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lotuswish · 12 hours ago

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𑁍ࠬܓ how they react when they see you hurt (housewardens & jamil)

synopsis: pain is not something he ever wanted to associate with you. but seeing you injured—knowing someone dared to harm you—shatters his composure. for some, it’s rage; for others, panic. and for a few, it’s cold, terrifying control—until he knows you’re safe. but one thing is certain: someone will pay for this.

featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, kalim al-asim, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia.

content warning(s): angst, mentions of violence and implied revenge, mild injury descriptions (ex. bruises, wounds, pain etc.).

a/n: they’re just being silly, guys. <3

riddle rosehearts

riddle prides himself on maintaining control.

his entire life has been shaped by discipline, by structure, by the belief that emotions must be ruled by logic. he does not allow himself to be reckless, does not allow himself to be overcome. everything he does is precise, calculated, deliberate.

but the moment he sees you hurt—

everything unravels.

his breath catches in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs, his mind instantly abandoning all reason. his entire world sharpens to a singular point—you—and all at once, every ounce of restraint he’s spent years perfecting is hanging by a fragile, fraying thread.

“who did this?”

his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, trembling with something raw, something dangerously close to rage.

he’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his hands hovering—not touching, not yet, because what if he makes it worse? what if he hurts you somehow? his fingers tremble, itching to reach out, to make sure—

“tell me where it hurts,” he says, but his voice wavers. “tell me what happened.”

his hands are gentle but firm as he checks you over, his usually practiced movements clumsy with the weight of panic. he doesn’t even realize his breathing is uneven, doesn’t even notice the way his shoulders are shaking as he looks you over, as he takes in every bruise, every wound, every sign that something happened—

something he didn’t prevent.

“you should have been more careful,” he scolds, but the words come out thin, forced, like he’s trying to hold something else back.

you try to tell him you’re fine, try to brush it off, but he doesn’t believe you. his eyes flicker with frustration, his jaw tightening, his grip on your wrist just a fraction too tense.

“don’t be ridiculous—you’re hurt,” he snaps, and then immediately exhales, forcing himself to breathe. “just… stay still. let me handle this.”

he refuses to let you wave it away. refuses to leave it alone. you are not fine, and he will not let you convince him otherwise.

but even as he focuses on making sure you’re okay, something else burns at the edges of his mind, pressing against his temples like an unbearable weight—

who did this to you?

his hands clench into fists. his breathing evens out, but his posture remains rigid, coiled tight like a string about to snap.

because once you’re safe—once he’s certain that you’re okay, that you’ll recover, that he didn’t fail you—

then, and only then, will he deal with the one responsible.

his mother may have taught him restraint, but some things are unforgivable.

and hurting you is one of them.

leona kingscholar

danger.

his body registers it before his mind does, his instincts kicking in the moment his eyes land on you—hurt, vulnerable, not okay.

his vision tunnels, his pulse spikes, and suddenly, the world around him doesn’t matter anymore.

“what the hell happened?”

his voice is a low, guttural growl, thick with something dark, something uncontrollable. his hands clench at his sides, every muscle coiled, his body ready—ready to fight, ready to destroy, ready to eliminate whatever put you in this state.

but then he sees it—sees the way you’re holding yourself, the way your breath hitches, the way you flinch just slightly—and suddenly, the anger has to be forced down, swallowed like bile in the back of his throat.

because right now, you come first.

so he moves, closing the distance in a single step, his hands reaching for you before he can stop himself. his hands are gentle from the start, unusually so. these hands of his are capable of devastation, of turning flesh to dust, of summoning ruin with a mere touch. but against you, they are careful, restrained. the second he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the tension in his hold eases, his hands softening, steadying you instead of breaking you.

“who did this?”

his voice is still dangerous, still thick with that barely restrained fury, but now there’s something else underneath it.

concern.

fear.

he hates how it makes his chest tighten. hates the way it lingers at the edges of his thoughts, nagging at him, clawing at something buried deep beneath his usual indifference.

he kneels in front of you, his sharp, emerald eyes scanning every inch of you with terrifying intensity. his fingers ghost over your injuries, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind together.

“tell me.” his voice is dangerous now.

and then—when you hesitate, when you try to brush it off, when you lie—

his patience snaps.

“don’t give me that.” his grip tightens just slightly, his expression darkening. “you’re hurt. don’t act like it’s nothing.”

there’s no room for argument in his tone. no patience for your stubbornness, no willingness to accept anything less than the truth.

if you try to keep it from him, if you refuse to say who’s responsible, then fine—he’ll find out himself.

because someone did this.

and once you’re safe—once he’s sure you’re okay, once he’s made damn sure you’ll recover—

then he’s hunting.

“stay here,” he mutters, standing to his full height, his tail flicking behind him in barely restrained aggression. “i’ll take care of it.”

and if you try to stop him?

his gaze flickers down to you, something sharp, something scorching, like the unrelenting heat of the desert sun at its peak—blistering, unforgiving, merciless.

“no one lays a damn hand on you and gets away with it.”

and then he’s gone, a storm of unbridled wrath, a lion on the hunt.

azul ashengrotto

azul is a man of careful calculations.

every word, every action, every decision he makes is deliberate. he has spent years crafting a persona of charm, wit, and effortless composure—one that allows him to stay in control, no matter the circumstances. he does not flinch, does not waver, does not lose to uncertainty.

but then he sees you hurt.

and suddenly, all of that control is gone.

his breath catches, his body locks up, and for one horrifying moment, his mind is utterly blank.

“you—what happened?”

his voice doesn’t sound like his own. it’s too sharp, too raw, lacking the usual smoothness he prides himself on.

he rushes to you without thinking, but the second he’s close enough to touch, he hesitates. his fingers hover inches above your skin, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint. his mind is screaming at him to act, to do something, but a terrible thought wedges itself into his panic—

what if i make it worse?

he doesn’t trust his own hands, doesn’t trust his own judgment, not when the sight of you like this is unraveling him from the inside out.

“tell me what hurts,” he demands, his words tumbling out in a way that’s almost frantic. “is it serious? how bad is it?”

his thoughts spiral immediately, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. is it critical? should he be calling for medical attention? what if you’re downplaying it? what if he’s not fast enough?

and then you try to brush it off.

“nothing?” he echoes, breath hitching. his voice almost cracks—and he hates that. “how can you say that when you’re—when you—”

his hands clench into fists, shaking slightly as he forces himself to breathe.

“just—just stay still,” he mutters, voice tight with strain. “i’ll take care of it.”

because if there is one thing he knows, one thing he can control, it’s fixing things. making deals. offering solutions.

“i’ll call a healer. i’ll get whatever you need—whatever you want.”

his words come too fast, his mind still racing, but through it all, his hands never leave yours.

his grip is too tight, fingers wrapped around yours like a lifeline, like letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to consider.

because if he lets go—if he loses you—

he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.

and when it’s over—when he knows you’ll be okay—he still doesn’t let you out of his sight.

“you scared me,” he murmurs, quieter than before.

his voice is steadier now, but you can still hear the remnants of his fear, lingering in the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, in the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

and for the first time since you’ve met him—since he built the persona of azul ashengrotto, the untouchable businessman, the man always one step ahead—

he lets you see just how fragile he becomes when it comes to you.

kalim al-asim

kalim is always smiling.

he is a beacon of joy, a burst of light in every room he enters. when things go wrong, he looks for the silver lining. when people are hurting, he lifts them up with his boundless energy. sadness is something he refuses to dwell on, something he fights against with warmth and laughter.

but when he sees you hurt?

his entire world stops.

“oh no, oh no—”

the words leave him before he can think, his breath catching as his heart lurches in his chest. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to process what he’s seeing—his body moves, fast and instinctive, rushing to your side.

his hands cradle your face, warm and steady despite the frantic tremor in his touch.

“are you okay? what happened? does it hurt? how bad is it?”

his voice is shaking. he’s shaking.

and when he finally really looks at you, when he takes in the way you wince, the way you hold yourself like you’re trying to hide the pain—his chest tightens, his stomach twisting into something awful.

“why didn’t anyone stop it? why didn’t i stop it?”

guilt. overwhelming, suffocating guilt floods him like a tidal wave.

“i should’ve been there! i should’ve protected you!”

his grip on you tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he’s here. he isn’t letting go. he won’t let go.

and then, before you can stop him—before you can tell him it’s not a big deal—his eyes start to glisten.

“kalim, are you—”

“i’m not crying!” he absolutely is. “i just—you scared me!”

his voice wobbles, and suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“don’t move, okay? just stay right here! i’ll get someone to help—i’ll fix this, i promise!”

if it’s something small—just a minor scrape, a bruise—he still treats it like it’s life-threatening. he refuses to let you walk it off, refuses to let you act like it’s fine.

if it’s something worse? if you are seriously hurt?

he panics, but his movements are certain. without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious, like you belong nowhere else but safe in his hands.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”

and when he finally gets you to safety, when he finally knows you’re okay—

he still won’t stop fussing.

“you need to rest! do you want pillows? i’ll get you pillows! or tea! do you want tea? i’m sure jamil will—jamil! we need tea!”

“kalim, i’m fine—”

“no, you’re not fine! i was so scared!”

his fingers squeeze yours.

and later, when you’re patched up, when the worst of the moment has passed—

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.

“don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is softer now, the usual excitement dimmed into something deeply sincere.

“i don’t ever wanna see you hurt again.”

jamil viper

jamil was raised to handle crises.

he has spent his entire life being the one who steps in when things go wrong, the one who fixes things while everyone else panics. no matter the situation, no matter the chaos, no matter the pressure—he is always in control.

so when he sees you hurt, when he registers the way you’re holding yourself, the way your face twists with pain—

his stomach drops.

but his body moves on instinct.

“where?”

his voice is steady. too steady. his mind is screaming, but his tone doesn’t waver, his movements are calculated, precise. he crouches in front of you immediately, eyes scanning you with sharp, assessing precision.

“how bad is it? let me see.”

he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t ask what happened—not yet. because right now, the only thing that matters is making sure you’re okay.

his hands are warm but firm, brushing over you carefully as he checks for injuries. his fingers ghost over your wrist, your arm, the side of your face—everywhere that might be hurt—his touch gentle but filled with purpose.

“it’s not broken,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half to reassure you. “no major swelling… does this hurt?”

and then—when you flinch, when you let out the softest hiss of pain—

something inside him snaps.

his jaw clenches. his breathing slows.

“who.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time, there is something dangerous in his gaze.

“who did this?”

if there is a culprit—if someone is responsible for this—then they are not leaving unscathed.

but even as fury thrums through his veins, even as his mind races with ways to handle the situation, he forces himself to prioritize you first.

“can you walk?” his voice is softer now, his tone slipping back into something controlled, something measured.

if you say yes, he doesn’t let you prove it. he supports you immediately, one arm around your waist, guiding you effortlessly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

if you say no, he lifts you without hesitation. no warning, no asking—just picking you up, his hold secure, unshakable.

“don’t argue,” he mutters, barely sparing you a glance. “just let me take care of it.”

because he will.

and once he gets you somewhere safe, once he’s made sure you’re being treated properly, once he knows with certainty that you are okay—

then, and only then, does he allow himself to breathe.

“you’re reckless,” he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and something far too raw. “i don’t have time to deal with this every time you get yourself hurt, you know.”

but his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against your arm, betraying the truth behind his words.

because if something had happened—if things had been worse—

he doesn’t even want to think about what he would have done.

vil schoenheit

perfection is vil’s standard.

not just in beauty, not just in his work, but in everything—his composure, his discipline, the way he carries himself. he does not allow himself to be reckless. he does not make careless mistakes. he does not let emotions rule him.

but then he sees you hurt.

and something inside him fractures.

his lips press together, his expression unreadable, his body rigid—the only betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his flawless exterior is the way his fingers tighten just slightly at his sides, the way his breath is a fraction too controlled.

“where are you hurt?”

his voice is steady. cold. clinical. but his eyes—his eyes—

they burn.

he crosses the distance between you in two strides, his gloved fingers already reaching for you. his touch is firm but delicate, brushing over your skin with the kind of precision only someone like him could possess.

“sit down.” it’s not a request. “don’t move until i’ve assessed the damage.”

you try to downplay it, try to insist that it’s nothing, but his sharp gaze cuts through you instantly.

“do not insult me by pretending this is fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp as glass. “you are hurt. i can see it. so let me handle it.”

his fingers ghost over your injuries, his touch meticulous, searching. he catalogues everything—the severity, the placement, the way you react when he presses too close.

he is silent as he works, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

“this never should have happened.” the words slip out low, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “i should have—”

but he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought.

vil schoenheit does not dwell in should haves.

he fixes things. he prevents disasters before they happen.

but right now, all he can do is make sure you are okay.

“i’ll handle this,” he says smoothly, already preparing to tend to your wounds himself. “stay still.”

his movements are precise, every action perfectly executed—cleaning, bandaging, ensuring no imperfections remain. but his touch lingers just slightly longer than necessary, his fingers brushing over your wrist, your palm, the curve of your shoulder with a tenderness that is almost imperceptible.

and when it’s over—when you are properly cared for, when the worst of the moment has passed—he finally exhales.

“you worried me,” he murmurs, and it is softer now, less controlled, less rehearsed.

and then—just for a second—his fingers ghost against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“i won’t let this happen again. not ever.”

his voice is gentle. his eyes are not.

because if anyone had a hand in this—if someone is responsible for this pain—

then they will regret ever daring to touch you.

idia shroud

idia doesn’t do well under pressure.

he was not built for high-stakes situations, for stress, for emotions so raw they leave no room for second chances. he hates unpredictability, hates chaos, hates not knowing what to do.

so when he sees you hurt—

his mind shuts down.

for a full second, he just stares, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers twitching but unable to move.

no, no, no, no, no—

his brain latches onto the worst possibilities immediately. how bad is it? is it fatal? what if you’re bleeding out? what if it’s internal? what if he doesn’t react fast enough?

what if he loses you?

his stomach twists violently, a familiar, awful panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

because this—this exact fear—is something he’s lived through before.

he remembers the first time. the real first time.

losing ortho was something he never saw coming. something he never thought could happen. and even though he’s built him again, recreated him, brought back a version of his little brother—

he still remembers.

remembers what it felt like to be too late. to fail someone he loved. to stand there, frozen in horror, helpless to stop it.

and now—

now it’s you.

you, the only person who matters to him besides ortho. you, the person who understands him, who stays, who chooses him despite all the reasons not to. you, who has somehow become his entire world without him even realizing it.

“oh seven—okay, okay—don’t freak out—no, wait, i’m the one freaking out—”

he rushes toward you but stops short, his hands hovering inches away, shaking.

“w-wait, should i touch you? would that make it worse?? oh seven, what if i make it worse—”

his mind is short-circuiting. too many variables. too many possible failures.

“idia,” you start, but he whirls on you, wide-eyed and frantic.

“y-you have to tell me exactly how bad it is, okay? give me a numerical rating—no, no, wait, i don’t trust the pain scale, um—can you move?? do you need a doctor??”

his breathing is erratic, his fingers clutching at the edge of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

but then—just like before—you try to reassure him.

“i’m okay.”

he stops.

his whole body locks up, his mind struggling to catch up.

”…are you sure?”

his voice is so small. so uncertain.

because he’s already lost someone before.

and if he lost you too—if this was his fault, if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough—

he doesn’t know what he would do.

even when he’s finally convinced that you’re not dying, he still refuses to leave your side. he hovers awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly itching to do something to make himself useful.

so he does what he knows best—

“d-do you wanna lay down? i, uh, set up a recovery station in my room. blankets. snacks. medkits—y’know, just in case. w-we can watch something comforting, i won’t even complain about the genre. promise.”

his voice is still wobbly, still slightly frayed at the edges, but the tension in his shoulders finally eases when you nod.

and later—when you’re safe, resting, and no longer in pain—

his fingers brush against yours, hesitant, unsure, before finally intertwining them properly.

“never scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is quiet. but this time, it doesn’t shake.

because he won’t lose you too.

he can’t.

malleus draconia

malleus has lived longer than most.

a century and more has passed since his birth. he has seen generations rise and fall, watched mortals grow old in the blink of an eye. nothing unsettles him. nothing disturbs his calm.

but then he sees you hurt.

and the entire world stands still.

his breath halts, and the air around him shifts—the very atmosphere bending beneath the weight of something primordial, something as vast and unrelenting as the storm-laden skies over the land of briar.

his first instinct is not panic.

it is rage.

“who did this?”

his voice is low, steady, but beneath the surface, something dangerous lurks.

his emerald eyes gleam, faintly glowing in the dim light. the shadows stretch taller, the wind outside stills, the very earth itself seems to pause, as if the land itself knows what kind of wrath is building within him.

his hands twitch at his sides, claws curling, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips—not for you, never for you, but for whoever was foolish enough to harm you.

but he stops himself. forces himself to breathe.

because you come first.

he is in front of you in an instant, his movements as fluid as shadow, his expression unreadable. his hands—hands that could command storms, reduce castles to rubble, shatter the very sky—reach for you with an almost unnatural gentleness.

“let me see,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your injury, tracing the bruises, the cuts, the places where pain lingers.

his touch is featherlight, his movements precise, but beneath it all, his body is rigid with barely restrained fury.

“who did this?” he repeats, quieter now, but infinitely more terrifying.

if you don’t answer, if you try to downplay it, if you lie—

his gaze darkens, something thunderous in his silence.

“do not shield them from me.”

he is not so easily deceived. he sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you waver, the way you avoid his gaze. if you refuse to tell him, it does not matter—he will find out on his own.

but first—

“hold still,” he murmurs, raising his hand.

a pulse of magic hums through the air, a whisper of ancient power curling around your form like a protective shroud. the ache dulls, the wounds begin to close, the pain fades.

“better?” he asks, softer now, something tender hidden beneath the weight of his fury.

but even as he tends to you, even as he ensures you are safe—

his mind is already elsewhere.

because someone hurt you.

and for that, there will be consequences.

malleus does not act rashly. he does not lash out blindly.

but the guilty party will know fear.

“stay here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek for just a fraction of a second, his touch lingering. “rest. recover.”

and then, as he turns, the air thickens, the weight of his presence pressing down like the hush before a storm, like the crackling stillness before lightning splits the sky.

because someone has made a grave mistake.

and if the gods are watching, they would be wise to offer their mercy—because malleus draconia will not.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

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okwonyo · 2 days ago

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THE COCKROACH──── ୨୧ 성훈𓈒

✶ 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝑜𝑛𝑒⠀ㅤ𓈒⠀ 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖻𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾.

neighbor!sunghoon & fem!rea 1OOO potential future relationship ㅇㅅㅇ skinship ⎯⎯ recue𝒾l

嘉 ܃ this is so silly and this isn’t my best work but .. i like it 🎀

reblogs ♡ feedbacks please + daily

being overdramatic has never been one of your characteristics. despite what some of your friends say, you think that you are rather rational when it comes to your emotions as well as the way you manage them.

you know how to control your fear especially. you swear, you are not the kind to get scared of the smallest things. fear doesn’t take over you easily at all.

however, if there was something that you could admit, it would be your dislike for certain creatures and your blood’s tendency to go cold at the sight of them.

it isn’t your fault, whenever you see one of those barely noticeable insects with multiple legs and arms, you can’t restrain disgust to get to you. and yes, seeing one of them always makes you scream at the top of your lungs. today is no different.

that scream is loud enough to make your throat hurt a tad. it keeps on getting worse the longer you look at the cockroach in front of you. when it moves on your not-so-brand-new apartment’s floor, you run out of your own home.

perhaps, you aren’t thinking straight or perhaps, it’s just the way you are— but you find yourself jumping in the arms of the first person you encounter, without taking a look at their face first.

your entire weight landing onto them without any warning doesn’t make them stumble, therefore you assume they are muscular.

under your fingertips, you feel their muscles, their broad shoulders are comfortable enough for your arm wrapped around them. it must be a man, you can tell at that.

as well as by his deep voice when he asks, “what’s going on?”

it is as if you are at a higher altitude than you were when you stand on your couch earlier. he is well built and tall, which is impressive. but it is not your main concern.

“i’m sorry, it’s just that—” you start, a little out of breath. you want to continue, but you turn your head towards the man and your breath catches. half of your voice dies in your chest, “there is a cockroach in my apartment.”

the man who lives in the apartment in front of yours looks right back at you. you observed him often since you moved in a few weeks ago, but you never caught his name.

it’s the first time you see him out of his work suit, including the first time you see him without the black tank top he wears at the gym. his long hair is quite messy, he isn’t wearing his glasses. on top of everything, he doesn't look bothered by your position in the slightest.

“do you need any help?” the handsome man offers. funnily enough, you are confused about what he is talking about.

however, he is too beautiful for you to refuse, “uh, yeah.”

your neighbor manages to make you stand back on the floor without you noticing. you are too absorbed in staring at him to see anything else. your eyes follow him while he gets into your apartment.

from behind him, you can see how broad his shoulders actually are, bigger than you thought they were, wider than when you see them from afar while you work out. he is even taller than you thought, taller than when you watch him get into the elevator on his way home.

you follow him like it’s not where you live, standing behind him and peeking at the paper cup that you used as jail for the ugly insect.

his big figure protects you so you feel safe enough to say, “it’s in that paper cup.”

the said paper cup moves slightly and you gasp. at the sound you let out, the man’s arm raises slightly beside him in a protective gesture.

“stay behind me,” he tone is soft as he starts speaking again. “i’ll take care of it.”

you don’t know him at all. yet, seeing him walking towards the spray on the table next to the trapped cockroach makes you understand what a wife feels when she sees her husband leaving for war.

attractiveness lays in his moves, how he rolls up his sleeves, how he squats down almost nonchalantly, how he sprays the cockroach in the paper cup. everything he does makes your heartbeats go faster.

you spend most of your time admiring the beauty in front of you than anything else. your gaze lingers on his exposed forearms, on his side profile, on his fingers. your heart burst in your chest when his voice reaches you:

with a reassuring and victorious grin, “i think it’s dead.”

you stare at him in pure admiration. with more admiration than when you see him lift seventy bench at the gym. “thank you so much, uh—”

your knight in shining armor begins to come back to you with his grin still plastered on his face. “sunghoon.”

“a–ah, right!” you say in an awkward laugh. “how can i repay you?”

sunghoon stops in the middle of his way back to you to put the spray on the tabe again, “there is no need,” he chuckles, in most beautiful way you have heard. “i didn’t do much.”

you want to protest but he gets well too close for you to think straight.

“it’s going to take a while before it dies properly, though,” he continues. “and you shouldn’t stay there. because of the toxic product you know?”

you didn’t know that. still, you nod at his words.

“so..” the tall man looks like he is waiting for you to understand something, where he is going. but you don’t— maybe it’s because of the said toxic product or the otherworldly guy in front of you.

he bites his lower lip when he realizes that you are still confused. he finishes his sentence with a huge smile that showcases all his teeth, fangs included.

“do you want to come to my apartment and wait?” it must be written all over your face, how you didn’t expect this outcome in the slightest. because his smile gets wider, “we’ll come back later to see if the cockroach is really dead.”

your stomach flutters, your tongue gets tangled. being so smooth and straight forward wasn’t what you expected him to be.

it’s hard but you manage to choke out, “s–sure.”

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#⠀𝑓 ⟡⠀命运’𝑠 ⠀#enhypen #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen headcanons #enhypen drabbles #enhypen smau #sunghoon #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon oneshots #sunghoon headcanons #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon soft hours #sunghoon soft thoughts #sunghoon drabbles

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sapphicides · 1 day ago

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i’ve been seeing a lot of posts about the yellowjackets wearing each other’s clothes and while i love the angst of it all, i think it’s worth noting that the entire group seems to swap clothes regularly and there’s something equally devastating about that, too

the fact that they probably didn’t have a solid laundry system, especially in those first several months out there and especially in the winter, so they had no real way of separating clothing based on who it belonged to and several of the girls’ favorite clothes wound up lost

the fact that they lost all sense of personal style out there because they had to prioritize wearing what they had and sharing clothes to layer up with, symbolizing how they slowly lost their attachment to the civilized world that they once knew

the fact that, for 19 months, none of them got to have the teenage girl experience of picking out cute outfits every day and walking out feeling confident and pretty and themselves

the fact that so much of the clothing they had belonged to their dead teammates and friends, and they had to wear that clothing without ever having time to think about it or mourn the people they lost before putting it on

the fact that certain characters favor the clothing of specific people they’ve lost, like shauna regularly wearing jackie’s clothing more than anyone else’s or lottie regularly wearing laura lee’s dress

the fact that that clothing will always carry the traumatic memories of what they went through out there, no matter how much time passes or how many times they run it through the wash

the wilderness will always be there, inside every fiber of the fabric like a stain that will not come out

#yj #yellowjackets #shauna shipman #jackie taylor #natalie scatorccio #lottie matthews #van palmer #taissa turner #misty quigley #laura lee #akilah yellowjackets #melissa yellowjackets #mari yellowjackets #gen yellowjackets #jackieshauna #lottielee

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scarlet-letter-s-for-soft · 1 day ago

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As someone who has studied and worked as an astrologer, has found great value & enjoyment in the practice, and also doesn’t take it that seriously, I have a few thoughts:

It’s an art, not a science. It’s the same with testing psychic powers through remote viewing. If you’re trying to prove it is true, you’ve missed the entire point. It’s not ‘can this system objectively be correct about me,’ especially if they handed someone facts on paper and not a living, breathing person to interact with.

I understand wanting to 'prove your skills' in any profession. But the astrologers who set themselves up with *this* kind of test ... were doomed to fail even if they are experienced.

Astrology is about the journey you go on to learn more about yourself and the people who help you do that. It’s about the questions. It's how you, as a person, interact with your chart. It’s never been about some outside, black-and-white answer and anyone proclaiming to know some dogmatic, unchangeable truth about you is … a shitty astrologer???

There are like nineteen different charts you can run, and the older you get, the more you grow and the LESS accurate birth charts are. A birth chart is your factory settings. I sure as heck hope you've changed. And if you're using Astrology as an excuse (sorry, I'm controlling just because I'm a Scorpio, etc.) to not do the work of growing... bro, come on.

It's why people insisting I try and guess their sun sign are so frustrating. Sun sign astrology is unfortunately very popular now, but it's not all that useful. Your sun sign is one of twelve and you have it in common with 1/12th of the world. Your full natal chart isn't likely to be repeated for thousands of years. You can't just look at the surface.

Again - it’s the process. Astrology is a conversation. It’s archetypes and behavior patterns and depth psychology with a flair for the mystical. If you don’t ‘believe’ in it, that’s amazing! It's not a tool that is useful for you on your journey of healing and self-exploration. Other things will be and I hope you find them!

But if you look at something that has been useful to someone else and mock it or judge it… that says far more about you than it does about them. Not believing in something is still a belief in and of itself, and all of our beliefs say something about who we are and how we interact with the world.

All I’m saying is - don’t be a dick. 99% of the witchy/spiritual folk I know aren’t delusional or somehow hurting themselves by *checks notes* believing in something. If you’re so offended by these concepts, I’d suggest you dig into why you feel vindictive joy in reading the above study.

I can guarantee your friends who like astrology or read tarot cards or practice psychic skills don’t give a shit if you think it’s ’real.’ But they absolutely hear the derision in your voice and are going to stop trusting you with important parts of themselves. Life is confusing and weird and we're all just looking for answers and doing our best. Be kind, yeah?

Astrology doesn't seem to work.

#astrology #witchcraft #astrologer #witchblr #psychology #spirituality

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reverieblondie · 1 day ago

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Book Club

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors do not interact! explicit smut, Porn with plot! Oral (fem receiving), P in V unprotected sex (please wrap before you tap people), dirty talk, reader is loud and Bucky loves it.

Summary: Working at a library and at times be boring... but what happens when one of your regulars wants to make a book club? Just you and him?

A/N: Self indulgence like always! Please let me know what you think! Never have written for Bucky but he's slowly consumed mt soul and I got this silly idea on a whim so I hope you all enjoy! If you like How I wrote for him send me an ask, request are open always!

Word Count: 5,723

‘The feeling of the cold metal is at first such a shock to her skin; it makes her whole body snap… and her thighs spread wider with need. He’s sliding his armored hand up so slowly… his ardent eyes drinking her in, relishing in all her sounds.

His princess, his lady he swore to always keep safe from anything, the one he promised to keep pure… now gasps and pleads for him to grace her with his touch.

Their game of stares and honeyed teasing finally had a result; they both lost…

She dragged him from the party, desperate for fresh air from the stuffy ballroom, but he knew the truth. She did it for him and his hate of crowds. Nothing ever gets past the princess he’s learned… but now, as she is so sweetly moaning and bucking your hips further, he’s learning more than he ever dreamed he could.

He brings his lips to her ear, kissing lightly before he whispers gruffly, “Shh Princess, we wouldn’t want anyone to catch you out here… with your skirts bundled up on your hips. With your knight’s hand in your cunt… They might get the wrong impression of you, my lady.”

She rolls her eyes as she squeezes his shoulders, her frustrations building. “Stop teasing, and please just touch me!”

He smirks as he brings his metal-covered finger to tease her clit, beaming as a moan rips from her throat as she-’

Ahem…

Entirely lost in the book’s text, you hardly notice the tall figure in front of your desk. It isn’t until a gruff clearing of their throat that it knocks you from your book, meeting your eyes to the piercing blue ones of Bucky Barnes. Who stands so patiently with his book in hand, waiting for you to do your job at the library instead of wasting time.

Fumbling with your bookmark, you hastily place it inside before awkwardly slamming your book down. “I am so sorry, Bucky. I was just…” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you can’t help but feel a bit foolish in front of him.

“Getting lost in the story? I understand a good book can take you away from the present. No need to apologize.” He kindly offers you the right words with a smile that always makes you want to swoon.

“Exactly,” you say with a sigh of relief, taking the book from his hands. Feeling the slight warmth from his fingers as his skin brushes long yours. Such a contrast to the usually frigid library… you bet his whole body is perfectly toasty to curl up with.

You must force yourself to stop your obvious gawking to look at the book he’s checking out. When you see the familiar front, you can’t help but giggle. “Checking out the Hobbit again?”

Bucky shrugs, keeping his smile as he looks at the book in your hands. “It’s my favorite, plus it helps comfort me.”

You bite your tongue, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. Of course, he checks this book repeatedly; it’s like a memory of his former life… everyone knows what he’s been through, and now you’re teasing him like a jerk…

The start of an apology is on the tip of your tongue, but Bucky cuts you off before you can say anything, “I am starting to remember all the lines, though, and will need to start reading something else. Do you have any recommendations? Like what are you currently reading?”

He looks at the book you placed on the side, eyeing the title Iron Promises. “Sounds like a fantasy, which is right up my alley. What’s it about?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

Bucky reaches over and opens the book right on the bookmark, but you’re quick to slap it closed and drag it back to your TBR stack, “Wait! Um… I don’t think it’s… your kind of book…”

“Why?” he asks, his brows furrowing, showing you that cute crease on his forehead. You fidget with it momentarily, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, trying your best to avoid his icy blue eyes.

“Well, it is a fantasy but also a romance…”

He tilts his head, “What’s wrong with romance? I can read a little romance.”

Internally, you grimace, More like a lot of heavy smut…

Bucky leans casually on the counter, his vibranium arm taking the weight as he gets closer. “Plus, it will be fun to read something together that we can talk about maybe… kind of like a book club… if you’re interested…”

The last part comes out a bit unsure, timid of possible rejection. You feel your cheeks blooming with a blush. A book club with James Bucky Barnes? This was something you could never even dream of.

You have been working at the library for a while now, and having the former Winter Soldier check out books was certainly a surprise. However, as time passed and he continued to visit, it became less shocking. In fact, you both began to form what felt like the beginning of a friendship as you talked more.

Over time, you discovered some fascinating aspects about him. He’s strict about returning books on time, surprisingly quite friendly once he’s opened up and got to know someone, revealing a sweet playful side to himself. And to your delight, he’s a secret nerd, which explains his desire to start a book club in the first place, though his reading choices differ from yours...

“A book club sounds fun… but please, not this one. I’m already almost done with it anyway. Maybe it should be something we both haven’t read.” You propose with a shaky smile, hoping he agrees.

He tilts his head in compilation until he’s eyeing past your shoulder. You blush despite knowing exactly what he’s doing… It’s the stack of your TBR right next to the computer. He browses through the stack, reading their spines until he finally points his finger, “How about that one?”

Clashing silver, Oh no….

Bucky asks if he can see it, and you bergrugently take it from the stack and place it in his hand. Thankfully, the cover of this book isn’t like some of the others with shirtless men holding women in a sensual embrace… but you know… you know that on the inside of the fantasy is spice that you’re not sure you’re ready for Bucky to know you’re into. Is he making fun of you? Or is this some weird game that will suddenly blow up in your face when he laughs at you?

Bucky looks over the cover and reads through the summary before finally looking up with one of his rare grins, “This is perfect. Do we have any extra copies? We could get started tonight.” -he’s completely earnest in wanting to do this. It’s terrifying and yet so endearing… if he wants to read a dirty fantasy smut book with you… who are you to deny him?

A few types on the computer show that you currently have one copy available, of course…

You see that Bucky is looking up at you expectantly; you will never know how a man you know can be completely deadly and look so adorable with his smirk and clear blue eyes. Sliding the Hobbit over, you sigh, “The last copy is in the fantasy selection; put this one back and go grab it.”

With a grin and a newfound pep in his step, Bucky takes the book, going to put it back and get the one for your book club. This may be the death of you… reading smut with the winter soldier, you couldn’t even fathom this shit.

It's been surprisingly really fun and going shockingly really well.

You two decided to have your first weekly meet-up at the library, somewhere you both knew well and could be comfortable with. To say you were nervous to talk to him about this romantic fantasy, this romantisy was an understatement. You figured if he said he hated it, the book club would dissolve, and you two would return to sharing smiles and small talk as he checked out his next selections. Sure, that thought made your gut twist into a bitter knot, but what was the alternative? You two hit it off … continue your little club with more books and conversions till you finally have two glasses of wine and slip how you think he is the most beautiful man you ever saw?

Okay… maybe not that…

Especially not now when you two are going up to the elevator in your apartment. How did this happen? Ah, yes, you two were getting stares in the library, so he suggested somewhere more private, and you just had to offer up your apartment.

"Meet me at the library, we can walk to my place!" - ugh, great thinking…

You're trying hard not to stare at Bucky's reflection in the silver walls while also trying to avoid the eyes of Mrs. Green… You attempted to warmly greet your elderly neighbor… but she just stared at you two with her usual annoyed grimace. This, of course, started a staring war between her and Bucky… Honestly, you're not sure who's going to fold first. Bucky, of course, had that hardened military edge, but Mrs. Green? That's one stubborn granny… it seems to last forever till the set of cold, wrinkly eyes finally slide over to you.

"Guest of yours?" she drawls dully.

"Um, yes! This is James Barnes. He's my-"

Mrs. Green taps her cane, making you stop talking, "Fine, fine, just make sure you two keep it down… I don't want to hear your sinning."

Your jaw drops, and Bucky seems to crack a smile. "W-what, it's not like that!"

Before you can explain, the elevator stops, sliding open and letting Mrs. Green waddle away to her apartment while you and Bucky follow suit to your place directly next to hers. God, you hope Bucky isn't too embarrassed. You're sure he's probably mortified.

Shyly looking over as you're shutting the door, you think he will be glaring, but suddenly, he's letting out a loud chuckle. Then, you are both bursting into hysterical laughter.

Three loud bangs knock on your door, and you two have taken a minute to silence yourself.

"She's… fun," Bucky finally mutters, making you almost snort.

"You should try living next to her. It's a dream."

"I bet.." he says slowly as he looks around the small living room. Taking the chance while he's looking around, you dart off to your room to grab your book and notes. You're trying to get back to him quickly, but not before sliding over to your mirror and fixing your hair; you're tempted to put on some lip gloss… but maybe that's too much.

A quick flip through your book reminds you of where your book left off. Ah, right, the fight scene that ended with the main two characters kissing… this will be great…

“He feels his blood still rushing through his veins, the sweat drenching his skin in a desperate attempt to cool himself from the carnage. Screams and the crashing of metal continue to ring in his ears till he turns and looks at her. No longer does he hear all those voices. He just hears his heartbeat… it’s not a want; it’s a need as he walks over to her, scooping her in his arms and kissing those full lips that have always been so taunting.”

You feel a shiver once Bucky gets through the last lines of the chapter. Hearing him read it makes it seem less cheesy. Though you still can’t get one question out of your mind…

“I wonder if it’s like that…”

He stops looking from the book’s text to meet your gaze, “what?”

As soon as the words slip from your lips, you regret not being more careful with your words. Bucky is the last person you should be asking about this topic. The public only knows fragments of his past, but even those snippets reveal that deeper issues are haunting him that you can only imagine. Bucky shifts on the couch, adjusting his posture from sitting wide-legged to leaning his elbows on his knees, almost hunching over.

Great, you made him uncomfortable; please, world, swallow you up and save Bucky from your obnoxiousness.

“Everything feels… distorted; it’s a surge of many things all at once. You have to try to bring your focus back… but that blood-pounding rush lingers, making you exhausted but still ready to jump at a moment’s notice.” Bucky shifts his gaze awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands. “At least that’s how I felt…”

You swallow, shocked he’s being so open…

“So the kissing part is unrealistic?”

You’re thankful that gets a laugh from Bucky, “Well, I’ve never kissed anyone right after a fight… but I can imagine if my blood was rushing hot enough, and the right girl was nearby… I would get carried away.”

Dammit… Why is that hot?

“Well, if you ever do it. Let me know?”

“Don’t worry, you will be the first to know…” Bucky replies so simply… but you can’t help how it makes your whole body feel suddenly hot.

It’s quiet for a beat before he’s readjusting to lean back, trying to look comfortable. “Okay, your turn; read your favorite part.”

You’re not sure if you should curse the universe... or be extremely grateful, but either way, it does not change the fact that Bucky is stowing away at your apartment to do some silent reading. A week before you two were supposed to meet at Bucky’s place for book club, loud construction started happening near his building, and he just couldn’t concentrate because of the noise. So, considering you’re his book club buddy, he asked if he could come by to catch up on some reading.

Of course, you said yes, then frantically started cleaning and prepping like you would for

a book club meeting. You’re excited but also extremely nervous!

The apartment is silent, aside from the sounds of soft breathing and the slow turns of the book’s pages. The calmness is comfortable; you were worried that the time would have been filled with awkward rambling ... but it’s not; you two had fallen into a quiet routine. It makes sense that you get more comfortable when two people spend time around each other. However ..... When you peek over to look at him taking up So much space on your sofa .... You feel sparks of electricity pop through your veins. His eyes locked to the text, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. His scruffed jaw in a lock and his full lips completely perfect.

It’s not until you see his tongue slightly lick his bottom lip that you break from your trace and realize you’re not even reading. You just staring at Bucky. Silently, you curse yourself for your shamelessness, but that only causes Bucky to quickly look up and meet your eyes. Oh, so suddenly you dart your face back to your book and try to hide that you were, in fact, leering. Of course ... it was in no way sublet, but Bucky is too much of a gentleman to say anything about it.

With the crisis averted you try to take in the book, even flipping the pages to reread a bit to familiarize yourself with what’s happening in the story. Blah, Blah, Blah, they are alone in the library together… finally starting to pay attention ... But unfortunately, old habits die hard, and before you can stop, you’re peeking for a glance again.

Creepy? Maybe, but it’s been a while since you spent time with someone silently like this. Plus, Bucky is beautiful, and getting to watch his little tics from how he lightly flicks the colored tabs with his thumb, and when he’s really entranced in the text, he slightly leans into the book, almost like he needs to read closer to really catch everything. Then suddenly… Bucky’s expression changes. You watch his eyes widen in surprise, and he sits back up fully straight. Of course, curious, you quickly scan some pages before finding the source of his surprise.

“And what do you think you’re doing on your knees, princess...” He grits through his teeth, watching as her dress billowed all around her and her hands slowly traced up his linen trousers. Inching towards where his cock is starting to strain the cloth.

“Trying to show my devotion to my knight...” She says innocently while pulling the ties.

Before she is done, he steadies his breath and comes back to reality, “You shouldn’t waste such sweetness on a man like me. I will ruin you.”

Considering his words, she pauses momentarily before looking back into his blue eyes, so dark in the library’s candlelight. It all becomes clear for her once more: her desire, her love for him.

“Then ruin me and forever mark me as yours…” From the look in her eyes, he knows She’s not. wavering

A good man would halt this and deny her... but he’s weak... and his love for her outweighs his rationality. He pulls the ties of his pants before gently he roughly grabs her and pushes…

- Oh my god!

Okay... it’s not like you haven’t read Smut in front of people before... but this is your crush... reading the same thing…

Embarrassed, you look up from the text, shutting the book only to be met with his eyes. You two stay locked for a moment, trying to ignore how both of your faces are starting to flush. Bucky’s eyes roam down to where you’re currently clenching your thighs. His light eyes suddenly get darker, and on the inside, you’re begging for him to spread you apart. But in your sudden nervous panic, you chuckle instead. Bucky matches your nervous chuckle with his own, though his is undoubtedly smoother. “These books love to just get to the point, huh? It and these situations... the p-positions, definitely unbelievable.”

You try to laugh off the whole thing, but to your surprise, Bucky doesn’t laugh. He shrugs while fidgeting with his book.” Not that unbelievable... I could easily lift you to my shoulders and not even waste a breath.”

Suddenly, the whole room feels like it’s shifted to its side. Was that a proposition? Maybe it’s just a statement? He is built, so he could lift you with one arm while the other rips.... - No! No!

Unsure where to take the conversation, you say the only thing that can come to your mind. “I’m going to drink water.”- Smooth...

Mentally slapping yourself, you walk to the kitchen and down some cold water before scrounging for something stronger. Maybe he was starting a discussion? But, of course, you ruin it by going into horny territory.

What if that’s the point, though... You freeze, feeling your heart rushing all over again...

Ahem...

You don’t even need to look up to see that it’s Bucky, standing in the kitchen doorway with a guilty look, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable... I didn’t realize how it sounded like a... proposition till it was out of my mouth, and I saw the look on your face. I mean... not that I wouldn’t... Want to, to um... show you.” Bucky hesitates again, “Wait, that’s not - well, do think you’re…”

It’s perplexing... a deadly super soldier., stumbling over his words like he’s nervous... You continue to watch him stumble, weighing your options..... Maybe putting everything out there will go well, or it will blow up in your face and ruin everything…

Letting your feet take over, you walk over to Bucky; as soon as you step forward, he’s putting his ice-blue eyes on you. He almost speaks again but gently places your hand on his broad chest before he can. Under your fingertips, you feel his heart racing despite his calm exterior. Bucky places his hand over yours, waiting till you’re ready to speak. He would probably stand her all night if he had to. But no, your mind’s made up, and the feeling of his warm skin on yours only cements it for you.

“I want you to show me... everything.”

It’s all Bucky needed to hear before gently touching your cheek and trailing his fingers down your jaw. His concentration flicked from your eyes to your lips as he slowly leaned in. Finally, his full lips met yours as he brushed a gentle kiss on yours. Then he kissed you repeatedly, letting his hand slide into your hair as the kiss grew more starved.

You wrapped your hands over his neck, standing on your tiptoes to tangle your fingers through his dark hair. Without hesitation, Bucky leaned down, grabbing the back of your thighs to lift you closer. With you wrapped around his waist, he seeks more of your taste as he traces the softness of your lips with his tongue, begging for entry. Parting your mouth, you feel his tongue slide along yours in a perfect slowness that only adds to the heat between your legs.

It was sweet and desperate and only made him even more drunk with want. Bucky blindly walked with his lips locked, wandering to find your bedroom. He bumped and crashed into everything till, finally, you broke the kiss with a desperate panting.

“Hallway, left door...”

“Right, right…” he says through lidded eyes before kissing and licking against your mouth once more.

The super speed must be one of his other abilities because before you knew it, you were in your bedroom, pushed against your wall as his tongue traced down the column of your throat. And his hands slide down from your waist to tease the hem of your shirt up. You run your fingers through his hair as he sucks along your collarbone, leaving his marks, waiting to finally feel his hands on your skin.

He’s so close. He wants to lift your shirt but hesitates. “Bucky, please, take it off... touch me…

Bucky feels weak from your desperate pleading. Wants to touch you, feel you, head into the crock of your neck, further getting fuck you. He rests his drunk on you. As you’re about to plead again, suddenly you’re lifted forward, and your shirt is ripped from your skin; your bra, bottoms, and panties couldn’t be saved, however, as he tears them off you.

With your clothes discarded, Bucky paints, staring down at your naked body reverently before hosting you up to kiss your soft breast and run his hot tongue over your nipples. Both his hands help pin you to the wall of the bedroom. The contrast of their touch is intoxicating. His warm flesh hand cupping and pinching your breast for his mouth to lick. While the cold of his metal arm keeps your legs spread, inching further to your aching core, making you moan in the excitement of that erotic pleasure of filling you with his cold fingers.

Your moaning is debauched and needy; you’re quick to cover your mouth to silence yourself, but Bucky needs to hear you. Bucky moves your hand from your lips, “No, I need to hear you screaming for me. Come on, Don’t hold back...

For added measure, his metal fingers finally brush through your pussy, dragging your slick all over your sex. It’s so cold it makes your nipples harden, and a shivering moan rip from your throat. He looks into your lidded eyes, memorizing every noise you make as he teases your quivering slit with his two fingers, Then harshly pinches your clit, making you jerk your hips.

“Never Imagined you would be so sensitive like this...” He rubs rough circles over your cunt, making you slam your head back against the wall as your grinding hips beg for more. “You like it there?” He says roughly into your ear before pinching your swollen pearl once more.

“Yes! Fuck yes! please, Bucky…”

He pulls his hand away from your sticky cunt, you whine from the loss of being so close, but your complaint dies in your throat as he licks his metal fingers shining from your arousal. “Ready, princess?”

You nod completely at his mercy. Bucky quickly lifts you further up the wall, putting your legs over his shoulders as his face noses into your puffy cunt. He really can do any position with you. Bucky’s nose rubs your clit, making your legs clamp, then his tongue licks a slow strip over your wet folds, making you say his name...

The sound of his name leaving your lips has him losing himself to taste more. Moving his tongue into your drooling cunt, trying to drink in every drop in and out, making your whole body ignite with a fever as your breaths come out in long surrendering moans. Lost in the passion, you grind your hips against his sinful tongue, losing your mind as he groans in approval.

You’re close to your peak, ready to let it snap and crash over you till loud slamming starts knocking against your wall... You feel Bucky growl, and you’re scared he’s going to stop... but instead, he moves his mouth to suck and nip at your clit, making you keen louder as he slams his fist against the wall back in what you’re considering a warning...

Sorry, Mrs. and Mr. Green... you will send over cookies… or not… You can’t care right now as the coil in your stomach tightens till a snap is felt in your veins, and an electric rush is aching through your whole body. Legs shaking, your body loses control as you cum all over Bucky’s eager tongue. Bucky lets you ride out your high over his tongue till it’s approaching overstimulation. He pulls away from you, his chin soaked, and as he lowers you down gently to your unsteady feet, you still see that hunger in his eyes, which still remains.

He whips his mouth before licking the remnants away from his hand, “Which position next?”

He asks with a smirk, and you feel another surge of heat burst through you to your “M-might be boring... but the bed?”

Bucky looks from you to your metal framed bed and chuckles, “Just don’t be mad if I break it...” - Wait. What?

You can’t ask for clarification on that last statement because Bucky is already turning you to the queen-sized bed with a quick tap to your ass. “Lay down and touch yourself for me...”

His honeyed voice instantly makes you feel needy as you fumble into the mattress, spreading your legs wide and slowly rubbing your clit as you watch Bucky strip. His skin is beautiful, scars and all... Immaculate is the best way you can describe him from his bulging muscles, chiseled abdomen... and his cock straining, already glistening at the tip. The noise that leaves your lips is involuntary and makes Bucky smile shyly as he removes his underwear. Bucky strides closer, keeping his eyes on your dripping cunt, “Oh, I love the sounds. Please keep them coming.”

He crawls over your body, completely overwhelming you with the heat, sight, and smell of him. Everything was now James Bucky Barnes, and it made you spread your legs wider for more. Bucky leans down, brushing your lips with his in a filthy kiss, “Tell me you want it, come on, Sweetheart... Please, I need to hear that sweet voice beg for me, for my cock…”

You feel yourself grinding on nothing just from the sound of his sweet desperation, “Bucky, please ... I need you... need you to fill me up…”

Bucky catches your hips in a bruising grip lifting them, forcing your back to arch as he lines up his thick length, “So good to me...” he says, almost in a daze, before his rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your slick before pushing into your tight cunt.

As Bucky's cock finally stretches you open, you wrap your arms tightly around his neck as the intense stretch makes you gasp in sweet agony. It's music to Bucky's ears as he takes his time pushing down each inch to the base, filling you completely. Your cunt clenches on his length, allowing you to feel every burning curve and vein as they rub your raw insides down to your cervix. The drooling tip of his cock licking against that tender spot inside you, forcing your toes to curl.

His thrust starts out as slow and soft before his breathing starts to pick up, and he slams his hips into you faster and faster. Your bed begins to squeak with a whine, but he keeps his pace steady and desperate for the sounds of your high-pitched moans as he moves in and out of your snug cunt.

Every thrust is hot and tingling as he alternates from fast and rough with his hand on your throat to soft, slow rolls of his hips hitting deep as he kisses you gently. It's all building to that familiar tensing you felt when he had you against the wall. Bucky starts to pick up his pace, holding your hip with one hand as the other grabs the metal frame, banging against the wall.

Your eyes roll from him being so deep, managing to open your eyes for a moment. You see Bucky flushed, with his eyes locked on yours, while he holds in his primal groans with each clench of your wet cunt. The sight makes you gasp, holding him tighter and bringing your legs to wrap around his waist. You move your hips in time with his thrust till your core starts to burn, and his groans form into delish moans that only strengthen your resolve to fuck against him faster.

Bucky's cock throbs as he kisses along your skin, his breath hot and frantic as it blows over your sweating skin. With a final thrust, you feel the white-hot wave of pleasure flood over you in an instant, It not only burns through your body but your mind as well till it is clouded in an orgasmic haze. Bucky shudders at the feeling of you cumming against his cock, with a moan that sounds almost like a whimper, his hips still, the throbbing more frantic like a heartbeat as you feel your cunt filled with thick squirts of cum. Looking up at him, so lost in his pleasure, he looks so soft, his eyes doe-like and lidded as his full lips are parted to allow him to gasp for short, stabilizing breaths. It's beautiful to see him this way.

You two stay still as you come down from your highs; Bucky slowly pulls out and lays his fevered body beside yours. He may not be in a full sweat... but there's definitely a sheen of it glazing his skin, and you feel pretty accomplished for wearing him down... even if it's only a little.

Bucky takes his time clearing the two of you up and getting you water. As he walks in with water for you, you notice he's brought in the book and the colorful tabs you lent him. He settles beside you, getting underneath the sheets and pulling you closer before opening the book where he left off; Bucky starts to read like you two didn't just have mind-blowing sex.

You keep watching him till he drifts his eyes from the pages to your face, "Yes?"

"You're really going to read right now? That's fine, but I'm surprised you're not exhausted."

Bucky laughs, "Well, I don't want to be behind for our next meeting. Plus, this way, I can tab some more positions for us to try."

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scorpieuns · 1 day ago

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BED CHEM | SIM JAEYUN

anon request: “a jake drabble inspired by sabrina's bed chem... i cant stop thinking of jake whenever that song plays!!! like imagine meeting a shy and polite jake at a party but a few shots in he becomes a completely different person. getting so flirty, and sexy, and just oozing with confidence around you... and soon leading you up the stairs of his apartment, stumbling along the way bc he couldn't wait to get a taste of you.”

word count: 2.9k

warnings (18+): smut. swearing. alcohol. kissing. nipple play. protected sex. switch!jake. pussydrunk!jake. switch!reader. a bit of fluff.

MINORS DNI!!!

A/N: I canNOT write a “short” drabble to save my life, I’m just a serial yapper atp. Anyways, anon I hope it’s to your liking!

The air was thick with the scent of salt, spilled liquor, and cheap vanilla perfume, blending into the heady haze of a spring break party in full swing.

Music throbbed through Jay’s beach house, shaking the floor beneath your feet as bodies swayed in time with the bass.

Out on the patio, half-drunk couples tangled under string lights, while inside, groups gathered around beer pong tables, their laughter bubbling over the music. It was the kind of party where inhibitions dissolved like sand under high tide, where the night stretched endlessly, ripe with possibilities.

You were invited by Jay, much to your chagrin. But he had insisted, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he pleaded with you a few days ago, promising just a few drinks and a little fun.

So here you were, smiling involuntarily as you chewed on your bottom lip, laughing every now and then—mid conversation with Jake, one of Jay's (devastatingly attractive) friends from astrophysics class.

Your breath caught slightly each time those honey-brown eyes met yours, framed by impossibly long lashes that cast subtle shadows on his cheekbones.

You had caught him watching you earlier, his dark gaze lingering with something that made your skin tingle before flickering away, as if he wasn't supposed to be looking. His plump lips would part slightly whenever your eyes met, as if there were words caught in his throat.

It was endearing, really—the way he would rub the back of his neck when you laughed, or how he stammered through your introduction, his cheeks tinged with something close to nervousness. That beautiful smile of his would flash briefly, making your heart skip.

"I'm, uh, Jake," he had said, his voice a low, velvet rumble that seemed to resonate in your chest, his gaze dancing between you and the floor as if he couldn't quite decide which was safer.

But there was something about him that pulled you in like gravity itself. Maybe it was the way he listened—really listened—his focus entirely on you, as if the rest of the party had dissolved into static.

Or maybe it was how, under the soft-spoken words and shy smiles, there was something else that made your pulse quicken whenever he leaned in closer to hear you better, his cologne a subtle, intoxicating presence that made it hard to focus on your words.

And then, somewhere through the night between failed beer pong attempts and a few too many shots, something shifted in the air between you—undeniable, inevitable.

Maybe it was when his hands found your waist, gentle but sure, as he pulled you onto the dance floor. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you now—different, darker, like a switch had flipped and all his earlier hesitation had burned away into something more.

“You’re really something else, you know that?” Jake’s voice had changed—deeper, silkier, his lips brushing against your ear in a way that made your heart stutter.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He leaned in, and your breath hitched as his lips grazed your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “You. You’ve been driving me crazy all night.”

Something warm curled low in your stomach. This wasn’t the sweet awkward Jake from the living room. This Jake was bold, unwavering, and so sure of himself that it made your heart race.

His scent—clean, sharp, with the faintest notes of cedar—wrapped around you, drowning out everything else.

“I can’t believe Jay would hide such a pretty girl from me.” His fingers traced absent patterns along your waist, his touch deliberately featherlight but addicting all the same.

You laughed softly, threading your fingers through the soft hair at his nape. "Maybe he was trying to protect you from trouble."

Jake's answering laugh sent vibrations against your skin as his hands skimmed up your sides.

"Trouble looks good on you.” His gaze traveled down, appreciating how your dress hugged your body, before meeting your eyes again with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as gorgeous as you,” he murmured, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk. “It’s almost unfair, really.”

You laughed as your pulse stuttered. “Jake, are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” He replied, tilting his head—then, with deliberate slowness, his fingers traced up your arm. “But,” he spoke up, finding the fallen strap of your dress and sliding it back into place with a softness that beautifully contrasted with the look in his eyes.

“That doesn’t make it any less true.”

The touch was nothing. A simple gesture. And yet it sent a thrill coursing through you.

So this is what they mean by liquid courage, huh?

“Who are you,” you teased, running your fingers through his hair, just firmly enough to earn a low groan that made your stomach flip, “and what have you done with the shy guy from earlier?”

Jake’s hand found your waist again, drawing you against him until there was barely any space left. The air between you was thick, his lips hovering teasingly close to yours.

Close enough to taste the promise in his smile, close enough to make you ache.

“He’s in there somewhere,” Jake murmured, his grin slow and devastating enough to make your knees weak.

And then, just as you leaned in to close that maddening distance, he pulled back slightly, leaving you chasing the phantom warmth of his almost-kiss.

But you could grumble in disappointment, he lifted his gaze to yours, eyes dark with unmistakable desire and something deeper, more tender.

“Wanna get out of here?”

The answer tumbled from your lips without hesitation, “Yeah.”

—

There was something both thrilling and torturous about being so utterly, maddeningly consumed with sexual frustration.

From the heated, borderline shameless makeout session in the back of the Uber (which, judging by the driver’s stiff posture, was definitely unwelcome) to the way Jake stumbled his way up the stairs, his grip on your hand tight and desperate—it was a slow, agonizing burn.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could take it.

Jake groaned as he struggled with his keys, his breath uneven, his hands not nearly as steady as they should have been. “You know,” he murmured, voice thick with frustration, “what you’re doing is really distracting.”

A slow, teasing smile spread across your lips as you pressed another soft kiss along his jaw, feeling the way he tensed beneath your touch.

“(Y/N)” He warned and you sighed dramatically, letting your head rest against the door as you murmured, “Then what am I supposed to do when I can’t kiss you right now?”

As if the universe itself had taken pity on you, the lock finally gave way with a soft click.

And then you were stumbling inside, barely making it through the doorway before Jake spun you around, his lips crashing into yours with a need that sent a shiver down your spine.

The door slammed shut behind you, but you barely heard it over the pounding of your heart.

Jake pulled you close, his touch sending a buzz through your veins as he gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin.

You moaned softly against his lips, and his response was almost instant, his kiss growing more fervent, mouth moving against yours with a need that had you panting.

He was so good.

Jake tugged you closer, pulling you down the hall, trying to make it to his bedroom without tripping or running into anything. Not that it was an easy task when he was kissing you like this.

But finally, after what felt like an eternity, you were falling back onto the bed, the soft mattress catching you as Jake climbed on top of you.

There was something almost intoxicating about having him above you, his broad body looming over yours, his dark brown, heavy-lidded eyes raking over you as if he wanted to devour you whole.

Your lips parted, and Jake leaned down to kiss you, his tongue pushing past your lips to brush against yours. He pulled away without a second breath, grazing kisses along your neck, recklessly marking you from your neck to your collarbone as your head fell back.

The feathery feeling of his lips seemed to cloud your mind, soft moans emitting from your lips as he nipped at your skin.

You squirmed beneath him, and you could feel his growing arousal pressing against your thigh, making your breath hitch.

He continued his trail of kisses down your body, only breaking away as you pulled your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

Jake’s lips immediately met yours again in feverish measure as his hands trailed down your neck, curving over your sternum and landing on your tits.

You moaned into the kiss when his hands began to cup the soft flesh—pressing your thighs together, scouring for some sort of friction that would dull your painful desire.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” Jake panted as his hand grazed over your tit, nipple pebbling against the cold sensation of his rings making you whimper.

He squeezed the soft flesh with a lewd groan, arching into him with an involuntary moan as his tongue flicked over your nipples. You were so sensitive, the feeling sending a jolt through you, gasping as Jake grinned against your skin.

Your fingers meet his dark locks at its own accord, gripping the messy strands as you arched your back with a cry, the feeling of his teeth scraping against your nipple causing a spark of pain mixed with pleasure.

His other hand snaked down between your legs, brushing the damp spot that had formed on your underwear as you bucked into his hand with a whimper.

“Fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby.” He groaned at the feeling of your arousal coating his fingers, lips meeting yours once more in a hungry, feverish kiss.

Jake broke away from your lips, swiftly lifting his shirt off his body as he discarded it somewhere in the room, the sound of his belt unbuckling shooting right to your core.

“Wan’ you so bad.” You whined.

Jake smirked as he hovered over you again, hands meeting your jaw as his other hand travelled to your inner thigh—hooking his finger under the hem of your panties, stroking your clit and eliciting a gasp from you.

His voice was deep and raspy as he murmured, "Tell me, baby."

You could feel the flush creeping up your neck as his touch sent a shiver through you, your thighs trembling with desire.

"Please..."

"Please, what?"

His thumb swiped across your clit, the sudden friction causing you to moan, the sound muffled by his lips.

Jake pulled away slightly, his lips brushing against yours as he murmured, "Be good, (Y/N), and tell me."

The way his voice seemed to drop an octave had your heart hammering against your chest, the heat pooling in your stomach.

"Fuck me, please."

Jake wasted no time pulling your panties away from your body, discarding them somewhere off the side of the bed. He pulled his pants and boxers off with a few swift motions, his cock springing free from its confines.

“Fuck.” you whispered, marvelling at just how pretty his dick looked, clenching around nothing.

Jake grabbed a condom and slipped it on, his gaze never leaving you. "God, you look so fucking good."

Jake moved over to your lips, brushing against them as his tongue tentatively darted out, tracing the swell of your lips. You let him in, tangling your tongue with his and sucking hard.

You both simultaneously moan at the feeling of his cock grazing your clit. He moved again, lining himself up with your entrance.

"Ready?" He asked, his voice raspy and thick.

You nodded, biting your lip.

"Use your words, princess." he tapped his tip along your glistening folds warningly, whimpering at the contact.

"Yes! Yes– please. Fuck me."

He pushed the tip of his cock into your heat, teasingly rubbing it against your folds. He kissed your jaw, his tongue brushing against yours.

Jake groaned as he pushed his length inside you, your body tensing up at the feeling. Your head tipped back at the sensation of him entirely inside you, moaning when he took the liberty of moving.

"Fuck, princess."

You bit your lips as you moaned with every thrust if his hips–nails digging into his back, the slight pain driving him wild.

"God, (Y/N), you feel so fucking good."

You were a moaning mess, his cock filling you, stretching you, as his thrusts sped up—the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

"Fuck, Jake. Don’t—don’t stop." you cried out.

Jake kissed your neck, his breath warm on your skin. He was whispering sweet nothings to you, but you couldn't cohere any of it, only his groans and moans.

You whimpered, his thrusts hitting all the right places, your hips rocking against him.

You whimpered, his cock hitting a particularly sensitive spot inside you, over and over again as your moans grew louder, your cries filling the room—digging your nails into the skin of his arm as the pleasure overwhelms you.

"You’re so hot-so good for me." Jake moaned, eyebrows knit in pleasure as whimpers slipped past his pretty lips.

You were getting close, his beautiful moans and the pornographic sounds of skin slapping together sending you off the edge—the pleasure threatening to make you fall apart.

"M’ so close, please, don't stop." You beg.

Jake thrusts into you faster and harder, and you cry, feeling yourself teeter over the edge. Your hands reach out to grip his arms, his muscles flexing beneath your fingertips as you arch your back with a loud moan.

You squirm under him, screaming his name as your orgasm crashes into you, almost seeing stars as he continues to thrust into you.

He presses sloppy kisses against the blooming marks on your neck, hands squeezing your tits—as though he can’t get enough of you.

The way his cock disappears inside your pussy makes him groan, the sight alone egging him on as he snaps his hips into you making your breath hitch as you involuntarily clench around him.

His mind was mushy, thoughts jumbled, too consumed with pleasure to form any coherent idea besides you.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He slurred, sliding your thigh under his arm as he lifted your thigh over his shoulder, high on the feeling of your cunt hugging him with each hard thrust.

“Jake shit-“ you let out a choked moan, the new position sending your sensitive walls into overdrive, equally impressed and shocked that he was still going.

Jake leaned in to kiss you, his desperate moans muffled by your lips until he couldn’t kiss you back anymore, mouth falling agape.

The feeling of you around him was so intoxicating, so mind blowing, so good. You were so sweet, so beautiful—so so fucking pretty.

You brushed back his damp strands, hand traveling to his pink cheeks as your thumb toyed with his bottom lip.

A smirk found itself on your lips as you gazed at him, lust blown eyes looking at you with adoration as he continuously whimpered your name.

Pride couldn’t help but swell in your chest as Jake’s newfound boldness seemed to wilt away…all to being pussydrunk.

“You are such a pretty mess for me aren’t you, baby?”

Jake nods without hesitation or second thought.

"Fuck, princess. I'm so close." He drops his head into the crook of neck with whiny moans.

His voice was strained, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his body trembling.

“I'm gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum.”

“Then come for me, baby”

Jake's eyebrows knit together as bites his lip, his cock twitching in you as his orgasm washed over him.

You watched as his head fall back, his eyes rolling back into his head, a long, drawn out moan escaping his lips.

"F-fuck." Jake groaned, his eyes squeezing shut, his body shaking.

"That's it." You cooed as his hips jerked erratically, thrusting into you a few more times before you felt his warmth fill you.

"Fuck, (Y/N)." Jake breathed, his voice still ragged.

You giggled, the sound causing Jake's heart to skip a beat.

Jake took a moment to catch his breath before he rolled off of you, removing the condom and tossing it into the trash bin next to his bed.

“That was…” he collapses back into the bed, raking his fingers into his hair.

“…Amazing?” You tease, leaning over to rest your chin on his chest.

“Yeah.” But after a moment, the dazed look in eyes finally disappears as he sits up in a panic, “but was that okay—are you fine?”

You press a kiss to his lips, “Jake, I’m fine, relax.” You laugh, “I liked it, I mean…clearly”

He cracks a smile of his own, leaning in to kiss you this time, hand caressing the side of your neck as he deepens the kiss, much sweeter than the ones before.

You softly bite his bottom lip as you briefly pull away, smirking at the groan that leaves his throat.

“Are you free next week?”

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #jake sim x reader #jake sim smut #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun smut #jake x reader #jake smut #jaeyun x reader #jaeyun smut #meet cute #bed chem #sabrina carpenter #short n sweet #kpop smut #smut

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magical-reid · 11 hours ago

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The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

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ambiguouspuzuma · 3 days ago

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One thing not really mentioned here (and in other replies I've seen) is that from my memory Legends & Lattes did have high stakes!

This wasn't just about a business failing and plunging the protagonist into bankruptcy. There was the ex-colleague spellcaster out to get her, as well as the local mob closing in. There were threats to life and death as well as turnover.

For me it's more that they were resolved relatively easily. Our protagonist was strong and capable and the plot was largely just a procession of people turning up to offer their help. It felt too easy and predictable. Problems were introduced but then easily brushed aside. They didn't feel real. There was alleged danger, but no tension.

As a contrast, A Rival Most Vial takes a similar premise, and arguably lower stakes, but makes the tension really work by having two protagonists playing off against each other. We're taught to want two things which are in direct contradiction. Suddenly we have a problem where we can't see the easy solution. It's the tension of a tragedy, where we can see both points of view but know they can't both win.

Legends & Lattes didn't work for me because it didn't feel real. As noted above in its favour, it was a list of tasks to be done, and they were all completed in order. It never made me think, and it never really gave me a character to care for. But A Rival Most Vial proves that this is not a limitation of the genre, and nothing to do with the height of the stakes.

Low stakes stories can have plenty of narrative tension and have you fretting and pulling out your hair. The internal stakes just need to be clear, making you understand why the character cares about their goal, and they need to face plausible obstacles - which, in the absence of credible external threats, can be other people. You can write a gripping story based entirely on interpersonal drama, with no higher stakes than hurt feelings and botched relationships. You just need to actually sell that.

Cosy fantasy does work. But it's not just writing a fantasy story, dialling down the setting, and hoping that what's left is enough. It isn't just high-fantasy-light, watering down the dungeons and dragons with something more domestic. If you're removing the epic quest, you need to replace that plot with something else - characters and a premise that would have worked fine as a story in a non-fantasy setting.

It can be a romance, a coming-of-age story, whatever, but it needs to be a plot that could stand on its own feet without the fantasy trappings, and you're just setting it in a fantasy world. I don't feel like Legends & Lattes does that - it seems to start with the fantasy world, and tell a half-hearted story which nobody would want to read otherwise. But I think the core characters and relationships of A Rival Most Vial are compelling in any world, and the fun worldbuilding of their setting is just the frosting on the top.

Cozy Fantasy and Why It Doesn't Work

I think I am among many who feel like they should love cozy fantasy and have found it an incredibly lacking genre.

This newly branded "cozy fantasy" genre that has taken readers by storm since 2020 and while it is new that books are now marketed as cozy, the genre itself isn't new. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a great example of the genre before it was labeled and also how to make it work.

Cozy fantasy is defined by many as fantasy with low stakes. Fantasy aesthetic but less sword fights. On paper, it sounds great. But the execution has been less than stellar for readers like me. The lack of physical stakes has also impacted the emotional stakes of these books, creating forgettable characters with boring problems. As a romance reader, I find this frustrating. Romance is known for being a predictable and formulaic genre, the now defunct Romance Writers of America defined romances as needing happy endings, a term romances have continued to follow. Yet these romance texts manage to have low physical stakes (how to date your neighbor, how to confront your toxic friends, etc) while still maintaining high personal stakes that keep readers invested and begging for more. So I was initially confused why cozy fantasy authors struggle to write texts that connect to readers like me.

I think I have found the answer which is the genre is just here for vibes. It is all about aesthetic, not even worldbuilding that fantasy is known for as most cozy fantasy I read have so many problems as soon as you ask one question. It is hard to acknowledge that a genre that is pitched to work for readers like me doesn't work for many of us. Especially because occasionally there is one that works beautifully to my taste.

I often say my favorite cozy fantasies that are more contemporary are short and visual, which I plays into the idea of the genre being an aesthetic. The Bakery Dragon by Devin Elle Kurtz is a good example because it is a simple story that is given the perfect amount of pages and gorgeous visuals without dragging on when the message is very clear and easy to understand. Books like The Phoenix Keeper and Legends and Lattes have absolutely nothing for me, their very clear message hitting the reader over and over so the readers don't miss it and focusing on the aesthetic of worldbuilding rather than the reality of the fantastic elements within the world.

I guess my point is. . . I realize this genre isn't for me since I have realized it is more of an aesthetic than anything. .. .but I want it to be. Should I let it go and put my efforts elsewhere? Or should I keep exploring this new trend and find the hidden gems?

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aleskie · 1 day ago

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JUST DRINK THE DAMN WATER | Quinn Hughes x Reader

Summary: You've always tried to not be a nepo-partner. But when you're sick? Quinn throws all that out of the window. After all, you deserve only the best for your stay at the hospital!

Warnings: None!! Just Quinn being a lil (a lot) over protective when you get sick. Author's Note: Requested by my sweet @sweetestcaptainhughes MWAH MWAH

Oh Captain, My Captain Coming home late tonight.

Have you eaten?

Did you drink water at all today?

Just so we're clear, Coffee is a liquid but it is NOT water. Same thing with tea.

Also, get some rest. I know you barely slept last night trying to finish up work.

Take care of yourself.

I love you :)

Heart ♥️ I will drink water :D

And get some rest ;p

Thank you :>>

I love you too!

Let's be honest here.

You did not drink water. No rest either, too focused on finishing deadlines.

And that's how you ended up in Quinn's car enroute to the hospital.

You were pretty sure he broke every traffic rule trying to get you there, but you were too delirious to make sense of anything.

There were flashes—headlights streaking past, the sharp sound of honking, Quinn muttering curses under his breath. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, gripping it so tightly it looked like he was trying to keep the entire world from falling apart. Everything blurred together, a mess of fragmented memories you couldn’t quite piece together. Then—hospital lights, the sterile chill of the emergency room, the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. Unfamiliar hands everywhere, pressing, prodding, asking you questions you couldn’t answer to, trying to assess you.

But through it all, there was Quinn.

You could hear him above everyone else, snapping at nurses, demanding someone check your vitals. You see a brief scene of him hovering so close they had to physically push him back. He only relented—barely—when they hooked you up to an IV, but even then, his eyes stayed locked on the bag, on the heart rate monitor, almost as if he didn’t trust them to do their job fast enough.

You see him pacing, checking your chart, running a hand through his already messy hair before he all but rips open the curtain to leave the small station they’d set up for you in the emergency room. You hear faint voices coming from outside as he pries them for updates. You hear muffled sounds of him pulling rank when they enter the room. Leveraging whatever he could to get information out of them until someone actually listened. Until they moved quicker, until you got better faster.

“C’mon, I’ll get you guys good tickets to the next Canucks game—just get them in a room.”

“Sir, we’re doing the best we can, but the combination of dehydration and exhaustion isn’t something to overlook. Especially with a fever starting to set in.”

Quinn groaned, a sound of pure impatience. “Then at least get them out of this damn hallway. Somewhere quiet where they can actually rest.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

More muffled voices. A heated back-and-forth. You couldn’t focus on it, the exhaustion pulling you under.

The next thing you knew, you were moving. Or maybe the bed was.

Where? You didn’t know. But sleep was already dragging you down before you could figure it out.

Finally, finally, your eyes flutter open. The room is hazy, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above you, but you're awake. Awake enough to function.

“Quinny,” your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. He’s at your side instantly, like he was just waiting for a sign, any sign, that you were still with him.

His touch is gentle, the back of his hand brushing your forehead, checking for any lingering fever before his fingers find yours. He links them together like he’s afraid to let go, pressing a firm kiss to your knuckles. Like he needs the contact to ground himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his voice low and strained. “Don’t do that again.”

You blink up at him, still dazed, but the sheer worry in his expression makes your chest ache. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense like he’s still running on the adrenaline of getting you here. Like he hasn’t let himself breathe properly until now.

“Come here,” you murmur, barely able to lift your hand, but reaching for him anyway. “Please.”

He exhales sharply, like he wants to argue, but one look at you, and it’s over. He doesn’t hesitate, just climbs into the impossibly small hospital bed without a second thought.

It wasn’t meant for two people, but he makes it work, shifting until you’re tucked against his chest, his arms caging you in, careful of the IV in your arm. You feel the weight of his body, the warmth of him, and suddenly, everything feels a little less cold.

“They didn’t even want to give you a proper bed,” he huffs against your hair, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. “Had to make a fucking scene.”

You smile weakly, pressing your cheek against his hoodie. “Of course you did.”

Quinn lets out a breath, finally, finally relaxing for the first time since you collapsed. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your back, soothing, grounding. “Next time, just drink the damn water,” he mutters, and you can almost hear the pout in his voice.

“And get some sleep,” he adds, softer this time, like he knows you’re already slipping under again.

You hum, your body melting into his, exhaustion pulling you under. But as long as his arms are around you, you figure you’ll be okay.

#quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes #qh43 #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl #nhl x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 3 days ago

Text

So this is 5k words. Didn't mean for that to happen. This is for BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Sixteen: Didn't Know They Were Dating AU. This is the one fill that doesn't take place in the same timeline as my other fills and is set in some nebulous period between 405 and 409. So Buck knows about Daniel. Jes-Yun isn't born yet. You can also read this on AO3 here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

They meet one night when Maddie is asked to cover a shift at the last minute and Chimney begs Buck to step in for a karaoke trivia thing he'd been invited to. When he arrives at the bar, Chimney is sitting with two big guys at a table. One of the guys introduces himself as Sal, and he seems cool enough. The other guy is Tommy, and he's definitely really cool.

“My girlfriend's brother is stepping in for her,” Chimney explains.

“H-hey,” Buck says, waving awkwardly. “I'm Evan. Buck. Evan Buckley.”

It's the least smooth way he's ever introduced himself in his adult life, but he keeps wondering what the hell Tommy's diet and exercise routine is. The guy is massive. He's so warm, though, when he shakes Buck's hand. Literally, because his hands are radiating heat, but he also smiles with his whole face instead of just a polite tilt of his mouth. Buck finds himself smiling back and ducking his head when Tommy lets his hand go.

“Wasn't your girlfriend the secret karaoke weapon?” Sal asks.

“Yeah, but this guy's the secret trivia weapon,” Chimney says, clapping Buck on the shoulder. “You said science and history always gets you, right? Here's your solution.”

Buck flushes and shrugs when Tommy's eyes sweep over him. “I hope I can help.”

He settles in for a night of karaoke trivia, and he's not much help on the pop culture stuff. But there's an entire series of questions themed around popular animals at the LA Zoo, and Buck gets all of them. As he answers, Tommy's blue eyes stay on him, and Buck finds himself answering with more and more confidence. When Celestial Bodies turns out to be the next category, he's quick to answer everything he knows instead of waiting politely for everyone else in the group.

By the end, the Worst Responders (Sal’s idea) win the night, and they sit with a pitcher of beer, their pride, and a Visa gift card each. When Chimney goes to take a call from Maddie and Sal gets up to use the bathroom, Buck suddenly doesn't know what to say to Tommy.

“That was pretty amazing, Evan,” Timmy says, raising his glass.

Buck opens his mouth to correct him, but instead he clinks their glasses and says, “Not so bad yourself, Tommy.”

Tommy's eyes dip as they both take long drinks of their beer, and Buck hopes he doesn't have something on his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand just to be on the safe side.

“Man, I can't believe you can fly,” Buck says, settling back into his chair. “That's so cool.”

“Well,” Tommy says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, “I need the aircraft to fly.”

Buck makes a face at him. “Yeah, I know, but it's amazing. I always wanted to learn. When I was traveling, I'd end up on these tiny planes sometimes and always thought it would be fun.”

“I could maybe show you a few things,” Tommy says, resting his elbows on the table. “My rates are pretty competitive.”

Buck’s reply is cut off by Chimney plopping down next to him.

“Heard a girl talking about you,” Chimney says, nudging Buck and nodding back toward the bar.

He glances but doesn’t really see anyone specifically looking at him. He figures she’ll find him if she’s really interested. His focus goes back to Tommy, who is sliding a coaster around under his finger and smiling to himself a bit, but he doesn’t look all that happy. Instead, he’s just sort of…resigned.

“How competitive?” Buck asks, and Tommy blinks at him.

Tommy looks between Chimney, Buck, and something behind Buck before his eyes settle back on him. “We can figure something out. Honestly, I don’t usually charge friends. Except Sal.”

“For what?” Chimney asks, frowning at his phone screen.

“Thought I might take up flying,” Buck says, shrugging.

Chimney snorts. “Yeah. That’ll last. This kid’s got more hobbies than anyone I’ve ever met. Dude, I think someone stole my credit card number again. Hold up, I gotta call my bank.”

He disappears again, and Buck looks over his shoulder to see Sal is talking to a pretty girl at the bar, and she glances at Buck. When she sees him looking, she smiles shyly before looking back at Sal. If she’s the girl Chimney was talking about, she is pretty cute.

“I don’t have a lot of hobbies,” Buck says, turning his attention back to Tommy. “Well, kind of. I have a lot of interests, I guess. Which, yeah, is kinda weird, but I like the idea of flying. So I would absolutely be down to learn, and I’d be happy to pay for the fuel or your time or whatever. It’s like learning a superpower.”

Tommy smiles and slides his phone over. “Go ahead and put your number in.”

Buck does, noticing that the contact name is already filled in as ‘Evan,’ and he doesn’t bother correcting that either.

By the time they all leave, Buck has Tommy’s number in his own phone and realizes he forgot to get the girl’s number.

–

Flying is so cool, but Buck thinks Tommy might be a maniac. He’ll do maneuvers that don’t feel like they should be physically possible, and then he laughs over the headset. It’s terrifying and amazing, and Buck is flushed and breathless by the time they land on the tarmac at Harbor Station.

“That was awesome!” he says. “Okay, yeah, I owe you a beer. A dozen beers.”

Tommy takes off the headset and smiles. “How about dinner?”

Buck smiles back, though he feels like he’s still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, okay. I could do dinner.”

–

Micelli’s is nice, and they’ve apparently got good beer and good food. Buck finds out that Tommy’s half Italian on his mom’s side, which explains a lot about his looks. His nose is so regal from the side, and Buck’s found his eyes tracing its shape more than once. His mom was first generation, so Tommy was practically raised by a bunch of older Italian women and his grandfather until he was in high school.

“So when you say the food here is good, you know what you’re talking about,” Buck concludes, and Tommy nods. “Alright, I believe you.”

“What about your family?” Tommy asks, and Buck shrugs. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, they’re…fine,” Buck says, shrugging again. He still feels raw when he thinks about his parents. “They’re, uh, back in Pennsylvania. Except Maddie. I think we’re British? Just sort of, uh, WASP-y? But I don’t really know a lot about my family.”

Hell, he knew even less than he ever realized.

“I don’t know a lot about my dad’s family,” Tommy says, and it feels like he understands based on the way he says it. It loosens some of the anxiety that had been building in Buck’s chest. “Scottish, Irish? Something like that. But I never looked too hard. Italians, though, you’d be hard-pressed to find a family that doesn’t want every generation to know every story and legend and the name of every town everyone was ever born in.”

“Family recipes?”

Tommy snorts. “I have a box of them. I’ve been trying to transcribe them just in case something ever happens to them, but there’s so many.”

Buck shrugs. “I could help.”

“Yeah?” Tommy looks surprised at his offer.

“Yeah, I’m kinda good at that kind of stuff,” he admits. “Plus, hey, I wouldn’t say no to learning some new recipes. I feel like I’m finally really getting the hang of cooking. Maybe I can even teach Bobby a thing or two.”

They start talking about the 118, and Buck is surprised at just how different it used to be. From the sound of it, Tommy was really different. Sal, too. And then Tommy felt like he was able to get a new start at Harbor.

“I just didn’t want to die in a closet, you know?” he says, and Buck tries to parse what that could mean. “I wasn’t out at the 118. Everyone thought I was straight until, I don’t know, my last month there? I finally told them right after my transfer went through.”

Buck blinks, realizing he’d somehow totally missed that Tommy’s gay. He realizes his silence could be taken for discomfort and panics. “Th-that’s great! I’m glad you were able to do that. It’s hard. It’s a hard thing to go through.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, smiling softly. “Well, it’s actually just…freeing. Once you get past actually saying the words.”

“That sounds amazing,” Buck says, sighing. It does. The idea of feeling free has always felt like something he’s been looking for. Being at the 118 is the closest thing he’s ever found to that, but he wonders if it feels the same.

Tommy hesitates and starts to say something, but then their server arrives to take their food orders. Buck forgets to ask him what he was going to say, because he starts second-guessing what he was going to order and leans across to ask Tommy about one of the dishes. When Tommy leans in to look at where Buck’s pointing on the menu, his forearm presses against Buck’s and radiates heat the same way his hand did when they met, the same way his whole body did when he'd hugged Buck after their flight and when they met outside the restaurant. He wonders if it's a natural thing for him or if it's his muscle mass that does it.

“So you do like mushrooms?” Tommy asks, and Buck nods. “Yeah, you'll love that, then. But save room for dessert.”

“Okay,” Buck says, unable to keep himself from ducking his head and smiling as Tommy confirms with the server that Buck is getting whatever the hell it was Tommy had pointed to. He hadn't been paying attention.

–

He loves Tommy’s house. It’s got books and movies and records crammed into every available shelf in the living room, and there are cool old tiles in the kitchen and bathrooms that Tommy’s never going to touch even when he updates the rooms.

“Kitchen’s next, but I did a lot of the hard work with the electrical and plumbing already,” Tommy explains. He goes to a cabinet above his fridge and reaches in for an old cigar box. When he stretches for it, his shirt rides up and Buck blinks at the strip of skin that’s exposed. He suddenly feels guilty for staring and forces himself to look at the view of Tommy’s backyard from the window above the sink. “Here they are.”

Tommy sets the box on the counter and flips it open. Inside are old recipe cards, torn out recipes from magazines and ads, swooping writing on yellowed paper, and what looks to be more than one recipe torn out of cookbooks.

They’re killing time before a movie that’s playing at the theater by Tommy’s place, but Buck wants to dive into the recipes and figure out what it was that his family liked or what was important to them, what they held onto across generations, and which ones made little Tommy love desserts so much.

“Can you tell who wrote them?” he asks, carefully turning over a recipe card for some kind of soup made with lentils and sausage.

“Some of them,” Tommy says, leaning over and looking at the card he’s holding. “That was Prozia Camilla, I think. She always wrote her Bs really weird.”

“What’s that?” Buck asks, looking over at Tommy. He realizes he’s close, but it’s not making him uncomfortable. He feels a little warm, but it’s not from discomfort or embarrassment. The heat might be on in the house, or it's just Tommy being a human space heater. “Aunt?”

“Great-aunt,” Tommy clarifies. “Aunt is zia, uncle is zio—pretty easy. Nonna, Nonno–grandma, grandpa. Cugina, cugino–cousin, female or male. You add pro for great-aunts and -uncles, bis for great-grandparents. There’s one that’s in a baggy from Bisnonna Valia, I think she wrote it down when Mussolini was in power.”

Buck carefully picks through the box until he finds it, and he doesn’t take it out. He does inspect it, though. The paper is translucent and faded, the ink a brown-ish color. “What’s it for?”

“Canestrelli. It’s kind of like a shortbread cookie.”

He likes how Tommy says the words in Italian, the way his mouth shapes the vowels and kind of rolls the Rs but not really, the syllables he emphasizes a little differently than the way Buck probably would if he read the word from a page. He’d asked Tommy if he spoke Italian, and he sort of did. He mostly just understood it, but he sounded like he knew it whenever he said any of the words.

“These are amazing,” Buck says softly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the paper inside its protective plastic. “Is it weird that I wish I knew them? All the people who wrote these down.”

When he glances at Tommy, Tommy’s looking at him and not at the recipe anymore. “No,” Tommy replies softly. “I don’t think that’s weird at all. They would’ve loved you.”

Buck grins. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

He flushes happily at the thought, even if Tommy’s just being nice. When he sets the recipe back in the box, the alarm on Tommy’s phone goes off.

“I kind of want to just look at these,” Buck admits. “But you said the movie’s really good.”

“Evan, it’s Casablanca,” Tommy says dryly. “It’s literally one of the greatest movies ever made.”

“Well, then I guess we have to go,” Buck teases, closing the box and handing it over to him.

When Tommy puts the box back, Buck’s eyes dip to his ass this time. It’s really a work of art. He wonders what kind of squats he does.

–

Buck’s a mess.

“You didn’t tell me it would be sad,” he moans as he snacks on the last of his popcorn on the way to Tommy’s truck. He’d driven, because it was easier than trying to find parking for two cars near the theater.

“A lot of the best romance movies are,” Tommy says. “But I don’t think it’s that sad. He loves her, and he knows she’s going to be happy. It’s not like Ghost or Moulin Rouge or Brokeback Mountain or anything.”

“I’ve never seen those,” Buck admits. “How can it get any sadder?”

“I mean, one of them could’ve died.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, I guess. But—can you imagine finding the person who makes you feel like that and having to watch them walk away with someone else? People don’t realize how awful it feels to just be left behind.”

He realizes he’s projecting a lot onto a movie that’s eighty years old, but it does suck. Buck would know.

“Sometimes you just want to be the one people will stick around for,” he mumbles.

Tommy bumps their shoulders together gently as they walk. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck smiles and bumps his shoulder back. “You say that now.”

“I can’t imagine wanting to leave you behind if I could help it, Evan.”

The way he says it makes Buck’s heart thud in his chest, and for a moment he’s worried about another blood clot. He looks over at Tommy, who’s looking at him, and he smiles.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

Tommy puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes him close for a moment before they get to the truck. Buck gets into the passenger seat and considers the few kernels of popcorn left. He wonders what Tommy’s favorite happy romance movie is and what it’s like, what he likes about it and the characters, if he identifies more with one than the other.

“So that’s the best romance movie?” he asks instead.

“I mean, that’s subjective, right?” Tommy says, turning on the truck and pulling away from the curb. “I think it’s pretty close to being the most objectively perfect one, yeah.”

“Is it your favorite?”

Tommy considers the question for a moment. “It's up there. It changes, honestly. I really like Love, Actually, but Princess Bride and Moonstruck are amazing, too. Casablanca is pretty perfect, though.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Buck says, smiling. “I did like it. It just, y’know, made me a little sad. Also, I didn’t realize that whole ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ thing was a reference. I’ve heard so many people say that and thought it was some idiom I never learned.”

Tommy snorts and shakes his head. “I swear, I will expand your knowledge of movies.”

Buck normally doesn’t really care. He doesn’t have the same attachment to movies that a lot of his friends have, but he likes Tommy showing him things. The flying, the restaurant, the recipe box, the movie—maybe Muay Thai? He knows Eddie does it. Buck’s never really had an interest in it, but Tommy had offered to teach him and Buck had twirled his pasta around his fork and said he’d be interested because nothing sounded cooler. Now that he’s seen the set-up in Tommy’s garage, it would be kind of awesome to have one-on-one lessons and then go inside to make old family recipes.

He looks over at Tommy as he drives, and he notes that Tommy seems as at ease behind a wheel as he is doing anything else. He had also seen the car lift in Tommy’s garage, currently empty but awaiting a Chevelle he’d had his eye on that needed work, and he wonders if he’s always liked cars.

As he watches, he also realizes that Tommy’s side profile is pretty perfect. It’s not just the nose, it’s his entire face. Tommy’s a really handsome guy.

“Evan?” Tommy asks, sounding amused.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Buck slides down in his seat a little, feeling caught out for some reason. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Tommy slows to a stop at the light and looks over at Buck. He smiles and squeezes Buck’s wrist briefly, his huge hand almost engulfing it. He doesn’t understand how someone his height can be so big. With his free hand, he reaches over and picks up Tommy’s hand, manipulating the digits until they’re flat, and he presses their hands together to compare the size. Buck’s never met someone with bigger hands than his who wasn’t at least six and a half feet tall, but Tommy’s fingers stretch a little further, his palm is a little broader.

Then Tommy turns his palm just a little and curls his fingers until they’re between Buck’s, and Buck curls his fingers, too. He smiles and looks up at Tommy, who’s looking at him intently. It makes Buck’s heart pound again.

A car honks, and Tommy startles a little. He laughs to himself as he continues driving toward his house, both hands back on the wheel, and Buck feels his hand close around nothing, feeling empty.

–

Tommy is walking him to his car, even though it’s parked right in front of his house. They’re talking about the next series of movies the theater is showing—old noir stuff, some of which Tommy’s never even seen.

“That could be cool,” Buck says, putting his hands in his jacket pocket so he won’t reach for Tommy’s hand again. It would be weird. “We can see when our shifts line up.”

“They do them all in two month blocks,” Tommy explains wryly. “So that’s going to be a lot of calendar checking.”

“We can always share them to each other,” Buck points out. “Figure out other days we can do stuff.”

Tommy’s eyes look between Buck’s, down to his chin, and back at his eyes again. “Like what?”

Buck smiles and shrugs. “Anything. I mean, we’re kind of the perfect bar trivia partners. We can go around town and hustle all of them out of their gift cards and small cash prizes. But I really do want to help you with the recipe thing. You really think your family would’ve liked me?”

“Evan, do you have any idea how likeable you are?” Tommy asks, leaning his shoulder against Buck’s door.

“Hey, you’re pretty likeable yourself,” Buck says shyly. “You’re kind of the coolest person I’ve ever—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because there are two fingers under his chin and a pair of lips on his. For a moment, he freezes, because Tommy is kissing him. That should be weird. He’s never had a male friend kiss him on the lips unless it was during Spin the Bottle or under mistletoe, and those were always pecks or done with some reluctance on their part. But he can feel Tommy start to pull away and wants anything but that, so he brings his hand up to Tommy’s shoulder and keeps him there while Buck kisses back.

Tommy’s lips are soft, though his stubble is a little scratchy, but Buck doesn’t mind it. He really doesn’t mind it.

“Was that okay?” Tommy whispers when he does finally pull back.

Buck nods and his eyes drop to Tommy’s lips, which don’t look any different than they did a minute ago, but now he knows how they feel against his. He still has a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and brings his other one up to cup his jaw to keep him still when Buck goes in for another kiss.

It feels better than okay. It feels like a real first—well, second now—kiss. He feels like an alarm bell should be going off somewhere in his head, but all he’s getting is a need to feel more of him, to taste more of him.

They’re kind of making out against Buck’s Jeep, and Buck is definitely going to need to talk to Hen about this. If he likes kissing a guy just as much as he’s liked kissing a girl—hell, more than he’s liked kissing some girls—what does that mean?

Tommy pulls away again and presses their foreheads together. They’re both breathing hard, and Buck wonders if Tommy will ask him to come inside.

“I meant to take this a lot slower,” Tommy says. “You seemed…new. I know Howie doesn’t know, but does anyone?”

Buck wonders if he’d missed something in their conversation. “Know what?”

“That you’re—” he gestures between them. Then he pulls back more and searches Buck’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

“What?” he asks again, feeling very slow. He doesn’t love the feeling, but he's also still really stuck on the feeling of Tommy's lips.

“Wait, are you?”

“Oh, my god, Tommy, am I what?” he asks, laughing.

“Into guys?”

Buck blinks. “I don’t—I’ve never really thought about it?”

Except for that one time in Texas, but he knew that he came off as flirty sometimes when he didn’t mean to. That hadn’t been TK’s fault. Hell, TK was gorgeous and a really good firefighter, and—oh.

“Oh,” Buck says, raising his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“Are you okay?” Tommy asks, searching Buck’s face for something. He’s not touching Buck anymore, which kind of sucks.

“Yeah.” He looks at Tommy and smiles. “Yeah, I’m great.”

He is. He really is. It’s a little bit of a shock, but he’s pretty sure he’ll be fine. Well, he might need to talk to Hen and Maddie and Bobby.

Then it hits him—Tommy walked him to his car. While the sun was up. In a good neighborhood. After the movies. He’d done the same thing after Micelli’s, after they’d flown, and he’d hugged Buck every time. It had felt good and warm and safe. But Tommy always walked him to his car.

“We were just on a date, weren’t we?” Buck says slowly, then counts. “Like, our third one. Wait, did you take me flying for our first date?”

“I thought I did,” Tommy says, his brows raised. “Did you really have no idea that I was asking you out?”

Okay, yeah, Tommy had said they should go out sometime before they’d left the bar the night they’d met, and Buck had agreed and Tommy had grinned. It had been really distracting.

“Huh,” he says again. “Wait, you waited until our third date to kiss me?”

“I thought you needed me to take it slow,” Tommy says, leaning his elbows on the hood and burying his face in his hands. “I thought you were new to this.”

“I mean, I am,” Buck points out. The way Tommy’s leaning makes his ass pop out a little, and his jeans are tight enough that they definitely qualify as date jeans. “Maybe not that new, actually. It’s normal to check out a hot guy’s ass, right?”

Tommy looks at him incredulously. “Evan, how would I know what straight guys do? I’m a Kinsey six.”

“Right,” Buck realizes, though he’s still not clear on the second part. “What’s a Kinsey six?”

“It’s a scale for sexuality. I’ve never actually been attracted to any women.”

Buck frowns. “Really?”

He’s found a lot of guys attractive, because that was just a thing Buck could see as a person with eyes. Hell, one of the first things he thought about Connor was that he had a killer smile. Then he had followed him to Los Angeles. From Peru.

“Oh,” he realizes, pulling out his phone and looking up ‘Kinsey.’ “Two? I don’t know, actually. I’ll have to think about it.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “You’re not, I don’t know, mad?”

Buck frowns and puts his phone back in his pocket. “Why would I be mad?”

“A lot of guys get mad when another guy kisses them if they weren’t really expecting it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You can just tell someone you’re not interested.” His eyes flick down to Tommy’s mouth. “Or figure out that you are.”

“Are you sure—”

“You should come over so I can cook you dinner,” Buck says, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see Tommy in his loft and at his table. In his bed? Yeah, probably. “Saturday?”

Tommy smiles. “You mean tomorrow?”

Buck thinks about it. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

When Tommy kisses him again, Buck wraps his arm around his shoulders and spreads his hand over Tommy’s side. Tommy moans softly against his mouth, and Buck’s lips part further so he can tease his tongue against Tommy’s lips.

“Jesus, kid,” Tommy breathes when the kiss breaks, and it sends a bolt of heat through Buck’s belly. So, yeah, definitely guys. Guys are good. At least one is.

Buck’s phone goes off, and he reluctantly checks it. Maddie’s due pretty soon, so he can’t ignore his phone just in case it’s her.

It is, and Buck answers quickly.

“Maddie?” he says before mouthing an apology to Tommy. “Are you okay? Is the baby—”

“Buck,” she says. “Are you still coming over for dinner?”

Oh, right. The reason they’d done the matinee show for the movie. Buck’s supposed to be having a sibling dinner with his sister. He’s now late for it and feels like a dick.

“I am so sorry, I forgot. I’ll be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes? Do you need me to get anything on the way?”

“If you could get me enough garlic bread to fill your car, I’d be so happy.”

Buck snorts. “I can get some. Maybe not that much. But I’ll stop, just turn the oven on. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay!” she says brightly. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says, hanging up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was, and I did actually forget. I got, uh, distracted.”

Tommy smirks. “‘Distracted’?”

Buck swallows and nods, his eyes going to Tommy’s lips again. “Yeah.”

“God, you’re adorable.”

He’s never had a guy call him that before. He likes it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tommy says. “When do you want me over?”

“S-six?” Buck says, feeling himself sway toward Tommy like they’ve got magnets in their mouths. “Five. You start early on Sunday, right?”

“So do you,” Tommy points out.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says dumbly. He goes in for another kiss, but it’s quick. Tommy pushes him back gently with a hand to his chest and nudges their noses together briefly before stepping away. “Bye.”

“Bye, Evan,” Tommy says, smiling and going toward his house.

Buck fumbles with his keys before he finally unlocks the Jeep, and he watches Tommy until he goes inside. It’s a thing he’s always done on dates. When Tommy waves before heading inside, Buck waves for a long time until the door is closed.

“Fuck, okay, garlic bread,” he says, turning the Jeep on. He grins the entire way to the store.

While he walks through Ralph’s, he also looks for stuff to use for the dinner he’s going to make for Tommy. On their date. Their fourth date.

Buck knows he’s standing in the middle of the baking ingredients aisle and smiling at his phone like an idiot. He knows that he’s going to spend half of his Saturday trying to perfect some kind of dessert. He knows he can’t wait to see Tommy and that he’s felt that way every time he’s seen him since they met.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fluffebruary #my fic #didn't know they were dating

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cheekybarnes · 2 days ago

Text

A Seat at the Table | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Journalism was supposed to be about the truth. Politics was supposed to be about power. Neither of you were supposed to be here. But when Bucky Barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story.

MCU Timeline Placement: Between The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Captain America: Brave New World.

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 7.1k

Author’s Note: so, funny thing—I haven't written marvel fanfic in years. like, actual years. but then I saw captain america: brave new world the other day, along with the thunderbolts trailers, and suddenly I am back in it, staring at my bb bucky barnes on a screen and thinking: what the hell are they doing with you, man?

so here we are. this fic is my take on congressman!bucky, because let’s be real—the idea of the winter soldier navigating politics is insane.

welcome to my marvel era, round two. let’s do this.

───────────────────────────────

The ballroom smelled like money. That specific kind of wealth that clung to old wood paneling and overpriced cologne, where the champagne never ran dry and the canapés were just expensive air. A necessary evil, your editor had called it, but you weren’t sure if that was referring to the event itself or the man headlining it.

James Buchanan Barnes. Congressional candidate.

The podium at the front of the room bore his name in bold, sterile lettering, flanked by banners that screamed "A New Dawn for America", as if slapping a slogan over a former assassin could bleach away decades of bloodstains.

You stood at the back, notebook in hand, eyes tracking the room. The usual suspects filled the space—donors with deep pockets, political strategists sipping aged whiskey, journalists who had already drafted their headlines before the night began. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t here for soundbites or manufactured redemption arcs. You were here because none of it made sense.

You had seen a lot of men climb this kind of stage before. But Bucky Barnes wasn’t one of those men.

Your gaze found him at the edge of the room, standing near the stage but just shy of being part of the performance. He wasn’t shaking hands, wasn’t offering plastic smiles. Just watching. A wolf dropped into a herd of well-groomed sheep.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was at his side, speaking with the kind of low, clipped precision that made your skin crawl. She wasn’t here to campaign. She was here to control.

What’s your angle, lady?

The public saw a comeback story. Winter Soldier turned Congressman. A tale of redemption, carefully packaged and sold to an electorate eager for a hero. The public saw a man trying to move forward. You saw something else entirely.

The world didn’t hand men like Bucky Barnes clean slates. It repurposed them.

A tool being repurposed. A pawn moved across the board.

Your theories were running wild. Theories your editor wouldn’t print.

Was this a ploy to install someone useful in Congress? Was Bucky Barnes the distraction, while something worse lurked behind the curtain? What did Valentina get out of this?

Your thoughts were interrupted when the applause started. You turned in time to see Bucky stepping onto the stage. The microphone crackled. He looked at it like it might bite him.

He didn’t want to be here. That much was obvious. But he squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored slacks—and, in true Bucky Barnes fashion, ignored every expectation of a congressional candidate by wearing a leather jacket instead of a suit. No tie. No crisp blazer.

"I won’t waste your time." He finally spoke.

A murmur of polite laughter rippled through the room. The speech in his hand—written by someone else, no doubt—remained untouched. He wasn’t even pretending to read it.

"I know what people think when they see me up here. And I don’t blame them," he continued, scanning the room. "I know the headlines. The speculation. The questions."

"I’m not a politician. I’m not a hero. I’m not gonna stand here and tell you that I can fix what’s broken, because I don’t believe one man can do that." His voice was steady, but not polished. Not rehearsed.

"I know some of you believe in second chances. And I know some of you don’t."

That got their attention. Small shifts in posture, the kind of barely-there movements that told you when someone was really listening.

"But I know what it means to be let down by the people in charge," Bucky went on, his voice even, steady. "I know what it’s like when the system fails you. When the people making decisions don’t have to live with the weight of them. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have a say in your own future."

He let those words hang for a moment, measured, careful.

"What I want—what I’m standing here asking for—is the chance to make sure that no one else has to feel that way."

The shift in the room was subtle. A few nods. Some furrowed brows.

Valentina remained still. Watching. Calculating.

"I won’t stand here and make promises I can’t keep," he continued. "I won’t tell you I have all the answers. But I know that real change doesn’t come from power alone—it comes from the people willing to fight for it. And I intend to be one of those people."

A silence stretched over the room. A well-oiled campaign machine wasn’t meant to have rough edges, and Bucky Barnes was all edges, sharp and unyielding.

You saw Valentina shift slightly at his side. Not nervous. Just calculating.

The applause came a beat too late. Measured. Mechanical.

Bucky left the podium before it even died down, moving through the crowd without stopping for handshakes or fake pleasantries. He was heading for the exit when you stepped into his path.

“Barnes.”

He stopped.

Up close, he looked like a man barely keeping his ribs from caving in under the weight of the performance. He didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t bolt—but you could tell he wanted to.

His eyes flicked over you in that sharp, assessing way of his, the kind that cataloged details too fast for most people to notice.

Then, his gaze settled, recognition slipping in like an unwanted guest.

“You’re with The Post, right?”

You blinked. That was unexpected. You had no name tag, no press badge. Nothing to mark you as anything other than another face in the room.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, watching him. “Surprised you remember.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight slightly. “You asked a question at the last panel. Something about the Sokovia Accords repeal.”

You hadn’t expected that, either. The event had been weeks ago, a polished press affair where he had been forced onto a stage with political veterans who spoke in curated soundbites. You’d been one of the only people in the room who had asked about something that wasn’t pre-approved fluff. He hadn’t answered you then. He had looked at the moderator instead, let them dismiss your question before it ever reached him.

Now, though—now he was looking at you like he remembered.

That spurred you on.

“I figured you wouldn’t answer me then,” you said, tilting your head. “Didn’t think you’d remember it, though.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—quick, unreadable. “I remember a lot of things.”

“Must be exhausting.”

He huffed something that might’ve been amusement. “You have no idea.”

Your pulse kicked up slightly, but you kept your expression even. The fact that he recognized you, that he acknowledged he remembered—it meant something. He could’ve brushed you off. Could’ve pretended not to know. But instead, he had given you that small crack in the door, and you weren’t about to let it close.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d—

“I don’t do interviews,” he said.

The frustration hit fast, like a door slamming shut in your face. “Then why are you running for office?”

That got his attention. Not in a that’s a great question way. More like a did-you-just-really-ask-me-that kind of way.

He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t entirely humorless either.

“You always lead with accusations?” he asked.

“Only when I already know the answer,” you shot back.

He held your gaze, unimpressed. “That right?”

You lifted your chin slightly, holding your ground. “You don’t talk like a politician.”

“Maybe I’m still trying to figure out what that looks like.”

“Then don’t.”

His jaw shifted, a flicker of something in his expression—annoyance? Amusement? It was hard to tell.

“Not that simple,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

He shook his head slightly, not in a frustrated way, but in a you-won’t-let-this-go-will-you way.

You tilted your head. “What’s in this for you?”

He scoffed softly. “You tell me.”

“I think you don’t care about power.”

“Good start.”

“I think you don’t really care about winning.”

The muscle in his jaw flexed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“And I think if you were really in this because you truly wanted to be, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure out how fast you can get out of this room.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost like recognition.

He shifted his weight slightly, exhaling through his nose. “And you figured all that out from what—watching me avoid shaking hands?”

“No,” you said. “I figured it out because I know a man being handled when I see one.”

That hit its mark.

The tension that passed over his expression was fast, but not fast enough. He turned away, heading for the exit.

You followed.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes being told what to do,” you said, quickening your pace to keep up.

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close.

“You don’t strike me as someone who knows when to quit,” he muttered.

“Not when something doesn’t add up.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at you. “And what doesn’t add up, journalist?”

You scanned his face, searching for the cracks in the armor.

“You.”

That finally made him stop.

The air between you thinned, charged with something neither of you had put a name to yet. But before either of you could break it, a new presence cut through the moment like a blade.

“James.”

Valentina.

She wasn’t impatient. She didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened just slightly. Just enough.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice smooth, effortless. She wasn’t asking.

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it.

Your pulse kicked up as you moved to follow him, but security was already intercepting, stepping into your path before you could get too close.

That was fine. You still had one shot.

“Is this what freedom looks like to you, Barnes?” you called after him.

He paused. Right at the SUV door.

Not long. Just enough for the moment to land.

Enough to make you think, for a fraction of a second, that he might turn back.

But Valentina was already ushering him inside. She said something under her breath—too low for you to hear. Whatever it was, he listened.

The SUV door slammed shut, sealing him away like a decision already made.

The tires rolled over damp pavement, red taillights cutting through the dark, and just like that—he was gone. Contained. Controlled. Removed from the equation before anything could spill over.

Your teeth pressed together. Something about it sat wrong. You exhaled sharply, jaw tight. It wasn’t frustration. Not entirely.

You shoved your hands into your coat pockets, fingers curling into fists before— something crinkled.

You stilled, pulse kicking up as you pulled it out, smoothing the creases with your thumb. It wasn’t a napkin. Not a business card. Just a torn scrap of something, the ink smudged like it had been written fast, in bad lighting, by someone who didn’t want to be seen doing it.

Hurriedly shoved into your pocket when? Before security cut you off? When he passed you? When you weren’t looking?

Your eyes scanned the writing—quick, small, just barely legible.

The one with the wolf in the name. 11:30. Tomorrow night. Try not to get followed.

Your pulse kicked up.

The meaning hit instantly. The Lone Wolf Hotel. A place tucked just outside the city’s main sprawl, the kind of overpriced boutique spot that catered to diplomats and corporate deals too dirty to happen in their own offices. The bar inside was upscale, quiet, not the kind of place anyone would expect him to be.

A slow exhale left you as you turned the note over between your fingers. Nothing else. No signature. No explanation. Just the bare minimum needed to make sure you’d know where to go.

And yet, it told you everything.

He couldn’t even write it down outright.

Not the full name of the hotel. Not a direct instruction. No “meet me here” or “I need to talk.” Instead, you got a riddle just obvious enough to be solved, just vague enough to pass unnoticed if the wrong person found it.

Which meant someone else might be watching.

The thought settled in the pit of your stomach, cold and unshakable. This wasn’t just hesitation. This was caution—the kind that didn’t come from paranoia but from experience, from knowing that loose ends had a habit of disappearing when they were left too visible.

A message written plainly could be intercepted. A phone call could be traced. But this? This was a test. A way to see if you were paying attention, if you were quick enough to put the pieces together.

And James Buchanan Barnes—a man who wasn’t supposed to be talking to you at all—had just handed you the first piece.

───────────────────────────────

The hotel bar smelled like old wood and burnt citrus, the kind of place where lobbyists whispered backroom deals over neat whiskey, where the ice in their glasses cracked like splintering bones. You’d spent enough nights in places like this to know the exact moment a conversation turned, the way a man’s posture shifted when he started to lie.

James Buchanan Barnes was leaning against the bar, staring into his drink like it held some answer he hadn’t found yet.

Your editor’s voice lurked at the edges of your mind—Get something real. Unfiltered. Dig into the cracks, find the angle, make him talk. That’s what they wanted. That’s what they always wanted. The headlines had painted him as a walking paradox: former assassin turned public servant, the ghost of wars past, now shaking hands with the same kind of men who once dictated his kill list. The entire campaign was a spectacle, a carefully curated image of redemption.

But you weren’t here for spectacle, weren’t here for an interview. He hadn’t even told you where to meet him outright. He’d left a riddle in your pocket, trusting you to figure it out. And that alone meant something.

You weren’t here as a journalist. Not entirely.

You sat beside him, not waiting for an invitation. He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled slowly, like he already regretted letting you find him at all.

“You’re late,” he said.

You flagged down the bartender, ordering something simple, something forgettable. “I was giving you a chance to leave.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk, but close. “Generous of you.”

The bartender slid a glass across the polished wood. The condensation beaded under your fingertips, cold against warm skin. “About the fundraiser—sorry if I pushed too hard.” You paused, then added, “But you don’t exactly seem like the campaign trail type.”

Bucky let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That obvious?”

“You showed up to a political fundraiser in a leather jacket.”

He shrugged, rolling his glass between his palms. “What can I say? Old habits.”

There it was. The quiet admission, the thing lurking under the surface. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to push the air between you into something conspiratorial. “That why you’re doing this? A habit?”

For a moment, you thought he might not answer. He was good at that—silence as a weapon, a shield. But then he sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be nice.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and assessing. You wondered how many journalists had tried to pry this out of him already, how many had failed.

“I made a deal.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not really. But it was more than you expected.

“With who?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. That was confirmation enough.

“So, what?” You tilted your head. “She dresses you up, parade you around, call it a second chance? A redemption arc?”

He scoffed, low and bitter. “You think she’d let me have a redemption arc? No. She needed something. Someone. And I owed her.”

“Owed her what?”

His grip on the glass went white-knuckled before he forced himself to let go. He didn’t answer. You didn’t push. Not yet.

The bartender passed by, dropping a bowl of salted almonds between you. Neither of you touched them.

“You trust her?” you asked instead.

Bucky let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t trust anyone who wants to put me in a suit.”

You glanced at him, amused. “Didn’t see you in one yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

There was something darkly funny about that, something distinctly him. The world was trying to put him into a mold he’d never fit, and he was resisting in the only ways he could. Small, insignificant rebellions. A leather jacket. A late arrival. A refusal to play along with the script they’d written for him.

“You could walk away,” you said, not as a challenge, but as a fact.

He exhaled sharply. “Could I?”

“You tell me.”

Bucky went quiet again, but this time it felt heavier, like he was weighing something, deciding how much to give you. His fingers drummed once against the bar before he spoke.

“I’ve spent most of my life being a weapon. First for the Army. Then for Hydra. Even after, I was something to be deployed when needed. Wakanda, missions, saving the world or whatever. And now this.” His eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them. “You think being a congressman is different?”

Your fingers curled around your glass. “No,” you admitted. “I think it’s just another kind of battlefield.”

“I don’t know how this ends,” he murmured. “Maybe I do the job. Maybe I screw it up. Maybe I disappear. Either way, it won’t matter.”

Your stomach twisted at that last part. It won’t matter. The way he said it, so certain, like he truly believed he was just another piece to be moved on the board until someone decided to remove him altogether.

“You matter,” you said before you could think better of it.

He blinked, as if surprised by the conviction in your voice. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t brush it off with sarcasm or shift the conversation. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to decide if you meant it.

You held his gaze. You let him see that you did.

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken. Then, finally, he pushed his glass away, the ice clinking against the sides. “I should go.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Your fingers twitched against your glass, but before you could stop yourself, you reached out.

Your hand caught his wrist—not tightly, not intentionally forceful, but enough. Enough that you felt the sharp contrast of cold metal beneath his jacket sleeve.

Bucky went still.

You loosened your grip, but didn’t let go.

"Why?" The word tumbled out before you could stop it, voice quieter than you intended, but steady. “Why tell me this? Why trust me at all?”

He didn’t answer.

Not at first.

His gaze flicked down to where your fingers rested against his wrist before lifting back to your face, unreadable. The pause stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t speak at all, but then—

“I don’t know.” A quiet admission. “Maybe I don’t.”

That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve left. But you weren’t done.

“Then why keep me guessing?” you pressed. “Why give me just enough to chase but never enough to catch?”

He looked at you for a long moment. "Maybe I just like the way you ask questions."

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "That's not an answer."

"No," he said softly. "It's not."

The moment stretched between you until he finally stepped back, breaking the fragile thread that had formed.

You nodded, even though you wanted him to stay.

He hesitated for half a second. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded napkin, and slid it toward you. When you unfolded it, you found another puzzle scrawled in his careful handwriting. No name. No explanation.

He was giving you another meeting.

Bucky stood, adjusting his jacket, and for the first time that night, he looked like he’d made a choice of his own.

“See you around, journalist.”

Then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but an empty glass.

─────────────────────────────── The coffee shop was barely awake.

A handful of chairs scraped lazily against the pavement as early risers settled in, the quiet hum of conversation mixing with the hiss of steaming milk. The city felt muted at this hour, still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

You pulled your jacket tighter against the morning chill and took another sip of your cappuccino.

It was too early for this.

You weren’t a morning person—never had been—and yet here you were, fighting off exhaustion at an hour that felt like an insult to anyone with a normal sleep cycle. Bucky’s time. Bucky’s place. And Bucky?

Late.

You sighed, resisting the urge to check your watch again. It had been a few days since the bar, since he had left you with another meeting and just enough to keep you waiting.

Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe you’d read too much into the napkin and the hesitation behind it. Maybe—

A shape moved in your periphery.

Bucky Barnes, as subtle as a gun under a jacket, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the morning light. Sunglasses. A baseball cap pulled low, the kind of look that made him more suspicious than if he’d just walked in with his face bared to the world.

You didn’t say anything as he approached, just watched as he slid into the chair across from you.

“You’re late,” you said, voice still rough from sleep.

Bucky huffed a small breath, more acknowledgment than apology. “You look like hell.”

You took another slow sip of your coffee. “I’m not a morning person.”

He pushed his sunglasses up slightly, just enough to scan the menu on the table between you, though it didn’t seem like he was actually reading it. You waited, watching the way his jaw ticked, the slight tension in his shoulders.

Then he moved to scoot his chair forward.

And winced.

Not much. A flicker of discomfort, a small hitch in his breath. But you caught it.

Your fingers curled around your cup. “You alright?”

Bucky stilled, like he was debating whether or not to brush it off. Then, finally, he sighed, shifting slightly in his chair.

“Ran into someone who didn’t like me very much,” he muttered.

“Gonna be more specific?”

“Nope.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

He didn’t elaborate.

Instead, he adjusted his sunglasses, fingers idly tapping against the ceramic sugar holder between you. His knuckles were scraped raw, barely scabbed over. Like he hadn’t let them heal before using them again.

You exhaled slowly, eyes flicking over him—the stiffness, the tension, the careful way he was sitting.

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?” you asked.

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You offering?”

“No,” you said, setting your cup down. “But I know a guy who doesn’t ask questions.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m good.”

He leaned back slightly, tipping his head toward the city around you, as if he were just now remembering that normal life still existed. The early commuters, the hum of traffic, the clinking of silverware. It all moved without him, without any of it touching him.

You could see it—the way he still felt like an intruder in a world that had kept going without him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said, watching him.

His lips twitched, almost amused, but the exhaustion beneath it was real.

“Habit.”

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the silence stretch. It was a quiet kind of waiting. Not prying. Just letting him get there on his own.

Bucky exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, like he was trying to shake something loose in his head. Then, finally—

“You ever have a moment that changes everything?”

Your fingers tightened around the ceramic of your cup.

“That’s a hell of a question for this early in the morning.”

A low huff of amusement. “Yeah.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then—"Why’d you become a journalist?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, fingers tightening slightly around your cup, the warmth bleeding into your skin. “That’s a hell of a pivot.”

He didn’t shrug, didn’t offer some deflective smirk like you half-expected. Just waited, watching you in that way he did—silent, assessing, giving nothing, expecting everything.

You exhaled slowly, tipping your head slightly. “I don’t know. Always wanted to. Always liked digging.”

Bucky huffed, something dry, almost amused. “Yeah, I noticed.”

You ignored that, rolling your cup between your hands.

The ceramic was warm, grounding, something to focus on as you considered what to say next. You didn’t have to tell him anything. That wasn’t how this worked—you asked the questions, you waited for the cracks to show, you pieced the truth together whether or not they wanted to give it to you.

But that wasn’t what this was anymore, was it?

He had already given you something—a glimpse, a fraction of whatever was going on behind that careful, guarded exterior. And if you wanted more, if you wanted him to trust you enough to give you anything real, then maybe… maybe you had to give him something first.

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head. “I think I just wanted the truth to mean something. Not just what people get fed in carefully packaged press releases, not the version of the world that fits neatly into headlines.” Your fingers curled against the cup, pressing lightly against the ceramic. “I wanted to find the stories that weren’t being told. The ones that actually mattered.”

Bucky watched you, silent, unreadable.

You glanced at him, tilting your head. “The kind of truth people like you usually keep quiet.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your chair. This was a risk. Not a big one, not compared to the things you’d pried out of people before, but still—you were putting something on the table first. Maybe that was the only way this would work.

“I was there, you know.”

His brows pulled together slightly. “Where?”

“The GRC conference two years ago, after the Flag Smashers hit,” you said. “When Sam Wilson gave that speech.”

That got a reaction. Subtle, but it was there—the small shift in his posture, the slight tightening of his fingers. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the flicker of something behind his eyes, the quick flash of memory.

You took another sip of your coffee, remembering the way the air had felt that day—charged, raw, like the whole city was holding its breath. The sky had been overcast, thick with storm-heavy clouds that never quite broke, the wind carrying the lingering scent of fire, of rubber burned into pavement.

You had been standing behind the barricades, notebook in hand, the press section too stunned, too thrown off script to even pretend at neutrality.

You remembered the ripple of movement through the crowd when Sam Wilson had landed, when he had walked forward, the shield strapped to his back, his presence cutting through the lingering smoke like the weight of history itself.

You remembered the moment when the murmurs of confusion had sharpened into realization.

Not Walker. Not Rogers.

Captain America.

You remembered watching Bucky, too—just for a second.

Not up front. Not standing at Sam’s side. Just off to the right, past the line of cameras, near the edges of the crowd where the light didn’t quite reach. He had been watching, but not as a soldier waiting for orders, not as a man ready for another fight.

It had been something else entirely.

Not resignation.

Not relief.

Something in between.

"You were there," he repeated, voice lower now.

You nodded. “Not front row or anything. I remember thinking—” You stopped yourself, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “No. Go ahead.”

You studied him, watching the way he watched you. A strange tension stretched between you, something unspoken, unacknowledged. You sighed, looking away.

“I remember thinking that this guy—this new Captain America—was out of his mind.”

Bucky’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I mean, the whole thing was messy. The GRC was scrambling, the whole city was still shaking, and here comes Sam Wilson standing in the middle of it, telling these people—these politicians—that they had to do better.” You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. “Not a war. Not a battlefield. Just a man with a microphone telling the people who actually run the world that they were screwing everything up.”

You looked at him then, something settling in your ribs. “And I remember wondering—who the hell is actually listening?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. He didn’t speak, didn’t react right away.

But then he finally said it. “I was.”

You swallowed, heartbeat pressing against the inside of your throat. “I figured.”

Bucky’s fingers drummed lightly against the table. “And you? What, that speech change everything for you?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “No. I was already in it. Already reporting. Already writing. I just—I think that was the moment I realized that sometimes the truth actually lands.” You glanced at him. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched slightly, like he was chewing over something unspoken. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Even if it takes a while.”

Bucky shifted, rolling his shoulders again, like the weight of the conversation was pressing into him, setting into the spaces between his ribs. He let out a slow breath, fingers curling and uncurling against the edge of the table.

"That whole time, I kept thinking—this is the part where it’s supposed to end," he said, his voice low, measured. "Walker loses the shield. Sam takes it. I finish what I started with my list, make peace with what I can, and that’s it."

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "But then I’m standing there, watching him, listening to him say all that, and I realize—I have no fucking idea what comes next."

He tapped his fingers once against the tabletop, like it was an unconscious tic. “It was easier when there was a mission. When I had orders. Even when I was breaking them.” His jaw flexed. “Amends weren’t orders, but they were something. A list I could check off. Proof that I was trying.”

You didn’t speak.

Bucky’s fingers curled against the table, his shoulders going rigid. “And then I was done. Or at least, I was supposed to be. I’d done everything on my list. The shield wasn’t in the wrong hands anymore. Sam had it. He did the damn thing, stood there in front of the world and told them they had to do better.”

His mouth twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “And the worst part? I actually believed him.”

You felt something settle deep in your chest.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. "I believed him, and that scared the hell out of me. Because it meant I still cared." His voice was quieter now, like the admission cost him something. "And if I still cared, it meant I had to do something about it."

You studied him, his sharp profile, the way he was always braced for impact, even when sitting still. “So, you decided to run for office?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. "No. I didn’t decide a damn thing."

You waited.

His hand curled into a fist against his thigh, his knuckles pressing against denim. “She called me two days after that speech,” he muttered. "Valentina."

Your stomach twisted slightly.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Said she was keeping an eye on me. That people were interested in what I was gonna do next." His fingers tapped once against the table, like a slow countdown. "And then she gave me a choice that wasn’t a choice at all."

You lifted your chin slightly. "Which was?"

He tilted his head slightly, watching you now, his gaze unreadable behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. "The same thing it always is with people like her. Do this or let someone worse do it instead."

A cold weight settled in your ribs.

"So, what, you took the deal?" you asked carefully.

Bucky leaned back slightly, dragging his thumb along the edge of the table. "Yeah. I did."

Your fingers curled around your cup, the warmth of the coffee suddenly too thin against the cold creeping up your spine. "Because you wanted to? Or because she backed you into a corner?"

He let out a breath, slow and even. "Maybe both."

The weight of those words hit harder than you expected.

Bucky flexed his fingers against the tabletop, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t like politics. I don’t trust them. But I know how this works. Someone like me doesn’t get to disappear. Not really. They either use me, or they take me off the board completely."

Your stomach twisted slightly. "So, you let them use you instead."

His jaw twitched slightly, like he hated hearing it out loud. "I figured if someone was gonna be in the room, it might as well be someone who actually gave a shit."

You exhaled, watching him carefully. “And do you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I do."

You sat back slightly, watching the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for something. “That speech,” you murmured. “It gave you a new fight.”

Bucky scoffed slightly, shaking his head. "That speech gave me a headache."

You lifted a brow.

His lips twitched, but his voice was quieter when he continued. "It also made me realize I wasn’t done yet."

You turned his words over in your head, the slow unraveling of this whole thing finally clicking into place. The amends. The shield. The war he thought he was walking away from, only to find himself pulled into a new kind of battle.

One that wasn’t fought with fists or a gun.

One that wouldn’t end with blood on his hands.

Something settled between you, heavy but not suffocating. A quiet understanding.

Bucky flexed his fingers once more before gripping the edge of the table and pushing himself to his feet. He didn’t wince this time, but you knew it was a near thing.

"Anyway," he muttered, adjusting the cap on his head. "That’s your story. You gonna print it?"

You let the question sit, rolling it over in your mind, in your gut.

Then, finally—"No."

Bucky’s head tilted slightly at your answer, something unreadable passing through his expression. A flicker of something like curiosity, or maybe just mild disbelief.

“No?” he repeated.

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled through his nose, adjusting the cap on his head, his gaze flicking briefly to the street beyond the café. “Guess we both wasted our time, then.”

You pushed back your chair and stood with him, the scrape of metal against pavement sharp in the quiet morning air.

“Maybe,” you said, sliding a few bills under your half-empty cup. “Or maybe it was never about getting a story.”

That made him pause.

His hands stilled where they had just shoved into his pockets, and he turned his head just slightly, like he was measuring the weight of your words.

Your lips pressed together for a moment before you huffed softly, pulling your jacket on. “I don’t think you really wanted me to print it, anyway.”

His gaze flicked to yours, assessing, sharp, like he was trying to decide if you meant that or if you were just good at lying to yourself.

A beat passed. Then another.

"You always this bad at your job?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, glancing away. "Depends on who you ask."

He rolled his shoulders slightly, shifting like he was testing the stiffness in his muscles, seeing how much pain he could move through before it caught up to him. You could feel him watching you, like he was trying to decide if this conversation was actually over, or if you had more to pull from him.

But you didn’t. Not this time.

"You keep digging like this, someone’s gonna take that shovel from you," he muttered, tugging his cap lower over his brow.

You smirked, tilting your head. "Yeah? You volunteering?"

He scoffed, but there was something like amusement in it. "Nah. I got enough problems."

You eyed him for a second, then took the last sip of your coffee, grimacing slightly when it had gone cold. “Yeah, well. Speaking of problems, you could use a better speechwriter.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “That bad?”

You shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. But you’re not a politician. You don’t talk like one, and the second you try, people smell the bullshit.”

He considered that, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms. “So, what? You offering?”

You let out a short laugh. “I already have a job, Barnes.”

He hummed, adjusting his jacket, hands settling into his pockets. “Didn’t say you had to quit.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, searching his face for any indication of how serious he was. "Are you actually offering?"

Bucky scoffed, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to actually smile. “I don’t know. You got any experience making guys like me look good on paper?"

You clicked your tongue. "Not enough to work miracles, but I can fake it."

Bucky exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but there was something lighter in the motion, something that hadn’t been there before. "Think about it."

You huffed, watching him as he turned slightly, hands still shoved deep in his pockets.

Then he hesitated. Just for a second.

And without looking at you, he pulled one hand free, fingers curled around a small scrap of paper. He held it between two fingers, loose, like it didn’t really matter if you took it or not.

"Here," he muttered, voice gruff.

You glanced at the paper before taking it, your fingers brushing against his just briefly as you unfolded it. The handwriting was small, deliberate. A phone number.

You stared at it for a beat before looking back up at him.

“What, you’re not gonna make me solve another puzzle this time?”

He huffed, something like amusement flickering across his face. “Figured I’d make it easy. Just this once.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the paper into your pocket before you could think better of it. “Generous.”

Bucky shifted his weight slightly, watching you, and for a second, neither of you spoke.

Something settled between you—not quite trust, not quite anything defined, but something real.

"Just promise me one thing," you said, before you even realized you were saying it.

He glanced at you, waiting.

"Don’t let them use you up," you murmured.

Something shifted in his expression, something heavy but not unkind. He watched you for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, dipping his chin in something like acknowledgment.

Then he turned, disappearing into the waking city.

You stood there for a second longer, rolling his words around in your head, the offer that wasn’t really an offer, the door he had left cracked open just enough to be stepped through.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair before stepping away from the table, shoving your hands deep into your coat pockets. Your fingers brushed against the folded paper he’d slid into your jacket at the fundraiser days ago—the first invitation, the first test.

And now?

Now, it wasn’t a test anymore.

You weren’t naive. You knew what Bucky Barnes was, what people like Valentina wanted him to be. He wasn’t the first man in power who didn’t belong there, who had been placed on a chessboard he never asked to play on. But the difference—the thing that had been picking at the back of your brain since the moment he left that scrap of paper in your pocket—was that he wasn’t running away from it.

He wasn’t a politician. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, either. So what did that make him?

You thought of his hesitation when he spoke about Valentina. The way his jaw twitched when he admitted she had given him a “choice.” The way he still spoke about Sam Wilson’s speech, like the words had sunk in too deep to shake loose.

Maybe Bucky Barnes was trying to make the world better. Maybe he didn’t believe he could, but he was trying anyway.

And in the end, wasn’t that why you were still here, too?

You exhaled, tilting your head up toward the slow-rising sun, watching the light burn away the last of the morning mist. A journalist and a congressman. Two people who had spent their entire lives watching the world be torn apart at the hands of people who claimed they wanted to fix it.

And now, both of you had walked into a different kind of war.

You had spent years pulling apart stories, digging into the rot behind the headlines, trying to carve out something real in a world that wanted everything neatly packaged. He had spent years tearing apart governments, leaving bloodstains on the very systems he was now trying to navigate from the inside.

Neither of you were supposed to be here.

Neither of you were supposed to want to be here.

But here you were.

You didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know if his “think about it” was serious or if this was just another moment that would unravel as soon as you tried to hold onto it.

But you had his number now. Had a conversation that wasn’t just a quote in a column.

And Bucky Barnes—whether he realized it or not—had just given you a reason to keep digging.

You smiled to yourself, shaking your head as you finally stepped away from the table.

Maybe he had a point.

Maybe you weren’t done yet, either.

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