't as much of a demon outside? You must be one of those people who cares about reputa-

Before he could finish thinking you look at the kid dead in the eye.

Put your hands on his shoulder and hit him with your forehead, the kid on the other hand began to cry as you went back to normal.

It was satisfying to watch, the kid friends tried to comfort and even try to hit you back.

He was abit concern now, you were the youngest and they out number you plus you haven't been trained yet you were eleven.

You took a very thick book from someone wnd proceed to hit them with it and yeah you won.

One example and no one wanted to know what you will use next.

"What was that about?"

He asked, he knew what it was about he just wanted to hear you talk about it.

"I saw you hitting Tim with your forehead once... That got him to shut up, I just wanted him to stop I didn't knew it would hurt"

Lie, you knew damn well how much ut would hurt. Your forehead is turning red from the impact.

Damian does remember what you were referring to, Dick, Jason and Tim tried to smash his face with cake and Tim was the one holding the cake.

He headbutt him because struggling out of Dick hold was hard and he just wanted to hit Tim, fortunately you were there to witness everything.

Guess he's a good influence then.

The book was just you utilising your surrounding object. Hitting them hard was just to show them who the real deal was.

He wasn't mad, he was the same when he was your age just honest. You? could talk your way out of it with that facade innocent of yours.

Atleast one of his siblings is nearly as great as he is.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Cyberpunk Mercenary

A ruthless mercenary and you, his spoilt little catch.

Mercenaries have a reputation for being mad dogs, so pumped up with biochem they can't even think straight. And Yandere! Mercenary is no exception.

Yandere! Mercenary doesn't care who's paying him, as long as he gets paid. He's put down rebels on Titan and toppled governments on Europa - the flags they fly don't mean a damn thing to him.

Yandere! Mercenary who's spent his whole life fighting. Who dreams of gunfire and chemical weapons and burning up in the atmosphere.

Yandere! Mercenary who rolls his eyes when he gets offered his latest job. Kidnap some rich kid and hold her hostage? Talk about easy money. Hell, he can get the job done and still have time for a drink.

Yandere! Mercenary with his prosthetic arm and cybernetic implants. With his lip piercings and neon mohawk. With his bloodstained teeth and sleepless nights.

Yandere! Mercenary who finds you easy enough. Out on a shopping spree in some fancy boutique. Like you don't own enough shit already.

Yandere! Mercenary who almost scoffs when he sees you. You're everything he isn't. Wearing some pretty pastel outfit straight off the runway, your hair dyed so subtly that he knows it must have cost a fortune.

Weak, spoiled little Earthling.

Yandere! Mercenary who follows you down to the parking garage and shoots your bodyguards full of tranq. Non-lethal, his contractor demanded.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs the back of your neck when you try to run and slams you into your hovocraft. Your shopping scattered all over the floor and trampled under his combat boots.

Yandere! Mercenary who laughs at the way you claw and scratch at him. Normal nails and not titanium claws? What are you gonna do with those, sweetheart? Tickle him?

Yandere! Mercenary who throws you in the back of his hovocraft and hightails it out of there. Shit, this was easier than he expected.

Yandere! Mercenary who ignores all the threats you spit at him. He doesn't give a damn who your mother is or how rich your daddy is. He doesn't care how many people they send after you. He's getting this job done and getting paid and that's all that matters.

Yandere! Mercenary who realises he should have listened when the first team of guards show up. They almost blast him out of the sky and it's only his quick thinking that gets him out of there.

Yandere! Mercenary who swears as he hauls you out of his wrecked craft and through the neon soaked streets of the slum district.

Yandere! Mercenary who grabs your shoulders and shakes you like a rag doll until you confess that you have a tracker in your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who pins you against the wall and grabs the knife strapped to his leg. Who wraps his hand around your thigh and pulls your leg around his waist so you have no choice but to press against the concrete.

Yandere! Mercenary who carefully cuts the tracker out of your neck.

Yandere! Mercenary who mockingly apologises when you flinch.

Yandere! Mercenary who licks the cut he left behind. Who sucks at the blood until you stop bleeding. Who trails his lips up your neck before pulling away.

Yandere! Mercenary who's titanium teeth glint red when he grins at you.

"Look at that blush. Did ya like that, pretty thing?"

Yandere! Mercenary who loves the dazed, bashful look on your face. Billionaire princess getting all hung up on herself cause of him? Ain't that a sweet piece of irony.

Yandere! Mercenary who stashes you away in a safehouse while he waits for his boss to contact him. Who realises he was wrong about you. Spoilt, yes. Arrogant, yes. But innocent too. Naive.

Yandere! Mercenary who spends hours telling you stories about the colonies he's visited. And you sit engrossed, eating it all up like you've never heard anything so fascinating, instant ramen bowls scattered across the shitty linoleum.

Yandere! Mercenary who watches your fear of him fade a little with each passing hour. Oh, he still frightens you. But your curiosity outweighs that fear.

Yandere! Mercenary who takes every opportunity to touch you, to reach over you. Who loves the nervous little glances you aim at him, the way you blush when he catches you staring.

Cute. And tempting too.

How long has it been since he's had a woman? Yandere! Mercenary who looks at you and wants to sink his teeth in.

Yandere! Mercenary who catches his breath when you grab his hand and ask to go with him.

"Please," you beg. "I want to see the galaxy."

Yandere! Mercenary who knows that he scares you. He ain't easy on the eyes and anyone with sense can see the notched dog tag he wears - one scratch for every kill.

So why the hell are you asking him to run away with you?

Yandere! Mercenary who finally realises the gold you wear is nothing more than a collar and chains. You're a pretty bird in a gilded cage.

Yandere! Mercenary who, for the first time in his career, decides to run out on a job. Who chooses you over profit.

Yandere! Mercenary who grins down at you as he straps you into the copilot seat of a stolen space cruiser. Nervous and innocent and all his to corrupt.

Sure, he'll show you the galaxy. He'll show you the whole damn universe. All from the comfort of his bed.

[mariasont]

if we flip, we flip

spencer misses you. you show up in a bikini, sit on him, and let him prove it with disastrous consequences for his composure and your tanline.

pairing: spencer reid x bimbo!reader warnings: suggestive content, skimpy af bikini, handprint tanline (yes, it's plot relevant ok), established relationship, fem!reader prompt: here! wc: 0.5k

Spencer isn't particularly known for physical grace (you once told him he had the coordination of a baby deer on ice skates, and you were right), but now, his clumsiness has transcended cute and settled into cataclysmic, because here you come, gliding toward him with a confidence that melts the remaining ice under his metaphorical skates.

Before he can even begin to worry about sunscreen reapplication or make some half-baked joke about melanoma awareness, you're suddenly there, bare skin smelling like a bakery's idea of summer, and his book is wobbling precariously in his grip.

“Hi baby,” you chirp, throwing yourself into the hammock with the casual recklessness of someone who's never once considered their own mass in relation to another's object's tensile limit.

His book is halfway to the grass by the time your knee collides with his thigh.

“You’re going to flip us,” he warns, though his voice wavers top-heavy, mostly because your chest is now hovering just inches from his mouth, slick and glittering with what he assumes is SPF in some form.

“It’s fine, you’re strong,” you say dismissively, one arm draping over his chest as the other tugs your sunglasses down just far enough to squint at his mouth like it’s something you plan to study, or worse, touch. “Besides, if we flip, we flip.”

His palm settles where your bikini dips, and suddenly it's like his pulse is being conducted through you, blooming heat directly into your skin.

He doesn't mean to touch you like this, not exactly, but it's inevitable in the way lightning is, sparked, then burning before it even registers. His eyes fall shut, and his fingers press in, barely.

“Don’t go so long next time. Missed you.”

“Sure,” you say, shifting in a way that reminds you both that your bikini is one rogue breeze away from retirement. “You missed me. And not the view you’ve got right now that’s, you know, extremely convenient.”

“It is a good view,” he says, palm lightly swatting your ass and staying there. “But that’s not the point. You weaponized absence. And also… clothing.”

You just giggle and lean in, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw, then another just beneath his ear. “That’s what you get for giving me ammo.”

He hums in response, too content to do much else, nose brushing against your temple. “Having a good day?”

“Mhmm. Tired.”

“Perfect napping conditions,” he mumbles, trying not to sound completely deranged by how your body folds into his.

He tucks his chin above your head and lets his thumb move in slow, absent circles on your pliant skin, nothing particularly purposeful, just a quiet repetition of wanting.

You fall asleep before he finishes the second one. He’s not far behind.

—

“Spencer Reid, what the hell —”

Your voice hits him before consciousness does, and then he’s blinking awake, face smushed into your shoulder.

“What?” he croaks, still half-asleep, throat dry. “What happened?”

A full, open-palmed tan line. His hand. Stamped like a signature into your left cheek, a display of every inch he touched. Spencer makes a strangled noise and instinctively tries to cover it like a guilty dog hiding a chewed-up shoe. As if placing his hand back on it — yep, definitely the same size — is going to fix anything.

“You branded me.” You blink at him. “I’m going to have to explain this to people. To witnesses.”

“Or we could just reapply and do the other side, for symmetry.”

You stretch. “It’s fine, you already ruined one side. Might as well commit.”

“If we flip,” he says, lips brushing your shoulder now, “we flip.”

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist