#fic teaser i guess?

[joker-and-the-queen]

She catches his chin in her hand, gently tilting his face up until his gaze meets hers. “You sat there in front of everyone, and you told the whole world exactly who you are,” she says. “That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

[writingbyshiloh]

Smoke Sesh

AN: This was part of the 3k Jordan Li wip but it didn't fit the flow of the fic, which is sad bc I really liked it.

CW: drinking, drugs, smoking weed

WC: 300 (lol)

“Bad?” Jordan asks referring to your frown at the blunt. You forgot they were next to you, the mix of drugs and alcohol making all the voices quiet down and blur together into background noise.

“I don’t mind the music, definitely more of a party vibe.” you reply, mistaking them, thinking they’re asking about the shift in music. A faint uptempo beat and lyrics about how the singer won’t shake it if a man is not paying her bills.

“No, the weed.” Jordan says. You’re glad that they’re thinking clearly.

“Oh yeah, the rolling paper is shit. Want to try?” you ask. The flavour from the paper is mostly for mouth taste, but Jordan doesn’t need to know that.

“Sure.” They shrug.

The logical way would be to simply hand over the joint. But no matter how faded you are, you’re still on a mission. Taking a long deep inhale, you jut your chin to Jordan telling them to lean in. They eagerly comply, pupils blown wide, probably from lust and whatever they used tonight.

You brush your lips gently against theirs, blowing a thin trail of smoke into their mouth. You feel them inhale while their hand comes up to brush your cheek. It's the cheers and screams from your mutual friends that make you snort with laughter, pushing more smoke than intended into Jordan's mouth.

They jerk back, coughing and sputtering. You try to quell your laughter, but can’t stop. You do rub their back, trying to soothe them while the weed convinces you this is the funniest thing you have ever seen.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” you giggle, watching then hunch over and try to breathe normally. “Do you want some water?”

Jordan nods in reply, still too focused on coughing to verbally reply.

[crowleyisasweetie]

[inyunjin]

sometimes (it's okay to act)

ITZY - Hwang Yeji/Shin Ryujin - 2035 words

It’s 7:54 AM when Ryujin steps out of the elevator and into the basement of the JYP Entertainment building. Baggy sweats, a loose hoodie, and a pair of worn-out sneakers play the role of her wardrobe for the morning. A well-loved canvas bag hangs over her right shoulder while the two iced coffees in her hands jostle with every step.

When she arrives at the door to the practice room, she pushes it open with her shoulder. Instantly, she’s greeted with the sound of squeaking soles and music. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be there yet – the first rehearsal coming out of a weekend usually meant everyone lagging behind for one reason or another, but it all made sense when she saw who it was.

As always, she finds herself instantly captivated by the sight of Yeji dancing. Her eyes trail down the orange locks pouring out of the black baseball cap adorning the taller girl’s head. A small intake of breath accompanies the bellybutton peeking out from beneath the edge of a frayed white shirt with every pop and lock. Following down a matching pair of sweats – Yeji had thought it’d be cute if the both of them owned the same pair – Ryujin’s eyes land on a pair of sneakers that are even more run-down than hers.

It reminds her of how far Yeji has come.

How far the both of them have.

It’s 8 years earlier and they’re in the same spot they are now – a hopeless Ryujin staring at a clueless Yeji from the safety of a doorway. She remembers the night her anxious fingers typed out dozens of introduction texts before finally settling on one. She remembers the day after, how one moment she was looking at Yeji and the next she had her arms wrapped around her. 

But mostly, she remembers everything after that. The gasp coming from the girl at the sudden embrace. The way Yeji tilted her head down to look at her and the way her lips curled and how readily she relaxed into the younger girl’s arms when she realized who she was.

Ryujin remembers her name falling from Yeji’s mouth a moment later.

She remembers how she started falling the second after that.

And then, in real time, she watches Yeji fall right in front of her.

It happens fast – Yeji’s foot hits the floor at a weird angle, sending her body careening down to the rigid surface below – all of it punctuated with a loud thud and a sharp groan.

“Yeji!”

Ryujin doesn’t remember running – she just knows that one second she was standing at the doorway and the next she was kneeling on the ground beside the other girl.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She’s frantic. Words, eyes, and hands launch an uncoordinated assault to figure out what had just happened.

“I’m fine.” Yeji grimaces as she sits up. Her hand goes to rub her hip, the part of her that hit the floor first and hardest. There’s a moment when she’s just massaging her side, as if she doesn’t believe the words she had just uttered, but then she continues on. “It’s nothing, I just–” Her teeth clench and her mouth hisses as Ryujin’s hands reach for the traitorous foot that caused all this.

Ryujin’s eyes widen and the grip around Yeji’s foot loosens just so, making sure to stay secure enough as to not let it fall. “Is it your foot? Your ankle? Is it twisted?” She brings her face closer to inspect for any possible bruising or swelling.

“No,” Yeji shakes her head in response, though a frown is displayed prominently on her face. “It’s just that your hands are really cold and wet.”

Ryujin stops what she’s doing to look down at her. She looks at the two hands cradling Yeji’s foot. Then, she looks back to the iced coffees on the counter that she’s thankful she didn’t drop before rushing over.

Oh.

“Do you think you could help me up now?”

The words snap her attention back to what is going on – Yeji lying not-so-helplessly on the ground in front of her.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She removes her clammy hands from Yeji’s foot and Ryujin can see her discomfort disappear before her very eyes. “I can probably find someone to help or–”

Yeji silences her by placing a hand on hers and squeezing. “I’m fine, Ryujinnie. I wouldn’t hide anything from you.” She smiles an honest smile and offers another earnest squeeze of her hand. “I just wasn’t being as careful as I should.” She chuckles warmly. “I mean, that’s why we practice, right? So stuff like this doesn’t happen.”

Ryujin doesn't answer immediately. Her heart is pounding and telling her to keep pushing the subject, that this cursory examination isn’t enough and that Yeji needs a CT, MRI or maybe even JYP.

But that same heart is having its strings tugged on by the way Yeji looks at her and holds her. The small scrunch beside her eyes when she smiles brings Ryujin home and the pad of Yeji’s thumb rubbing a familiar spot on the back of her hand makes it feel like it.

It’s that part of her that ultimately wins out.

Ryujin sighs and looks down at the hand on top of hers. Yeji’s is slightly bigger and she likes how they fit against each other. “Okay,” she says with a small, defeated nod. Ryujin flips her hand upside down so that she can weave her fingers with Yeji’s and gives her a squeeze in return. “I believe you.”

Yeji’s smile widens and her eyes scrunch just a little bit more.

That makes it worth it.

Slowly, Ryujin rises up from the floor and carefully pulls Yeji up along with her. The moment they’re both on their feet, she pulls Yeji close to her until their waists are kissing. The hand that was enveloping the other girls tugs it back until it’s resting on Ryujin’s hip, while her other hand snakes around Yeji’s midsection to keep them close. It occurs without conscious intent, the memories in her muscles too loud to say otherwise.

This gives Ryujin another moment with her, one where they trade the panic of seconds earlier for quiet breaths and longing looks.

Her eyes stay as scrupulous as they were previously. However, instead of looking for the odd scuff or scrape that might have possibly marred Yeji’s face, she’s simply taking a tour on the pale expanse she’s traveled a thousand times before.

Yeji’s own gaze is nowhere near as sturdy, her eyes flitting away every now and then due to the intensity of Ryujin’s stare. Her cheeks redden at a particularly embarrassing instance – when Ryujin lingers on the mole near her jaw and parts her mouth to wet her lips.

“It’s not like I landed on my face or anything,” Yeji says, breaking the silence. “I think I’m fine.”

Ryujin looks up from Yeji’s mouth to her eyes and she smirks. “I’d say you look a lot better than fine.” She raises her eyebrows as well, just in case her message didn’t come across.

The rouge on Yeji’s cheeks deepens, accented by an exaggerated roll of the eyes. She pulls back from Ryujin just a bit, just enough so that she can lean back in and bunt their foreheads against each other’s.

“Is that why you came here so early?” Yeji giggles. “To flirt with your unnie?”

The sound of Yeji’s laughter makes Ryujin smile and she loves how she can feel her body vibrate when she laughs. “If I wanted to do that,” she said with a chuckle, “then I would��ve given myself more than 5 minutes, unnie.”

“What do you mean? It’s only–” Yeji turns her head to look at the clock on the wall and Ryujin can feel the air between them grow just a bit heavier. “Oh wow…” Her smile falters. “I must have lost track of time.” She turns back to Ryujin and tries to lighten the mood with another laugh, but all that does is make Ryujin suspicious.

“Yeji.” She’s squeezing the older one’s hand as she speaks. “How long have you been here?” The accusation is hard to hide, so Ryujin doesn’t even try. She knows that there’s no one more demanding of Yeji than Yeji herself, that sometimes what she thinks is best for the group comes at the cost of overworking herself and ignoring her needs.

And Ryujin hates that as much as she loves her.

“Not that long.” There’s no conviction in her voice. Yeji’s a terrible liar, and so she never lies. But that just makes it all the more obvious when she’s trying not to tell the truth. 

“You know we have that comeback show next week.” Yeji goes to take both of Ryujin’s hands in her own, as if this is some desperate plea or admission. “I just wanted to make sure I had everything–”

The distinct growl of Yeji’s stomach fills in the rest of her sentence. It says that she’s been here since before the sun had risen. It gives away that time better spent on breakfast was maybe spent on perfecting choreo instead. But most importantly, it reveals that the stumble from earlier wasn’t due to a freak accident or uneven floor, but carelessness.

A sigh tumbles out of Ryujin.

No, not carelessness. That would bely all the hard work Yeji’s done to drill into them how important a good night’s sleep and a healthy breakfast was. This was negligence – through and through.

Ryujin’s not surprised, but that doesn’t mean she’s any less perturbed. Yeji’s looking at her with the slightest lilt in her eyes and tiniest hint of a pucker on her mouth – a sign that she’s sorry for ignoring her own basic human needs, but that it will also totally happen again.

The thing is, if she forgives her now, as she always has, then Yeji will just keep on running herself ragged when there’s a deadline on the horizon and Ryujin is not okay with that. But before she can look into Yeji’s eyes and tell her that she forgives her and that everything is completely fine, the door swings open and reality comes flooding in.

“Morning everyone!!” It’s Yuna, bright and brash and bold. Unlike the two of them, she looks more ready to go shopping rather than dance practice.

Ryujin spares the girl only a quick glance before looking back to Yeji. There was a time when the two of them would’ve flown apart the moment the door opened, but their friends have come as far as they have. 

It’s no longer a surprise to see either of them in each other’s laps or with their arms wrapped around each other. And as for anything a bit more intimate than that, they’ve also all learned what it means to knock on closed doors and lock them if need be.

But this time Yeji does pull away. She takes the first chance she can to get out of the conversation she was just in and Ryujin can do nothing to stop it. The switch inside of Yeji’s head flips from “her Yeji” to “ITZY’s Yeji” and Ryujin is left alone in the dark.

“Good morning, Yuna.” Yeji approaches the youngest with a practiced smile and instantly launches into a new topic about the cute jacket she has hung around her shoulders. It does everything it needs to do, leaving Ryujin standing at the sideline by herself.

Absence fills Ryujin’s arms and concern starts to pool in her stomach. She continues to watch the back of Yeji’s head until Chaeryoung arrives and they can all officially begin their day. They start with stretching – though Yeji doesn’t need it – and then go to talk about what their plan is for later. It’s the same schedule Yeji had sent them in the group chat the day before and the same one she talked about over Facetime the week before that.

The entire time, she sees Yeji avoiding any chance she can to look at her.

So Ryujin watches her instead.

And she worries.

[laviejaguardia]

Carmy alone at 3 fucking am at the restaurant and we're going INTO his HEAD ooohhhh boy he's gonna be a fucking MESS this season isn't he???

[annoying--moth]

Scythe Curie fans will write entire multi chapter fics as an excuse to bring her back

I am Scythe Curie fans

[blackjackkent]

Aaaaaaaand your usual three - choose whichever grabs you :)

Hector/Karlach - Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing 

Jaheira/Rasaad - Starting With A Kiss Meant To Be Gentle, Ending Up In Passion

Rakha/Wyll - Accidentally Witnessed kiss

(Kiss Prompts)

TY as always for all the prompts you send even though I am sometimes slooooooow. XD For your patience, you receive: Jaheira content!

Jaheira/Rasaad - Starting With A Kiss Meant To Be Gentle, Ending Up In Passion (Rating: T)

-----

"Shh. Hold still," Jaheira instructs him gently. "The cut is not deep." She nudges at his shoulder, pushing him to roll onto his side to expose the jagged slash left by the Sharran's dagger.

Not deep, yes. Thank the gods. But not nothing either. The grass around them is spattered with his blood - and the blood of the Sharran woman that struck him, who lies nearby with a gash from Jaheira's panther-claws across her chest.

Rasaad hisses a slow breath outwards. "Two of them escaped," he mutters.

"We will find them," she answers curtly. "Or, more likely, we shall see them again, whether we wish to or not." Her tone is meant to be wry and soothing, but she can hear the rumble of her own anger at the bottom of it. How long were the Dark Moon agents following them? How many more will they send?

And even beneath the anger - fear. Fear that the dagger could have cut a little deeper and killed him, and this fragile thing of love between them shattered apart almost before it has begun...

Not again. Never again. I will not let it happen...

Rasaad's thoughts are clearly trending the same way. He reaches behind him to fumble for one of her hands, and only relaxes when he feels her fingers close around his. He settles onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut, frustrated. "I suspected we would be tracked from Calimport... but I did not think they would follow us this far."

"Why not?" Jaheira says, somewhat bitterly. "We have killed an evil man, so it is natural that the evil which followed him should seek revenge."

With her free hand, she presses her palm gently over the blood-damp rent in his tunic. Healing magic pulses from her skin to his, and she feels the gentle tickle of motion where his body starts to reknit the torn place back together.

He grunts with relief as the pain eases and then rolls slowly onto his back again so he can look up at her. "Yes," he agrees quietly. "I should have known better. I should have... thought of the danger I have put you in. I am--"

"Stop." She puts her fingertips to his lips. "Do not say it. You will not run from me to keep me safe. Not again. And nor shall I run from you." Her lips twitch in a savage smile. "This fight belongs to us both; you would not deny me that."

He hums low in his throat. "I am silenced, then," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on hers with sudden intensity.

She relaxes, shifts her hand aside to instead cup his cheek, and leans down to kiss him. The warm steadiness of his touch is still new enough that it sends a little eager shiver down her spine, and it mixes in a heady wave with the fading adrenaline of the fight, and the profound relief that it is over and both of them still breathe. He tastes just a little of iron where the Sharran's blood splashed across his face.

She intends to pull back - he needs to rest, they need to make camp, they need to keep watch for the Sharrans' return - but instead she fists a hand suddenly into his shirt, deepening the kiss, pressing his head down into the cushion of the grass.

His fingers dig sharply into her back, pulling her fiercely against him, and his teeth catch her lower lip, a sharp sting quickly released. He lets out a soft, breathless gasp against her mouth - and it morphs rapidly into a low growl. He rolls up against her, over, pushing her beneath him--

"Nngh." He stops abruptly and his face twists with pain as he wrenches the arm with the injured shoulder. "Ow."

She can't help a slight grin - not at his distress but at the distinct note of frustration in his face as their momentum is abruptly curtailed. "Such restraint, Rasaad yn Bashir. A credit to the Order of the Sun Soul," she teases him gently, pressing a hand to his chest. Blue light shimmers beneath his tunic as she delivers another burst of healing magic. "Were I a more selfless woman, I would say it is far more important that you rest..."

He half-closes his eyes, waiting as the healing power works its way again through the torn skin and muscle. A flicker of amusement tugs at his lips. "Mm. A fine thing for us both, then, that you are not," he says, and leans down to kiss her again.

[jacqcrisis]

So Ronan the dragonborn cleric has his journal and a habit of drawing. Alongside his dry recounts of the day, the more spicy prose written in draconic that frustrates his nosey companions, and simplistic stick figure diagrams of action he can't draw properly, are more detailed sketches. These sketches are generally reserved for animals or plants, especially flowers, he happens across and enjoys, jotted down to the best of memory alongside the words written about the days events.

But between those, every now and then, are drawings of people, most notably people he finds important in some way. These sketches aren't hyper realistic or artful as his capabilities are amateur at best, but they are detailed and good enough you would recognize who they were depicting. He's not trying to become a master of the art, but just good enough that he can have a visual reminder of someone if they should leave him or pass away.

Sometime during Act 2, after the conversation with the mirror about Astarion not remembering what he looks like but before he confesses to feeling something more, Ronan notices his journal is missing. Again. It happens often enough that he's not worried, but he would like it back so he does the rounds around camp to see which sticky-fingered companion took it tonight.

After checking with nearly everyone save Wyll, Ronan finds Astarion a little ways away from everyone, sat near a torch and hunched over conspicuously. Upon silently walking up to him, standing just behind him, Ronan waits just a few moments until his presence is felt. Predictably, Astarion jumps to his feet, hand going for a dagger with the journal clutched to his chest as he whips around to face his would be assailant.

Of course, it's just Ronan and Astarion sighs in a melodramatic relief, commenting that they should perhaps bell the dragonborn when he isn't in his horrendously loud armor. Ronan grunts, holding out a hand expectantly and what follows is a rather typical back and forth as Astarion teasingly mentions all the 'dirty little secrets' he's supposedly gleaned from the journal while Ronan steadfastly asks for the damn thing back as he'd like to make an entry and get to sleep. But something's off, as usually after a minute or two the leather bound book is halfway into Ronan's hand, being pulled away a time or two, yet Astarion is keeping it close to himself, as if reluctant to give it back.

Ronan notices, interrupts Astarion in midst of being complained at over his assessment of the rogue's battle performance to ask if everything is alright. For a moment, Astarion says yes, of course, well as good as he can be starving and exhausted in the middle of this godforsaken place but-

And he stops, chewing on his lip, troubled as he opens the journal again to flip to the page he'd had his thumb wormed into this whole time. He touches his face and Ronan can feel what's coming before Astarion opens his mouth to ask if the person on the page is him. He doesn't even need to see the sketch Astarion shows him; there's a lot of the elf drawn in that journal.

Ronan nods and then immediately mutters something akin to an apology that his artistic talent is lacking, receiving a joke about how Astarion certainly wouldn't hang anything he's drawn by his bedroll that trails off. Then he's silent for a moment, taking the journal back to stare down at the page before he supposes it's the best he'll get. It's a want for a way to help that strikes Ronan as he watches, struggling with what to say and wishing he had some way to alleviate that grief, to show him-

But there is a way to show him, isn't there?

It takes some convincing and a promise to not probe into Astarion's thoughts, but eventually a reluctant vampire is standing illuminated in a holy daylight summoned eagerly for just the occasion. He's instructed to close his eyes as Ronan crouches down to get the best view he can and takes Astarion's hand to press his palm to a scaley temple. The connection is immediate, Astarion's sight filled with a clear picture of himself, of a face he hasn't seen in centuries mirrored perfectly through Ronan's steady and concentrated gaze.

He's given as much time as he needs, Ronan seemingly happy to stare at him as he takes it all in. There's something filtering through the cleric's ironclad concentration, made only more apparent at every observation and joke Astarion makes while refamiliarizing himself with himself. Words and phrases pop into mind, squashed before they complete like the sound of them being thrust underwater to muffle and become incoherent.

Comments about his features, about his voice, about the hand still curled against Ronan's temple, about how close they are. Noachi, that draconic nickname Ronan's given him that he still has no idea the meaning of, thought less like a word and more like a fond prayer floating through as Ronan chuckles at some quip Astarion makes about not remembering his chin being like that. But there's another thing that Ronan can't seem to stop coloring his perception and his thoughts.

It's not a word or a phrase or even a picture. Merely a feeling, a warmth, deep and radiating, growing stronger and stronger the longer Ronan is staring at Astarion. So much so, it colors the picture he's presenting as a glow emanates around Astarion that has nothing to do with the magical daylight or the nearby torch or anything about himself, as if that warmth Ronan is feeling is warping his very sight.

And it's a feeling that Astarion recognizes, has tried not to recognize for a little while now, ignoring and writing it off and burying it at every turn. A feeling that answers back within him and that shakes him. Frightens him enough, he takes his hand away, opens his eyes to break the connection.

Astarion thanks him, kind of, inbetween commenting that he hopes Ronan is happy he's probably satisfied his need to stare at Astarion for the evening before actually saying something that amounts to gratitude. It gets him another chuckle, and Ronan bows his head with a little smile, telling him 'anytime, noachi' before leaving Astarion alone. The daylight fades away to nothing and Astarion is left by the torch, watching Ronan take his journal to the rest of the rest of camp as he touches his face, lost in thought.

[vorish-wonderland]

I take adding CWs very seriously btw

I can't screenshot on the laptop I use so excuse how bad this looks

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

So, about my current WIP...

[cranberrymoons]

guys im working hard to carve out my own little genre that I affectionately call Goofy Smut but this next chapter of new york groove is like. 🫡

(steve in lingerie but being a little silly about it below the cut)

It slides on easy enough, but it takes Steve a few minutes of adjusting himself and fiddling with the straps to get it to sit just right across his chest. 

He used to be shy about this: wanting to wear pretty things, didn’t have a word for how it made him feel. But it’s just – life is too short, especially after everything they went through when they were kids, to worry about liking lip color or lace or whatever. He likes it. That’s that. And anyway, it’s not like that anymore; he knows what cuts and colors look good on him by now, and Eddie does too, knows what to shop for to pull androgyny out of his hips and shoulders and face in the way he likes. 

It just sometimes takes some work to get it there, but – there. Like that.

He stands back to look at himself in the mirror, pink cheeks and pink bodysuit and even a little pink on his mouth for good measure, just because. Because he knows it’ll make Eddie say –

“Oh my god.”

Steve smiles, playing coy. “Stop.”

“Baby.” Eddie, already naked on the bed, strokes a hand over himself shamelessly. “Do a spin. Or – no, do a spin and then like… a bend.”

Steve takes another step into the bedroom, spinning slowly on the spot and trying not to laugh as he does, bending over and arching his back.

“I feel like there should be music to this,” he says quietly. “Not that I’m doing a striptease, but –”

“Oh!” Eddie says. “Actually.” He arches toward the nightstand on his side of the bed and fumbles in the drawer for a minute before surfacing a cassette. He scrambles off the bed toward the sound system in the corner. “Don’t move.”

“Can I stand up?”

“Don’t move.”

Steve does laugh at that, ridiculously, head dropping down between his knees as the blood rushes to his head. Eddie snaps the cassette into the player and starts it, and –

“Is this Breakfast At Tiffany’s?” Steve asks, laughing harder as he straightens up. “This is not a sexy song.”

“It’s a little sexy. Road Trip ‘95 after the summer tour,” Eddie says. He does a little shimmy, but he’s naked, so it’s – “Back of the car. Pre-baby insane horniness era.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, teasing. “As opposed to post-baby insane horniness era.”

Eddie grins. “Exactly. There’s a carseat back there now.” He climbs back on the bed and waves his hand in a little circle. “Okay, you got your music. Dance for me.”

Steve tries, and does his best to make it hot and not… goofy? He feels a little goofy, especially when it transitions into a Sonic Youth song. He makes a face.

“Like this?”

“Honestly, anything you do is exactly how you should be doing it. Pre-Hideaway Eddie’s head would’ve exploded at the very suggestion that this was real,” Eddie says. He strokes a hand over himself again. “Current Eddie’s head is exploding. Actively, as we speak.”

“Going to make something else explode,” Steve says. He gives up on the dancing and plants a knee on the bed. “Your cock. That’s what I meant.”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie tuts. “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.” He runs a hand back through Steve’s hair as Steve crawls up his body. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

[muddyorbsblr]

[teaser] relinquish the crown: atonement or debasement

I just started writing the first of two companion pieces for 'from a world away' and I wanted to give y'all the feel of what to expect from this piece.

Seeing as there won't be any smut in this, here's hoping that I can get this out, as well as the other companion piece which will be another entry to the 'locked away' chronicles, sometime this weekend 💖💛

"Princess, allow me this moment just to thank you for allotting me your time for the day," the crown prince of Alfheim, Damien, stated as he walked by your side and continuously tried to take your hand since you left the war room. "So where shall we begin? Perhaps you could show me your favorite spot in the--"

"Did you mean what you said earlier, your highness?" you cut him off, killing his sentiment mid-question. "About wanting for the opportunity to prove yourself reformed?"

The confusion that flashed across his face for a touch longer than a moment told you that the words were exactly that. Words. Empty promises, utterances meant only to appease your opinion of him, but the prince had no intentions to actually show action to follow through on this promise.

He stumbled over his words. "I erm--I uhh--Of course, Princess! My behavior and treatment toward the women in this realm was wretched, and cast a blindingly unbecoming light on me in your eyes. And in the eyes of so many others, I can only guess. And while I admit I'm deserving of that light, I would like for the chance to dim it somehow. Show you I've grown and changed. Matured, even."

More empty words, you thought to yourself, forcing yourself to give him an accommodating smile as you felt the beginnings of another headache pounding away at you. "Very well then. That is where we shall begin."

Damien gave you a smirk, stepping closer to you and gently taking your hand in his to raise to his lips. "Princess, I am truly and deeply sorry for my beha--"

"Oh no, Prince Damien," you cut him off once more. "You can apologize to me all you want, but it would all be for naught." You gave him a smirk of your own when you saw the confusion take residence on his features. "For you see, I am not the one whose decency you besmirched. It is not my place to forgive you for the actions you committed upon others. These actions, namely, being sending whichever companion you'd chosen at that time out of your chambers with clothing ripped to near shreds."

"Your highness surely you don't mean you want me to apologize to--"

"The women you did disgrace," you answered his unfinished question. "Every. Single. One of them."

[nocturnalghoul]

Okay, genuine open question. How much blood and gore would be considered Too Much? Cause this ghoul is about to get murderous but for several reasons I am unsure how to judge that line between “this is bloody” and “this is a lot”.

This man being ripped apart is a vital plot point and I know I could just kinda hand wave over it to be safe, but I feel like the scene is important. I just don’t have a frame of reference for what most people would expect for like a gore/blood tw versus what would need maybe more than that?

Any input (you can reply here or my askbox or DM me whatever is most comfy for you) that anybody has would actually be super appreciated and I would be very grateful ♡

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

@deandoesthingstome the book-and-coffee shop is doing well. So well, even, that you and Walter manage to buy a cozy little cabin in the woods.

You love to spend the winters there, especially when it's freezing and snowing and there is no good reason to go outside. So you curl up on the couch, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, a cozy fire burning in the fireplace, your feet in Walter's lap, his hand only coming off them to turn a page.

He's reading your romance novels - you've confiscated his detectives - and you can tell if he's reading a spicy scene from the way he rubs your feet and legs. It's also easy to see when one really gets him going...

His hands travel further and further up your leg, despite your flimsy protests that you want to read.

He teases you, making you squirm and writhe on the couch without ever taking his eyes off the page, until eventually you're begging him to put the book down.

"I thought you wanted to read?" he asks with a smirk - you roll your eyes.

"I changed my mind," you say, "now take me to bed and do whatever you were reading about just now..."

"sweetheart, what I was reading about..." he says quietly as he shuts the book and puts it on the side table before turning to you. "We don't have to move to the bedroom for that."

[venomquill]

Tomorrow~

Eyoooo one day left~

Tomorrow I'm publishing a fanfiction teaser and a book trailer for "Help Needed"! :D

[aquaticmercy]

Sleeper

Summary : When Bucky falls in love with the antihero he’s sleeping with, he offers her a place in the Thunderbolts*.

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x antihero!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, death, sex (a prominent theme but not graphic), cursing. Borderline obsessive behaviour. Congressman Barnes as per the Thunderbolts teaser. Batman/Catwoman-like dynamic. (Let me know if I miss anything.)

Word count : 6.5k

Note : This fic was genuinely written because of the van scene in the Thunderbolts trailer. That’s it. That’s how down bad I am for Thunderbolts Bucky. Reader is an antihero called ‘Sleeper.’ The Thunderbolts are referred to as ‘the team.’ The reader and Bucky first met a little bit before FATWS. I also have a cap! Sam fic coming out soon because my god. I am drooling over these two. Enjoy!

Bucky first heard of your existence in whispers.

He had heard your codename in hushed tones when he got off the ice in Wakanda, after Shuri helped rid his brain of the trigger words that haunted him.

Several of the Dora Milaje had crossed paths with you in Ivory Coast, and they had told everyone in the palace about how terrifyingly efficient—and violent— you had been. They said you finished the job before they even got there.

Your codename was nothing but silent rumours by those on the fringes of the intelligence community. They called you ‘Sleeper’— it wasn't a name you chose for yourself, but you have chosen to embrace the fear that people associated with it. 

You were an antihero, a vigilante who left rivers of blood in your wake.

Four years ago, you started tracking down the same corrupt officials and Hydra remnants that Bucky was trying to arrest.

The difference: Bucky set out to turn them in, you had your heart set on killing them, fast and efficient, as you always have been.

The first time you crossed paths with the former Winter Soldier, it was in a crumbling KGB safehouse in Eastern Europe. Bucky had taken down most of the guards, ready to haul the high-ranking operative to a jail cell in DC where he can await his trial. He was tired, the strain of therapy and sleepless nights holding him down, but this mission kept him focused.

But when he reached the operative’s office, the target was already slumped over his desk, cold and lifeless. 

"Guess I beat you to it, soldier," you said, voice laced with a confidence that made his stomach twist. You let him process the sight of you—fitted black suit, gloved hands, and a smirk that told him you were not only dangerous, but damn well aware of it. A mask obscured your eyes, but even with half of your face covered, he could see how smug you looked.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he said, voice low.

“Good thing I wasn’t asking for you permission.” You tilted your head, the ghost of a laugh in your voice. You were watching him, sizing him up with those sharp eyes that felt like they could through see every part of him he tried to keep hidden. 

“Sergeant James Barnes, right?” You said his name with a familiarity that sent a jolt through him. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Never thought I’d actually run into you, though. Lucky night for me.”

He narrowed his eyes, not trusting this mysterious stranger, though he couldn’t deny he was intrigued. “And you are…?”

“I have no name to claim for myself,” you shrugged, leaning back against the wall, “but people call me Sleeper.” You let the name linger, knowing he’d recognize it. 

His memory reeled back to Ayo and the Dora Milaje, who had warned him of you: ruthless, volatile. A ghost who disappeared without a trace, always a step ahead. He’d just never expected Sleeper to be… so easy on the eyes.

“I didn’t ask for your help.” He repeated with no conviction. He narrowed his eyes at the body. “Especially not like this.”

You shrugged, pushing off the wall and strolling over. “Relax, soldier,” your gaze met his, “I only go after the ones who deserve it. Just because I do it my way doesn’t mean I’m the villain here.”

“Still doesn’t make it right,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of curiosity underneath his stormy blue eyes.

“Then stop me,” you challenged softly, leaning close enough to feel his breath. “If you can.”

His breath hitched ever so slightly.

You grinned, a spark of intrigue lighting up in your gaze. “I’ll be waiting, James.”

And before he could respond, you were gone.

He knew he should’ve stopped you— but some part of him was glad he hadn’t. 

As you disappeared, he felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time: excitement.

—

From that day on, Bucky couldn’t get you out of his head. 

At first, it was frustrating. You were hard to track, ruthless—and yet there was a sickening righteous principle to your actions that he couldn’t deny.

As the weeks went by, something else rooted in his brain when he thought of you. Fascination. 

His mind often wandered about you during his quiet, sleepless nights, wondering who you were beneath the mask, beneath the mystery and the whispers.

Sam noticed, of course. He'd raise an eyebrow whenever Bucky lingered too long over case files where you'd been mentioned. He’d nudge if he seemed overly eager to volunteer for missions that involved your typical targets.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll show,” Sam teased once, nudging Bucky. “She’s dangerous, though. Is that your type?”

Bucky scoffed, but he knew Sam was right. And maybe that danger was part of what kept him intrigued.

—

The next time you crossed paths, it was in a dark alleyway, both of you dripping with sweat and breathing heavily after taking down an underground fighting ring. 

“You know,” he’d said, “killing them doesn’t make it justice.”

“You think turning them in is enough?” Your voice had cut through the air like a knife, but there was no malice behind it. You wanted him to understand your line of thinking, wanted him to know. “People like them are everywhere. They’ll get out. They’ll come back.”

“So you think you get to decide whether they live or die?” he challenged, jaw tight.

“No,” you said, readjusting your mask. “But I do it anyway.” There was a flicker of sadness in your gaze that he noticed, even if you tried to hide it.

What had happened to you? He thought to himself. What have you been through?

In that moment, he noticed the pain behind your eyes, the kind of pain he knew intimately. You weren’t just someone who killed for vengeance; you must have had your reasons. You must have carried scars that ran deep, maybe deeper than his.

—

From that point on, Bucky made it a habit to look for you on every mission. It was like an unspoken game, this cat-and-mouse chase. Every time he saw you, the tension between you grew. 

Sometimes, he’d get there first, managing to intercept before you could execute the target. Other times, you’d arrive at the same time. He’d try to talk you out of it, to make you see things his way, but you’d laugh him off, the kind of laugh that hinted at more than your fair share of heartache. 

And sometimes, you’d tease him, push boundaries he wasn’t sure he should cross.

“You like this, don’t you, James?” You’d whisper it low, close enough for him to catch your scent, a faint hint of gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The chase. Getting to play the hero while I get my hands dirty.”

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. 

—

Bucky grew obsessed, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Every encounter left him more and more drawn to you. He’d search for files on you for days on end without sleep, but all he found were reports with no concrete evidence. He found himself looking for excuses to track your movements, hoping he’d be there to stop you but not quite sure he wanted to succeed.

One night, after another close call, you leaned into him as he pushed you up against the wall. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the electricity charged in the space between you. You looked up at him, the smallest hint of vulnerability peeking through your mask.

“Why do you keep doing this, James?” you asked, voice softer this time. “You can’t save me.”

“Maybe not,” he replied, frowning as his eyes looked down to the edge of your lips, “but I can try.”

That night, he wondered just how long he could keep up this dance before one of you finally gave in.

—

One night, while you were on a caper in Prague, everything changed for the two of you. 

The mission had been bloody, chaotic, and a little too close to mayhem for Bucky’s liking. You had taken down an entire network of arms dealers, setting fire to one of their last remaining munitions blocks and leaving it to burn. 

Bucky had arrived too late, frantically trying to contain the chaos you’d left in your wake, alerting local authorities, making sure the flames didn’t spread to a nearby market.

When he caught up to you, adrenaline ran hot through his veins. 

He'd followed you through winding streets and up dark staircases, up to the hotel you were holed up in. He followed you into your room, locking you both in.

His voice was tight, anger simmering beneath. “You’re careless.” His blue eyes were striking underneath the european moonlight, “you could’ve taken out half the neighbourhood, and for what?”

“I got the job done, James.” You shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “It’s not pretty, but it works.”

He stepped closer, and you held his gaze, “You know, I’d turn you in if you weren’t so…” he paused, his voice faltering, as if the words were lodged in his throat, “Weren’t so…”

Your pulse quickened. “If I weren’t so what?” You snapped, daring him to finish, to admit what had been hanging between you two since the day you met.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you into a fierce, bruising kiss.

You didn’t hesitate—you kissed him back with just as much fire, your hands tangling in his hair.

Bucky’s hands found your waist, fingers digging in with enough pressure to leave marks. He pushed you back until your shoulders hit the wall, lips moving down your jaw, then hot against your neck. His breaths were ragged, matching your own, and he was holding you as if letting go would mean losing control entirely. 

You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips as his mouth found a sensitive spot on the dip in your collarbone, his hands roaming possessively over your back, down your sides.

You pulled him back to your mouth, desperately needing that connection. 

When you finally broke apart for air, his forehead rested against yours. You untied your mask and threw it across the room.

Fuck. he thought as his eyes widened, taking in your full facial features for the first time. You were even more beautiful than I imagined you to be. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself, I’m done for.

He was ready to throw you in jail cell. Instead, he ended up in your bed.

That night, in the dim light of your cheap hotel room, clothes were shed in hurried, frustrated movements, and all that pent-up tension finally found its release.

That first time had been desperate, raw. Both of you were driven by the need to let go, to feel something other than the weight of the cold blooded kills and the darkness you both carried.

Ever since then, every time you crossed paths, it was the same: adrenaline-fueled clashes and heated conversations about morality turned into hotel room rendezvous, hands grasping, lips colliding, both of you seeking the kind of solace you could only ever find in each other. 

—

You’d never admitted it out loud, but Bucky had an effect on you. When he was around, you found yourself hesitating just that split second longer before slicing your target’s arteries and leaving them to bleed.

You didn’t feel the need to wipe out every enemy anymore, and his disapproval of your methods had started haunting you in ways you’d never expected. Maybe that was why you’d started allowing him to find you more often, taking on jobs you knew he’d be there for. 

It was a dangerous game, but you kept playing it. He was obsessed with finding you, and you weren’t about to stop him.

He’d learned to read you better, your patterns, the places you tended to show up. By the time you landed in some city on the opposite end of the globe, he’d be there like clockwork, showing up right before you finished a job, confronting you before you could disappear into the night.

But the nights you spent together were… different. 

You never asked about each other’s pasts; you kept it in the here and now, keeping him at a safe distance even as you let him pull you under the covers time and again.

Every time he asked your real name, you’d smile and brush him off, deflecting his curiosity with a kiss or a teasing answer. He didn’t press, but you could see the questions in the way his brow furrowed, could feel the affection in the way he lingered in the mornings after, with a soft smile in his eyes that made your heart beat faster.

Each time, he told himself it was just catharsis, just a release of frustration for both of you, nothing more. But that excuse had worn thin over the years, and Bucky knew it as well as you did. 

He knew it wasn’t one sided either. He wasn’t blind to the way you’d look at him as he drifted to sleep next to you. Once, he caught a flicker of something vulnerable in your eyes before you put the walls back up. 

And God, was he drawn to you, to the side of you that fought so fiercely, that showed just enough vulnerability to keep him coming back. He was so fucking desperate to understand you better, to see more of the person underneath the mask.

—

One night, after a mission in Manila, you’d both ended up in a small, worn-down cheap hotel room overlooking the city lights. You were leaning against the headrest of the bed, a hint of sweat clinging to your skin, breathing still unsteady as you came down from the high you gave each other.

He watched you, his gaze lingering on the barely-perceptible rise and fall of your chest. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. There was a tremor in your tone, a flicker of something vulnerable that he wasn’t sure you meant for him to hear.

“Like what?” he asked, nuzzling closer to you. His now long hair was tied back in a low bun, your hair tie holding it together because he didn't have one of his own.

“Like you want something from me that I’m too broken to give,” you said, refusing to meet his eyes. But he reached for you, tipping your chin up until you had no choice but to look at him, and there it was—that flicker of affection he knew ran just as deep in you as it did in him.

“Maybe I want it anyway,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet intensity. “You ever think of that?”

“This is just a release, James.” Your gaze softened for just a second, long enough for him to catch it before you shook your head, pulling yourself from his grasp. “It’s just something we both need.”

Even as you said it, you weren't convinced. He reached for you again, pulling you close, and kissed you because that was the only thing you’d let him do.

You melted into him once more, you found yourself wondering just how much longer you could keep him at arm’s length.

—

The shift in Bucky’s life had been as dramatic as it was unexpected. You’d never pegged him for politics—neither had he, to be fair—but here he was, representing his district, looking sharp in a suit that cost more than the last few hotels you’d met in combined. 

He’s upgraded. Freshly elected, polished up, all suited and respectable as a congressman, fighting for reform from a marble office by day and for justice in dark alleys by night. 

But tonight, with that half-smile he only gets with you, he’s still the same— still carrying that simmering tension in his lips, his hair tousled from a long night of pursuing you through the shadows. 

After a mission that had you both knee-deep in an abandoned bunker hunting a rogue assassin, you found yourself together once again. Only this time, the hotel he’d booked was far from cheap. 

He brought you to a five-star suite. The bed was massive, the sheets soft, and the view from the window sprawled out over the city skyline, a stark contrast to the dingy rooms you’d gotten used to. 

Now, lying beside him in the rumpled silk sheets, you watched him catch his breath. You moved off of his lap to lay next to him, euphoric from the guilty pleasure you both indulged in. 

“You know, the second someone finds out Congressman Barnes has a relationship with a violent vigilante, you’re out of office.”

He looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Relationship?”

Fuck. He caught you slipping up. He caught you thinking about a relationship with him.

“Casual sex is still a relationship, James.” You shrugged, trying to save face. You turned to him, with a lazy, unconvinced smile, “Strings attached or not, it counts.”

He shifted, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched your wall break, even if only one brick at a time. “Casual,” His fingers traced idle patterns along your bare shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Unless you’re pretending you don’t want it anymore.” You paused, leaning closer, “Or maybe you just like that I could ruin everything. That I could say one word to the press, post one picture online and your reputation is finished. You’d be back to square one.”

He chuckled, his fingers grazing down your arm. It was terrifying, how comfortable he’d become with you. “I trust that you wouldn’t,” he said softly, voice laced with that steady confidence, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

His declaration hung in the air, and you felt guilt striking in your chest.

This wasn’t supposed to be part of this arrangement. Trust was for partners, for couples, for people who wanted things that lasted. 

You shook it off, leaning back, a little smirk tugging at your lips as you lifted a brow. “You’re right. I do have a soft spot for you, Congressman Barnes,” you added, the title rolling off your tongue with a touch of sarcasm, “Consider it my gift to democracy.”

He laughed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. His hand drifted down to catch yours, holding it in a way that felt too natural, too comfortable for what you were supposed to be. 

You both knew, despite the banter and the invisible boundaries, this thing between you was already past casual. It was the reason he keeps showing up where you showed up, the reason you’re letting him into your life in ways you never let anyone before. You were both just too stubborn to say it.

He pulled you closer, pressing his lips to yours in a way that feels almost… affectionate. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it, forgetting the consequences, the danger, the fact that this man might just unravel you completely and you would have no say in it whatsoever.

When you pulled back, his fingers trailed over your bare waist. “Maybe it’s more than just a soft spot,” he suggested, his voice barely above a whisper.

You raised an eyebrow, heart beating out of your chest. “Let’s not get sentimental, James,” you brushed, letting your fingers graze his jaw as you murmured, “You’ve got an image to protect, after all.”

He lets out a sigh that’s part laughter, part frustration. He knew you were deflecting. “Right,” he said, brushing his lips against yours again. 

“You and your image,” you chuckled, “Out there, shaking hands and making speeches about justice while you sneak off to hotel rooms with someone like me.”

He grinned, not a trace of shame in his expression as he turned his gaze back to you. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line. Even if it takes…” His voice lowered, dropping into that deep, teasing tone that made your stomach knot. “…a hands-on approach.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the last person who’d ever get me in line, James.” You leaned closer, though you didn't believe a single word you said. 

There was a long silence for a while. He eventually reached out, brushing a lock of hair back from your face, his thumb tracing over your cheek.

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.”

As the city lights cast a faint glow over the room, you lay there in silence, limbs tangled together in a way that felt a little less no strings attached every time.

—

The next time you meet, you were on a late-night operation on the dark outskirts of the city. You’ve tracked down a group of mercenaries. They’re as ruthless as they were careless, leaving a trail of devastation across the criminal underworld. But tonight, their recklessness will end with you. 

You moved through in silence, precise, methodical. One by one, you took them down, not killing, but incapacitating them. Your fists were quick, your strikes precise. It’s what you’ve done for years, a grim pattern of efficiency that never required a second blow. Just as you reached the man who hired them with your knife drawn—a local crime lord—you felt his presence before you saw him.

“Think twice, Sleeper,” Bucky said from behind you.

You froze, heart pounding as you stood over the crime lord begging for mercy. It would be so easy to end this now, but with Bucky watching, you hesitated.

You lowered the knife.

Instead of killing him, you tied him up alongside the other mercenaries, ignoring the questions in their fearful eyes. Bucky made a call, alerting local authorities to pick up the mess you’ve left behind.

“What now?” you asked, walking away from the carnage. You were expecting the usual pattern: another hotel room, a brief reprieve from the violence, nothing more. 

But he surprised you, lacing his hand in between your fingers, warm and secure. 

He had never, ever, showed affection outside closed doors.

“Come with me.” 

—

You didn’t expect Bucky to take you back to his place, but soon you were standing outside a sleek high-rise in the heart of the city. You followed him up to his penthouse apartment. It’s almost disorienting— the polished floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You found yourself standing in the quiet entryway of his home. The walls were painted in light, earthy tones, and the furniture was clean, modern, yet warm.

You glanced around, taking in the small details that hinted at Bucky's life beyond the missions. There were bookshelves lined with novels and memoirs, some old and looked like first editions, others barely touched. A few black-and-white photographs decorated the walls—New York City at dusk, a forest path, a beach sunset. It was an oddly peaceful place for a man like him. Certainly too peaceful for someone as broken as you.

“This is risky, James,” you said, looking up at him as he closed the door behind him, “Showing me where you live.”

“No, it's not,” he replied, his conviction absolute. “I trust you.”

There it was again. That word. Trust. The thing you never quite knew what to do with, especially coming from him.

You studied the way his favourite leather jacket was tossed on a chair, a half-read book by the couch. It felt like stepping across an invisible line. You set your mask down on the table before he grabbed your waist and pulled you close.

“This feels like crossing a boundary, James,” you admitted. You knew he should pull back, give you a chance to retreat. But you didn't want him to.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he cupped your face as he tilted your chin up gently. “What boundary?” he asked.

He knew that there were nothing separating you two. Not anymore.

The space between you vanished as his lips met yours. You kissed him back, losing yourself in the process of tasting him. His hands slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer. Kissing him felt like falling— like surrender.

You made your way to his bedroom, bodies tangled together, a blur of heated whispers and gasping breaths. Clothes fell away, discarded like old skin. The way he looked at you, it was like he was memorising every inch of you.

In that moment, you realised: the boundary had never been there. Not for him. Maybe not for you either.

—

The room was quiet as you lay tangled up in Bucky’s sheets. The duvet smelled like him, unlike the neutral, sterile scent of the usual hotel sheets. 

You’d never admit it, but it was intoxicating. 

The satisfied pulsing in your body had put a hazy filter over everything. 

Bucky smiled softly, kissing your forehead before reaching to his bedside drawer, pulling out a small glass box, placing it gently on your palm.

"Here," he murmured, almost shyly. He opened the box to reveal a hair tie inside. 

Oh. You recognised it. The ends were a bit frayed, the colour faded.

It was the hair tie you’d given him in Manila, a lifetime ago, a little piece of you that he’d tucked away in a corner of his home

You blinked, caught off guard. "You still have that?"

He shrugged, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. Was he… embarrassed? "I thought it was... worth keeping."

"Careful, James,” you couldn't help but tease him, nuzzling closer into his arms. “Keep this up and you might just start falling in love with me."

You felt his breath hitch.

He looked up, finally. Nervously.

Instead of denying it, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, warm whisper. "Would that be so bad?"

His fingers brushed against yours, sending a shiver through your spine. Your heart fluttered irregularly, your head spinning in a daze as you tried to keep your thoughts down.

No.

You couldn’t let him see that he was getting to you like this, so you did what you always did: you deflected, grinning forcefully and rolling your eyes.

"Yeah, right," you said, brushing off the moment. As much as it broke your heart to deny the truth, you were doing it for his sake and yours. "I'm not that easy to love, James."

He chuckled softly, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin as he pulled you closer, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Maybe that's why I do." 

You shifted away from him, wrapping yourself in the sheets as if they could shield you from what he was offering — and from the ache in his gaze. 

"We can’t…" you said, voice barely above a whisper. "We can’t do this."

Bucky's eyes darkened, but he would be alright. He expected this from you.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire for you and something else… there was something bigger. 

"I need to tell you something," he said quietly. “I have… a team.”

That caught you off guard. 

Bucky? On a team? He’d always seemed like a lone wolf, just like you. 

“There’s a couple of former Widows, who you’d get along with. Two other super soldiers. And someone who can… phase. Quantum experiment gone wrong.” He paused, “We’re trying to make something real here. And it’s missing someone.” His fingers trailed down your forearm, eventually clasping your palm in his, “It’s missing you.”

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ears, trailing your jawline delicately with his metal hand, “I need you.”

The invitation went unanswered for a moment. You swallowed, caught off-guard by how badly he seemed to want this, how he wanted you to be part of it.

“I work alone, James,” you said, brushing off the offer with a small, bitter smile. “You know that.”

“But why not?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Why won’t you let someone else in for once?”

The frustration in his tone was raw, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of pain flash across his face from this rejection.

“This is your chance to do something good the right way,” he pressed, and there was a quiet urgency in his voice. “No more hunting down bad guys with no direction. No more living like you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

His words sank in, and your walls felt shakier than ever. The idea of leaving the past behind, of actually building something… you hadn’t let yourself imagine it in years.

“Just think about it,” he said softly, placing his forehead on yours. “You don't have to decide now. Just… consider it.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug, but the truth was that his offer echoed in your mind, louder than you wanted to admit. He smiled at your dismissiveness, recognizing the crack in your armour. He didn’t push further. 

You realised that for the first time in a long time, you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to say no.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was in the middle of a mission neither of you had wanted. 

Just a week had passed since you’d spent the night in his apartment. Since then, you had told yourself you shouldn’t return. You couldn’t. You were getting too close, feeling too much.

It was getting dangerous.

But then Bucky had reached out to you, voice tight and desperate, the kind of desperation that stripped away all his pride. It was a vulnerability even you hadn't seen from him before. His team was in over their heads, he’d said. He needed you. 

You’d agreed to help, but you’d been careful to remind him that this was a one-time thing. One mission, and that was it.

But then everything went wrong.

It happened so fast, you barely understood how everything had gone wrong. 

You were with Bucky, fighting side-by-side, the two of you moving as if connected by some invisible thread. 

You had taken a blow, separating you from everyone else. You tried standing up but fuck! The impact had shattered your ankle, sending a searing pain through your leg. Your nerves were on fire in a way they had never been before.

You couldn't move. 

You couldn't get up. Couldn’t run.

And then the ground shifted, an explosion roared from behind, and the next thing you knew, a van was thrown across the road, hurtling straight toward you.

For a single, frozen heartbeat, you realised this was it. 

It was over.

You saw the faces of bystanders staring from the sidewalk, their eyes wide, too horrified to look away. You let go of the cold steel of your knife still gripped in your hand. The acrid taste of smoke on your tongue intensified. And the truck—a wall of twisted metal hurtling closer, closer, impossibly fast.

You’d spent so many years brushing so close to death that you always thought you’d be ready.

But now, all you felt was regret.

Regret that this was how you’d die: in the middle of a cold, empty street, surrounded by strangers who would never remember you, never know who you were or what you’d done. 

Alone. 

You thought of Bucky in those last seconds—his quiet smiles, the way he’d look at you like he could see through every wall you put up, the silent crutch he’d offered without expecting anything in return. Bucky, who’d trusted you, who’d somehow cared for you even after everything you’d done. 

For the first time, you felt regret for every life you’d taken, every person you’d left to die in your wake.

Your life had been nothing but survival and bloodshed. You had told yourself it was necessary, that it was the only way. But here, now, with your own death inches away, it all felt hollow.

You’d given up hope, abandoned the idea of redemption long ago—because you were too broken.

And yet, with Bucky, something had changed. He had looked at you and somehow seen past it all. He’d made you feel as if maybe, just maybe, you were something more than the ghost you’d become. Maybe, instead of running, you could have found a way to fight for something real, something that mattered. 

Maybe you could have been someone better. 

You would never know now.

The world narrowed, and you braced yourself for the inevitable, hoping it would be quick and painless. Your fingers tightened, clinging to the memory of him in those last, precious seconds as you waited to feel the impact—

But it never came.

Instead, there was a rush of air, a deafening crash, and then—silence. You blinked, dazed, your heart still hammering, and when you looked up, Bucky was standing there, his metal arm outstretched, braced against the van that he’d deflected away.

He turned to face you, his expression raw, worry carved deep into his features as he scanned you, checking for injuries. For a moment, he just stared, his breathing uneven, as if he’d been the one facing certain death.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice panicked.

You tried to answer, but the words tangled, caught in your throat. You managed a nod, barely able to process what had just happened. 

“Shit,” he kneeled next to you, “Is your ankle broken, can you walk?”

You stared at him, trembling as he tore a part of his shirt and wrapped it around your injury for support.

Bucky had saved you. He had thrown himself in front of a hurtling vehicle without a moment of hesitation, as if your life were worth that sacrifice. 

He had saved you.

You were alive because of him.

Alive, when you’d already accepted that you were going to die alone.

No one had ever done that for you. No one had ever saved you—not like this, not without asking anything in return. Hell, you never thought that you deserved to be saved.

“You’re okay, Sleeper,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was reassuring himself as much as you. “I’m here.”

His words settled into the cracks that had broken open inside you, filling them in ways you hadn’t thought possible. You hadn’t realised how empty you’d felt until now, how long you’d carried the weight of loneliness, of believing that this life—this endless, solitary fight—was all you deserved. 

Bucky made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be alone. That maybe, even after all you���d done, there was a place for you outside the shadows.

“Don’t call me that,” your voice trembled, “I don’t want you to call me Sleeper anymore.”

Bucky stopped for a second, confused. “What do you want me to call you, then?”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Something inside you broke, raw and vulnerable, and the name you’d hidden for years slipped from your lips before you even realised it. Your real name—your last, fragile piece of self you’d kept locked away, hoping one day you’d be able to reclaim it. 

It felt right with Bucky, like you could trust him with it, like you could let yourself be seen.

Bucky’s eyes widened, his face softening as he repeated it, almost reverent, like he wanted to remember how it felt to say it. 

Hearing him say your name, like a prayer, like it was sacred, like it mattered— tore down whatever walls you had left. He’d given you something you didn’t know you could have: the feeling of belonging to yourself again. The feeling of belonging to the world again.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers shaking. He moved, pulling you closer. His touch was grounding, steady—a lifeline that anchored you to the moment, to this fragile reality where you didn’t have to be alone anymore. 

You pressed your lips to his, but this kiss was different— it wasn't casual or sexual as it has always been. This time, it was gentle, carrying something other than desire, something precious and fragile. 

Something worth nurturing.

When you finally pulled away, he looked at you lovingly. 

“I’ll join you,” you said, the words coming from some deep part of you that had been waiting for someone to give you this chance, this choice.

Now you realised that this choice was yours all along. All you had to do was take it.

And you did, because maybe, instead of running from yourself, you could find a way to make things right. Maybe you could fight for something greater than yourself.

For the first time, wrapped in Bucky’s embrace, you believed that maybe you could be someone worth saving.

—

A month later, you were all gathered around a small campfire, tucked away in a quiet corner of nowhere. 

The night was cool, the fire warm, and laughter bubbled up from the group as you shared bits and pieces of each other's lives. 

“Team bonding,” John had said.

John passed around a nearly empty bag of marshmallows, Alexei poked at the fire, and Yelena and Ava exchanged eye rolls at everyone else’s antics, though they leaned closer together under the same blanket.

Eventually, the conversation drifted, as it often did, to you and Bucky. 

“So… how did the Winter Soldier and Sleeper even meet?” Yelena asked, raising an eyebrow as she threw another marshmallow into her mouth. 

The moniker you had adopted still twisted in your stomach every time you heard it, but it had lost its edge. This time, you felt in control. Like you owned it.

"I have theories,” Alexei nodded, crossing his arms, “but I have to know."

You shared a look with Bucky, a small smile creeping on both your faces. “There was a Hydra agent we were both after.” you began, biting back a frown. “And… well, I was angrier back then.” 

He placed his arm on yours, a comforting gesture.

“You wanted him alive,” you said. “I had… different ideas.”

“After that—” Bucky wrapped his arm around your shoulders. “—She was all I could think about. I kept showing up wherever she was, trying to figure her out.” 

“So basically,” John said, trying to hold back a laugh, “Bucky is a bit of a stalker.”

“A stalker?” Bucky echoed incredulously, “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dedicated.’” 

“No, no,” Ava interjected, “you followed her everywhere did you not? ‘Stalker’ is the right word, Barnes.”

“Fine,” he admitted jokingly, “But what can I say? It was love at first sight.” 

Yelena gagged theatrically and John clutched his stomach in a fit of laughter.

Alexei just chuckled and muttered something about “American romance.” Ava made a face, disgusted but secretly amused.

You couldn’t help but laugh along with them, leaning against Bucky’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. You could see him out of the corner of your eye, looking down at you with a quiet smile.

In some way, this still felt too good to be real.

For the first time, you realized you’d found exactly what you’d been missing all along. A home. Maybe even the closest thing you’ve ever had to a family.

A place where you belonged.

And you knew, looking at all of them—especially at Bucky—that this was just the beginning.

-end