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mandoalorian · 11 days ago

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crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ღ

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich��research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you.

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out.

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about.

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap.

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement.

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate.

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up.

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.”

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance.

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more.

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small.

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.”

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope.

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #marvel #smut #james buchanan barnes #avengers #thunderbolts #james bucky barnes #40s bucky #sergeant james barnes #captain america #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader

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mallowsweetmiri · 9 months ago

Text

F.W. ~ Fred and George’s Room

Part 1 • Part 2

Summary: nothing beats a hot summers day hanging out at the burrow… except maybe a cold beer and two goofy gingers.

Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, alcohol

—————————————————————————

Your POV

The summer was hot.

As July settled in, so did a resting heat. Even the walk to the lake seemed unbearable this week, so you settled in the house under Molly’s cooling charms and the occasional summer breeze. The younger of the lot were hunkered in the living room, playing chess in a competitive tournament. It was quite boring for those who got knocked out in the first round, so Fred and George dragged you up the winding staircase and into their bedroom. You were a little nervous going up to Fred’s room after everything that’s happened this summer, but you followed behind them anyway. You were never one to run away because of fear. The twins grinned at you as they pushed through the door. It had been only a year since you’d been in here, but the twins had managed to plaster most of their walls in posters. Their shelves were lined with all sorts of trinkets, and Fred’s cassette tape collection had doubled in size.

“Wow, where did you managed to get all of these?” You asked, plopping down on Fred’s mattress and touching the stack of tapes on his shelf. Fred came over and grabbed Nevermind off his shelf along with his Walkman.

“Been going to the muggle town a few miles away,” Fred popped the tape in with a grin. “Check this out.” He nodded to George who cast a nonverbal silencing charm on the room. Impressive. Fred muttered sonorus and placed his wand next to the headphones. The room filled with the sounds of Nirvana as Fred and George grinned at each other.

“You guys are geniuses! You have to bring it back to the dorm,” you beamed, jamming along to the rock music. Fred grabbed his guitar from the corner before plopping down beside you.

“Oh trust me, we’ll be bringing plenty back to Hogwarts,” Fred winked, earning a low chuckle from George.

“And don’t worry, Y/N. You’ll be the first to try our new creations,” George grinned evilly in your direction. You raised your brow as the twins began to laugh. You didn’t even want to know what they had in the works. It seemed like every year the twins came up with more ingenious inventions and charms. You looked around the room at the mix of muggle technology that had been enhanced by magic, like Fred’s guitar. You were continuously amazed by their talent, and couldn’t help but watch as Fred began to play Come As You Are. You watched his long fingers move across the fret. He’d gotten a lot better since the last time you heard him play. Of course it was hard to judge his playing technique when all you could focus on were his forearm muscles. You laid back on the bed with a sigh as you listened. You felt a breeze come in through the window as you played with the sheets on the bed. You figured that maybe Charlie’s room wasn’t the best in the house after all.

“You want a beer?” You heard George ask.

“Is it cold?” You sat up on the bed, earning a cheeky smile from the younger twin. He reached under his bed and pulled out a case of Carling.

“Why, of course. I would never offer you anything less,” he teased, pulling out a can and presenting it to you. You rolled your eyes and grabbed the cold can. Cooling charm.

“Thanks,” you said, cracking open the drink and humming in content. George gave one to Fred before cracking open his own and taking a long drink.

“Before you lot showed up here, all Fred did was play on that guitar,” George smacked his lips after his gulp of beer. Fred huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

“I’m actually making progress this year,” Fred stopped playing in favor of a drink, “thanks to all the music you recommended this past year.” He nudged you with a smile and kept playing. You blushed and drank, hoping the alcohol would soothe the constant buzz of embarrassment you felt around Fred these days.

“Well, it’s my job to educate the two of you on all of the wonders muggle London has to offer,” you sighed, leaning back on your hand. “We should totally visit my cousin this summer. Y’know, the one I was telling you about? I could take you out to a real muggle club.” George perked up at this.

“Yeah, we’re totally going,” George decided, raising his beer up to you, “cheers to your hot cousin.” He smirked and downed the rest of the beer, making you scoff.

“George!” You scolded, tossing a pillow his way, “You’ve never even seen my cousin.” You shook your head and downed the rest of you beer, crushing the can and tossing it in the bin.

“Well, I’ve seen you so I’m sure your cousin looks just fine,” George shrugged, reaching to grab more beers. You blushed and stifled a laugh as Fred looked up from his guitar with distaste.

“What?” George protested, “just cause you’re shagging her doesn’t mean I can’t state the obvious. She’s still just Y/N to me.” He tossed the pillow back at you, a laugh escaping your lips. For some reason, hearing George say it out loud made everything a little less awkward, and you were grateful that he didn’t care about you and Fred. Fred looked like he was going to reprimand George, but when he saw your blushing giggles his face softened into a smile. He put his guitar down as he grabbed the pillow off your lap.

“Alright, shut up mate,” he said, smacking George in the face with the pillow.

“Fred!” You laughed, moving to sit on your shins to watch the action. George stood up and hit Fred right back with his own pillow. They kept at it as Nirvana blared through the speakers. You sipped you beer through laughs before a pillow came dangerously close to your face. “Hey! Guys, watch the beer,” you pouted, holding your beer away from the twins.

“Oh, that’s my bad,” George said, reaching for your beer and placing it on the shelf before promptly smacking you with the pillow. Fred barked out a laugh as he attacked George.

“You’re not supposed to hit a lady!”

By now you had joined in on the fight, the three of you running around with feathers flying throughout the room. Your laughter echoed through Fred’s ears as he protected you from George’s attacks. He guessed it had always been like this, George teasing the two of you even before anything had happened. He’d called Fred out on his crush ages ago, even before Fred knew what it was.

February 1994

Merlin that dress is something else, Fred thought to himself as he watched you talk to Oliver Wood, captain of the Quidditch team. Gryffindor had just won a vital match against Ravenclaw, and Oliver was especially happy as it gave the team a chance at the cup. Everyone had been congratulating you tonight. Your flying was marginally better than most Hogwarts quidditch players, and a lot of people were speculating you would go pro after school. Fred knew you didn’t want to do that, but he let your fans whisper in awe about you. I mean, you were pretty amazing. Fred had never seen anyone play the way you did, not to mention you were one of the best witches in your year. Oliver sure seemed impressed with you.

“Oi, George. D’you reckon Wood’s getting a little too close to Y/N?” Fred nudged his twin and nodded his head towards you. George squinted at Wood before barking out a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe Y/N will finally get a proper boyfriend,” George nudged his brother back with his elbows, wiggling his brows comedically. Fred cringed, throwing back the rest of his drink.

“I suppose…” Fred trailed off, letting his gaze fall to the table as he pour himself another glass of fire whiskey. As soon as that was done his eyes snapped back up to you in that dark dress, with Oliver’s face painfully close to yours. “But with Oliver?! We’d be bad friends to let her suffer like that,” Fred continued on, staring at Wood with disdain. George clicked his tongue, causing Fred to snap out of his gaze.

“Freddie, it sounds like you just want her for yourself,” George said with a teasing half grin. Fred’s face of disdain turned to one of horror as he set his drink down and waved his hands in defense.

“No, no, no. Not like that. C’mon George, it’s Y/N,” Fred scoffed, “I just mean that Wood is the reigning Quidditch dictator on top of being an absolute slag.” George pursed his lips and nodded in agreement with a shrug.

“True enough. Well, should we save her from her torture?” George asked with a grin. Fred’s face changed to match.

“Cheers,” Fred grinned, flicking his wand and effectively shutting Oliver up with a lip lock jinx. They watched as you stifled a laugh before excusing yourself, leaving Oliver to struggle with reversing the jinx. You began to make your way towards the twins at the corner of the party.

“Took you guys long enough. I was waiting to be saved from that interrogation,” you chuckled, grabbing Fred’s drink out of his hand. “Can I have this?” Fred hummed with a nod, prompting you to throw back the drink in a gulp. George watched with amusement.

“You wanna go dance with Angelina?” George asked, shimmying his shoulders with an infectious smile. You giggled, hiccuping from the drinks.

“Hell yeah. Fred, can you make us drinks?” You turned to Fred with a dramatic pout and pleading eyes. He rolled his eyes with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah. Run along, quidditch star. I’ll bring you your drinks,” Fred chuckled, watching as you said a thank you before running off towards Angelina in that short dress.

“You’re so down bad,” George laughed, shoving Fred before running off towards the girls. Fred shook his head as he made the drinks. What was George on about?

Present Day

Now, while Fred watched you jump and squeal as George chased you down with a pillow, he realized exactly what George was on about. You’d always been his best friend, and you’d always made him laugh in a way nobody else but George could. It also didn’t help that you were absolutely gorgeous. Somewhere along the line Fred had fallen completely in love with you, and now he was fighting for you, his pillow reigning down on George in all its blazing glory. You joined by his side to pelt George with attacks.

“Hey! This is totally not fair. Since when is this two against one?” George whined in between attacks. You just kept chuckling and destroying him with hits. You seemed to be enjoying your newfound advantage.

“I feel no pity for you, you took away my beer!” You laughed in your evil little laugh, taking another hit on his back.

“I call a truce!” George called, dropping his pillow and putting his hands up. You stopped your attack and stood there panting, waiting for any movement. “Let me just get your beer and we can put this behind us,” George reasoned, slowly moving towards the shelf with his hands up. Fred chuckled and dropped his pillow, moving to chug what was left of his can. Merlin, pillow fights sure took the wind out of you. George dropped to his knee and presented you with your half drunken can of Carling, “M’lady.”

“I suppose this will do,” you said, taking the can and bopping George on the top of his head. You fell back onto Fred’s bed with a laugh as you behind to chug your beer in deep gulps, attempting to cool yourself down. Fred sat down next to you, his hand resting on the bed behind your back.

“You guys reckon we should go to the treehouse tonight and play some more exploding snap and shots?” Fred asked, nodding up at George. The twins grinned at each other mischievously.

“Why yes, Freddie, I think that’s a fantastic idea,” George said pleasantly before falling back onto his own bed. The three of you raised you beers to the summer. This was going to be the best one yet.

—————————————————————————

Authors note:

Hope you guys enjoyed part 3 of my lil summertime Fred x reader series! I know this part is a bit shorter and mostly fluff, but I promise the next one’s going to be spicier hehe. But man, I love writing this series so much and appreciate any comments from my beloved readers xoxo

#fred weasley oneshot #fred x reader #george weasly x reader #george weasley #fred weasley headcanons #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fluff #mallowsweetmiri

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

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Could I request headcanons of Jason Todd with a reader who is a talented chef and baker?

Jason loves, loves, loves to eat but he loves to eat whatever you make especially.

It’s just so damn good and enticing that he can’t help but want to steal a bite while you were working your magic on some cookie dough in the kitchen.

Jason likes to claim he’s helping you when in actuality he was just being a little shit.

You still remembered the time where you had caught Jason red hand eating something he shouldn’t have, and still have the audacity to look at you with his attempt at puppy dog eyes.

He should be lucky you like him enough to make him whatever he wanted in bulk, seeing as how he had quite the appetite as you’ve once watched him wolf down four homemade burgers, chips and still found room in his stomach to indulge in something sweet.

You couldn’t count how many times you had to swat him away with your spatula when you saw his hand creeping towards a cooling tray of gooey double chocolate chip cookies.

‘Jason!’ You exclaimed. ‘Stop trying to eat the cookie before they’ve had time to cool down!’

‘But sweetheart it’s not my fault that your cookies are so good! They even maintain that gooey chocolate chip goodness that you know I like.’ Jason says as he hugs you from behind, pressing kisses into your shoulder, neck and head.

‘You’re just buttering me up so that I’d give you an early taste.’ You pouted, looking away from him as you feigned hurt. ‘Admit it, you’re only with me for the fact that I can cook and bake your favourite things.’

Jason, feeling a little bad for making you think that, was quick in having you look at him as he apologised. ‘I’m sorry chipmunk, you know I love you beyond your ability to cook food and sweet treats and make it look like an art form. How about I help you cook tonight or let me took for you instead to make up for it?’ He asks as he kept you close to him and planting kisses across your face.

His lips tasted very much like the chocolate chip cookies and after a while you just couldn’t keep up pretending to be mad at him and smile into his lips as you kissed him back before inevitably pulling away. ‘That sounds perfect jay bird but let me cook and you just stand there and look pretty.’ You cheeked as Jason gasped.

‘You only like me because I’m pretty? How shallow of you chipmunk.’ Jason joked and you couldn’t help but kiss his lips once more. ‘I like you because you’ve got a bottomless stomach.’ You then playfully prodded at his tummy and Jason jolted at the touch, which made you laugh as you went back to what you were previously doing before Jason interrupted.

‘Can I at least have a nibble?’ Jason asked after a moment of silence against your neck.

‘No, I think you’ve already had enough nibbles don’t you?’ You asked with a smile as you felt Jason pout.

‘Mean.’ He muttered childishly.

‘Mean is you eating the cookie dough and saying oops after I caught you.’ You replied and Jason stayed silent after that.

Jason hyped up your cooking and baking simultaneously and would praise your natural talent for it to anyone with ears to hear him, which had lead to one or many instances where his friend Roy or his family came over to see what all the hype was about.

Needless to say you’ve gotten more people who were obsessed with your baking/cooking and as for Alfred? You were sharing recipes and what techniques you use when prepping food, the usage of spices and herbs and so on in hopes of enhancing the flavour of the dish.

#dc imagine #dc x reader #dc x you #dc fanfic #dc fic #dc comics x reader #dc x y/n #dc fanfiction #jason todd imagines #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #red hood imagines

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kangnoeulsdoll · 2 months ago

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Maybe, just maybe.

୨୧ ⠀ׂ ִ

Se-mi x ballet!reader <3

a/n: Since this won my last poll 🤍

It was a quiet evening at the dance studio. The wooden floors shimmer under the soft amber of overhead lights and a fresh polish gives off a toasty scent in the air. You stood at the barre, tweaking your form as you prepared for rehearsal tonight. With each movement, your breath rhythmically stuttered, the only sound that cut through that downright dead silence.

You've been working so hard for months putting every pirouette, every leap, and every plié just right, but this night feels different somehow special. Tonight you specifically set out for something deeper, something that hit directly on feeling and vulnerability rather than just technical mastery.

The studio door squeaked open abruptly and you turned to find Han Se Mi standing there at the threshold. She made a commanding entrance as if she was stepping into a room adorned with classical statues. There was just something graceful about her, as if she moved as if catching the breeze herself. Her black leather jacket really stands out against her glamorous wavy hair and the room just enhances her elegant grace so perfectly. She wasn’t here for the usual reasons.

“Se-mi? you asked, stepping away from the barre, surprised to see her. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a meeting with the team.”

Semi smiled and her lips curled up into a playful mix of mischief and warmth. “I do, she said, walking further into the room, eyes following your movements. “But I wanted to see you dance.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You really didn't count on her to be so very interested at all and didn't have grounds to think she'd show up to come check out your own rehearsals.

“I wasn’t planning to perform tonight, you said, a bit nervous, as you adjusted your position once more.

“That’s fine,” Se-mi replied, her voice soft, almost coaxing. “I’m not asking for perfection. I just want to see you... express yourself.”

Her words remained hanging up in the air for just a split second, and for that instant you met her eyes. She had this unique way of making everything look so smooth that you'd think she didn't really put much effort into anything. But when she parted ways she left a message that still rings long after she's out of sight.

You trudge slowly back into your bar and you inhale deeply now, fully letting the music take hold and allowing technique to recede a little. As you danced to music, you felt Se Mi watching you with focus and understanding. With every step, it felt like you drew closer to deeper parts of yourself, into an inner unknown usually unseen by others.

And when you finally finished looking up at the ceiling with a big breath, you took a chance and looked at her.

Se mi watched you intently, a mask of expressionless face for a moment before. Then, she took a step forward, her eyes softening. “That was beautiful,” she said quietly, her voice sincere.

You couldn't help but beam with warmth that spread over you like a sunny day in summer. “Thank you, Se-mi.”

She walked closer, her gaze never leaving yours. “No, really. It was... perfect. You were perfect.”

You could feel a different kind of vibe from her, altogether and completely new. the way she raved about how good you danced, the way she looked at you. Suddenly it felt like you were never just a part of some performance far away, but you were something more really. You weren't sure if it was the quiet closeness of the room or the sweet way her words zinged all through your heart, but suddenly there's no question in your mind that the growing connection you both have really does mean something very significant.

“Maybe. Maybe I can show you some moves sometime," teased Se Mi with a playful voice and to ease that nervous energy.

You chuckled, feeling more at ease. “I’d like to see that.”

As you threw a playful fit that night, there clearly had been a shift in dynamics between you. It wasn't just the dancing that you'd pulled off tonight—it was that searing connection and unspoken bond that bound us together and grew ever stronger whenever she watched you dance.

And maybe, just maybe, grace that bubbled up in motion touched you too.

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #player 380 #se mi squid game #se mi x reader #won ji an

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reidssluttywaist · 1 year ago

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Spencer does your makeup.

In which you let Spencer do your makeup for the day, and he knows exactly how you do it.

fem!reader, fluff

notes: this isn't proofread, so sorry in advance for any mistakes you might find!! absolute fluff btw. If any of you guys wanna send a request feel free to do so, i might start writing smut as well but im still a little shy lol, feel free to follow and interact.

Spencer watches you get ready every chance he gets. He has your morning routine engraved in his brain. He knew the rhythm of your mornings like the lyrics to a favorite song, each step a symphony of grace and purpose.

He loves your expressions as you're trying to figure out your outfit, the way you look the temperature for the day on your phone to know if you should bring a coat or not – even though you always do, 'cause you're always cold.

He also loves to watch you do your makeup, he looks at you as if you were the most talented artist and were finishing up a masterpiece, he watches you with attention, careful to not miss a single brush stroke as you blush up your cheeks.

"Hey, um, would you mind if I tried doing your makeup today?" Spencer's voice was tentative, almost shy, as he approached you.

You were surprised by his offer, turning to face him, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. "Sure, Spence. Why not? It could be fun."

He sat down in front of you, analyzing your face and the makeup items on your desk, he picked up your moisturizer first, applying it all over your face, massaging it softly as he did, he followed all your skincare to a T, his face of concentration making you hide a smile.

Spencer got your foundation and beauty blender, you couldn't stop the surprised look on your face as he took the time to wet your sponge, surprised he even knew you did this. And again, he followed your base routine as if he was the one doing it every day, not missing a single stroke of the brush on your skin.

"Did you know that lipstick was originally made from crushed bugs and plants?" he said, his voice a mixture of fascination and amusement. "Thankfully, we've come a long way since then."

You laugh softly at the information, loving his ramble. He continued rambling about the history of makeup and all the techniques ancient people used, and you looked at him as his hands worked on your face, he was so close, paying so close attention to your face you almost got shy, but it was Spencer.

Spencer makes you feel so confident, he never fails to compliment you every chance he gets, his eyes lighting up every time he sees you, if you're in your pajamas or a fancy dress, it doesn't matter, he looks at you just the same like you're the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he makes you feel that way too.

When it came time to apply the eyeliner, you noticed he was struggling a little, smiling a little when he made a wavy line almost on your cheek.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

You reached out, taking the eyeliner from his hand with a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Spence. I'll finish up."

As you smoothed out the lines and added the finishing touches, Spencer watched with a mixture of awe and admiration, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of your beauty enhanced by his handiwork.

When you turned to face him, the mirror reflecting your radiant smile at him, Spencer couldn't help but feel a swell of affection for the incredible person standing before him.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with love and admiration.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds

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i99zhuo · 1 year ago

Note

Could u make a routine inspired by kazuha ?

How to live like kazuha ⋆𐙚.ೃ⊹🩰°｡𓏲⋆𖦹 🦢₊˚ kazuhaism routine

This is a guide on daily routines inspired by le sserafim’s Kazuha! thanks for the request, hope you enjoy it!!

content list (routines):

morning

study

workout

shower + self care

night

(_ _ ) . . z Z⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚୨ :★: ୧ ∗ ˖࣪ ໒꒱ ˚₊·

✸ ꒰ morning routine ꒱⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

🎀 Kazuha starts her days by getting straight out of bed! You can take a few minutes just to think about your dreams or to meditate but after you're done get up without thinking so you avoid lazyness. After, head to the bathroom to do your hygiene routine (washing your teeth, face, body, etc.)

After you do your skincare, it's time for makeup, if i had to describe Zuha’s makeup in a few words i would use ‘natural’ ‘light’ and ‘clean’, even tho she uses as many products as other idols I've already talked about (brow pencil, eyeshadow, base makeup, contour, lashes, eyeliner, blush and lip tint), her makeup still pretty much simple, like just to enhance her natural features.

🧸Time to get dressed, Kazuha usually wears tops or basic t-shirts with baggy sweatpants, the colors she wears the most are white, black and gray. stylize the outfit with a beret or sunglasses!

Finally for breakfast, a good option is to have a sandwich with coffee, however any recipe that includes a lot of veggies in it will be ideal!

✸ ꒰ study routine ꒱⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

🩰 One of Zuha's favorite things is trying new things and showing progress! So always make sure to experiment with different study styles, techniques and resources. also, remember that progress is not about going from an F to an A, but about improving slowly and enjoying the path to your goals.

To learn and practice her Korean, Kazuha reviews vocabulary daily, using it on small phrases to memorize their meaning. As a visual learner, she also associates words with drawings and writes in her notebook often.

🥥 And to improve her English she usually practices talking with Yunjin. You can ask a friend to tutor you in any signature you feel you are lacking and make learning fun!

✸ ꒰ workout routine ꒱⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

🪷 Kazuha’s most famous charm is her healthy and beautiful body, as well as her flexibility. She workouts everyday in her dorm room, and has a lot of different workout routines, so I decided to make a schedule so you can try them all!

monday -> le sserafim workout (no jumps / low impact), Kazuha new abs workout and full body stretch.

tuesday -> le sserafim workout (short version), Kazuha upper body workout, stretch

wednesday -> le sserafim workout, Kazuha abs workout, stretch

thursday -> le sserafim workout, upper body workout, stretch

friday -> le sserafim workout, kazuha lower abs workout, stretch

saturday -> le sserafim (short), upper body, stretch

sunday -> le sserafim workout (no jumps / low impact), stretch

🌷 Also, you can try and enroll in a ballet class, it's never too late to try!

✸ ꒰ shower + self care routine ꒱⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

Before taking your shower, take off your makeup with micellar water or an oil based cleanser. Then bath like you would normally do, but start your shower with lukewarm water and finish with a cold rinse!

🦢 Then use a soft foam cleanser to wash your face, let it air dry, and then use a gentle toner, calming ampoule and cream to set the moisture.

Now for self care, Zuha enjoys spending time doing diamond paintings or other kinds of diys, like decorating phone cases. She also videocalls her friends often in her free time, spending time with friends really helps with our mental health! You can also try and make little handmade gifts for your besties.

✸ ꒰ night routine ꒱⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

🐩 Dinner time! eat a yogurt bowl with nuts and honey (or any toppings you like) and eat it while watching youtube videos.

After eating she takes her journal and writes about her day and her emotions, she tries to be as concise as possible so no matter if she’s tired or doesn't have time she's still able to reflect on her day!

👛 Then she does her last review on the things she's studying, doing this before going to sleep helps you remember it better.

If she's with the members she will obviously watch a scary movie and have fun with her friends before going to bed!

💋 Finally stretch a little in your bed to be more flexible, have a better posture and to help you to fall asleep faster!

Good night!

(_ _ ) . . z Z⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚୨ :★: ୧ ∗ ˖࣪ ໒꒱ ˚₊·

Heyyy tysm for reading hope you liked it even if it was a little rushed!

I closed my request cus I kept getting them and I really want to focus on the ones that I already have hehe but don't worry I will re-open them once im done!

Also while making this I noticed it was really similar to the how to live like Yunjin I was making sooo idk if I should finish it or not, what do u guys think?

anyways I think that's all

toodlezzzzz!11!!1

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ganitsoni · 1 year ago

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Tattoo Removal Treatment in Hyderabad

Enhance your lips with precision at Dr. Venus in Hyderabad. Our lip fillers treatment offers natural-looking results, expertly tailored to your preferences. Achieve fuller, alluring lips through safe and advanced techniques. Elevate your confidence and redefine your smile with the best lip fillers treatment in Hyderabad.

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wilmavasquez82619-blog · 22 days ago

Text

youtube

As a board-certified dermatologist about to undergo lip lift surgery myself, I break down everything you need to know about this increasingly popular procedure

Learn why lip lifts provide results that fillers simply can't achieve, the different surgical techniques available, and how to choose the right surgeon. I explain the differences between lip flip (Botox), lip filler, and surgical lip lifts, plus reveal my personal preparation process for my upcoming surgery - including why I dissolved all my filler and strategically placed Botox beforehand.

Topics Covered:

Differences between lip flip, lip filler, and surgical lip lifts Cranial facial anatomy changes with aging Types of lip lift procedures (bullhorn, Italian, corner lift) Ideal candidates for each procedure Surgical process and recovery expectations Cost range ($3,000-$7,000) How to minimize scarring post-surgery Pre-surgery preparation (Botox placement, filler dissolution) Non-surgical alternatives (Ellure) How to select the right surgeon Limitations of fillers for lip enhancement

#lip flip #lip filler #lip lift surgery #Youtube

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ireadwithmyears · 11 months ago

Text

You’ll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline

written for the summer of bad batch 2024 challenge, week two. @summer-of-bad-batch

word count:1.4 K

prompt: injured

A swimming lesson on Pabu goes wrong. Luckily, Omega has great brothers who are there for her when her attempt to do something beyond her skill level to look impressive backfires. (Title lyrics are from Robin by Taylor Swift)

Tags/warnings: descriptions of minor injuries/blood, minor descriptions of medical procedures/stitches, fluff, hurt/comfort.