#made me write like five different fics to try and fix it...

[vulpinesaint]

so glad to see my little geralt of rivia post getting notes. i am the world's most average witcher lore understander (two seasons of the netflix show and three of the books and a bunch of time spent gleaning real lore from what people use in fanfiction) but i Do consider myself more correct than most people when it comes to understanding geralt of rivia. this is because i want to put him in a centrifuge and spin him around and my judgement is therefore unclouded by things like liking him as a character

[jinx-xxed]

Silver Chains

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A/N; I’ve already watched Sinners 4 times and became obsessed so I fear it’s necessary for me to write a fic for Remmick at least once 🤕 this is my first time writing vampires and blood like this so please forgive me if it sucks 🙏 also if I’ve written anything in relation to the movie incorrectly please tell me so I can fix it! I have some other ideas brewing that I might write as well so I hope you enjoy :P!

Summary; A hunt gone awry leaves you caught by vampire hunters with the threat of the sun looming over you.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, vampire reader, vampirism, vampire hunters, blood and injury, death, feral behavior, you almost die, protective/possessive Remmick, very dependent relationship, bloodsucking, blood eating as kink, a lot of drool, he comes with it what can I say, feeding off Remmick, putting those claws and teeth to good use, eating out, fingering, piv sex, multiple orgasms, little bit of aftercare, soft Remmick

Wc; 7.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The stench of blood assaults your nose.

It’s not the tantalizing, mouth-watering scent of someone else’s, no, it’s your own. It smells all sorts of wrong, impure and old with decay only to a thing like you.

Your blood runs down your skin in rivulets, staining it a deep, shiny red. Droplets fling from your body as you thrash and jerk against the heavy, silver chains that bind you to a thick and sturdy tree. The pain of the bark digging into your back is nothing compared to the agony of the chains burning your flesh away, steam rising from your injuries like you’d been placed on burning coals. It makes you wild, desperate to get away but with nowhere to go.

There’s no chance of you escaping the chains that sit against your neck, arms, waist, and legs in sets of two, even despite your struggling and the way you try to launch yourself from the tree with the slight leeway you have with your feet. Your unnerving eyes gleam in the moonlight, wide and frantic with fear, your bloodstained, jagged teeth showing in your open mouth. You feel as far from human as you possibly could be, snarling like an animal and chained just like one too.

The men watching you seem to think the same thing.

There’s five of them, two sit on their horses while the other three steadily pace the small clearing they have you in. God damn vampire hunters, armed to the teeth with everything they need to kill the likes of you. Silver bullets, silver chains, garlic and holy water, wooden stakes on their belts. It’s like they’re surrounded by a bubble of protection that you can’t penetrate, that’ll hurt you if they get too close—which isn’t that far off.

You curse yourself over and over. You and Remmick made damn sure to stay away from Choctaw land and yet here you are, caught and beaten. This is a new type of hunter, one you’d never had the misfortune of coming across before. They hunt in the dead of night, they enjoy watching you thrash and suffer, and their methods are cruel, meant to draw out your punishment.

You’ve never heard or seen a lick of them prior to tonight when you’d been ambushed and chased through the woods.

A gunshot had pierced your shoulder, one that brought more pain than your typical lead bullet. It had left you stumbling with a choked yell, steam rising from the hole in your shoulder blade. Then you’d heard the rustling in the underbrush, the hoots and hollers of men with a different kind of bloodlust than what you’re used to. Oh you’d ran, you’d ran as fast as your legs could carry you through the rough terrain of the forest, clearing fallen logs and scraping your bare arms on branches and thorns.

They’d caught you with another bullet to your thigh and a rope around your legs, pulling snug as soon as you tried to take another step and sending you thudding onto the hard ground. They’d wrapped you in silver soon after, seemingly experts on how to maneuver around you to avoid your snapping teeth and deadly nails. The first touch of the silver made your skin bubble and burn, a scream tearing out of your throat against your will. They’d dragged you crying for you don’t know how long behind their horses, all the way to the edge of the forest that overlooks a field that’s flat for as far as the eye can see.

You don’t know where they came from, they’re clearly unrelated to any other group or tribe of hunters, instead being just a gaggle of men who have dedicated their lives to eradicating yours. The history of your kind isn’t widely known, isn’t readily available to the public, so in your pain-addled brain you still wonder where they heard your tales, still wonder what else you might have to worry about if the knowledge is growing.

Your head thumps back, your breath coming ragged through your lungs. You shut your eyes tight for just a moment, trying to force away any more tears and clear your head. You haven’t felt pain like this in a long, long time, especially because Remmick has always been there to keep an eye on you, to keep you out of harms way. But not this time, not when you strayed too far and got too distracted to be vigilant about your surroundings. You’d been stupid and you know that, so part of you thinks you deserve this.

“Just stake me and be done.” You groan, ultimately defeated as the silver chains bite through your skin to the bone. It’s not like you want to die necessarily, you just want to be released from your own agony. You hate the way they’re toying with you, watching like wolves as you writhe and bleed.

One man shakes his head, his face shadowed by the cowboy hat he wears. “Nah, we like to watch y’all burn.” He looks to his watch and then up at the sky. “Ain’t gon’ be much longer now.”

You can’t help looking as well, your eyes finding the ever lightening night sky. The stars have been chased away, the moon laying itself to rest on the other side of the earth. You can feel the threat of the sun as the air steadily warms, as time tick, tick, ticks away. If you had to guess, you have about thirty minutes left at most before yellow rays peak over the horizon line.

You force a swallow down your torn throat, your breathing stutters as panic kicks up in your chest. You figure seeing the sun in your final moments won’t be the worst thing, it has been seven years after all, but nobody wants to be burned alive. You don’t want to feel your skin cook and be engulfed by flames, you don’t want your last memory to be pain. Tears fall down your bloodstained cheeks without you realizing, dripping to the forest floor as your head hangs.

Then there’s a rustle in the trees beyond that makes your attention snap back up. That’s when you sense it, when the tiny hairs on the back of your neck rise. It’s like a blanket of eerie quiet was laid over the clearing, quieting any crickets or frogs or birds and leaving just the whispers of an old wind through the trees. There’s a flash of red, the familiar smell of ancient blood and earth hitting your nostrils. It’s an instant comfort.

Your own reaction has caused the hunters to become alert, clutching their guns a little tighter and looking into the trees. They don’t even realize what’s happening before the screams start.

The first man goes down—the first is always the easiest. The horses startle in turn, rearing up with loud, shrill whinnies that make the men on their backs shout. One falls off his beast while the other gets dragged from the saddle with a yell. The horses shake their heads and shriek before crashing into the forest, leaving their riders behind to get their throats torn open.

You could sob in relief at seeing Remmick, his claws extended and his fangs bared. He looks feral, his hair wild and his eyes wide and gleaming bright red. Blood coats his chin and his neck, staining the collar of his button up as he rips into his victims as messily as he pleases. The two men left got enough of their senses to try and fire their guns, to use the weapons they so carefully prepared. One wields a wooden stake and runs at Remmick who grabs the man’s wrists to prevent the stake from being buried into his heart.

They grapple briefly before the man is being slammed onto the ground with a terrifying ease, something within his body cracking. Claws are raked across his neck in a quick slash, urgency spurred by the cock of a gun, the sound of the shot being fired making you flinch as it rings through the clearing. It misses its target by just a hair and it’s unable to reload fast enough to prevent Remmick from jumping on the final hunter. The man goes down with a choked scream and you hear the familiar sounds of flesh being devoured and blood being drained. There’s only a sickly silence that follows.

All of the spilled blood has thick strings of drool dripping from the corners of your mouth, your hunger flaring up from the lack of food you’d gotten tonight and the exhaustion of struggling against the hunters. You lean forward instinctively, desperate for a taste, before the silver chains binding your body remind you of where you are. You jolt back with a whimper, pain biting into you tenfold.

Remmick’s head snaps up, those sinister red eyes finding you as the bloodlust and blind rage fades, as he seems to remember you. He’s up in an instant, hurrying over and flinching away with a snarl when he realizes what’s wrapped around your body. “Shit.” He spits angrily, doing it again when he looks to the horizon and sees the slow infiltration of the oranges and yellows of morning into the purples and blues of night. Ten minutes left.

“Rem- Remmick- please, please get me out- it hurts, Remmick, please.” You beg, your babbling words warbling with pain and emotion. You don’t want to be left behind, not again, not by him. It’d hurt more than the searing kiss of the sun.

“I ain’t leavin’ you, darlin’.” He says with finality through gritted teeth, even as every instinctual thing inside him whispers to leave you here to die, to save himself and let you be engulfed in the flames of your mistake. He circles behind you, taking a deep breath before beginning to tug at the chains, hissing as they burn the calloused skin on his hands. Despite the pain, they steadily come undone, dropping to the ground around you so you can finally take in a gasping breath.

“I told you to stay with me, didn’t I? Would it kill ya to listen for once?” Remmick snaps as he undoes the last of the chains around your legs, leaving you to stumble forward. You’re charred and covered in wounds, but now your body can finally begin to regenerate. You look a mess and you feel like one too, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you struggle just to stay standing.

Before you can even get out an apology, he’s grabbing your wrist and tugging you with him. His own blood smears on your skin, the smell threatening to cloud your mind. “C’mon, or else we’ll both be fried.” His tone is low and angry and focused, telling you to save whatever you need to say for later.

You eagerly follow him, doing your best to keep up as you both run to outrace the rising warmth of morning. Panic hangs heavy around you, knowing how quickly those final minutes tick by, feeling the heat licking at your heels. Your skin threatens to begin sizzling again, sweat gleaming on your forms.

But by the grace of some cursed god, it turns out the hunters had dragged you not too far from where you and Remmick have made your home in a tiny little house hidden in the trees. It’s temporary, of course, and you’ll no doubt be moving again after tonight, but in the moment it’s like finding a blessed sanctuary in the midst of damnation. You both fly up the porch steps and burst into your home just as the sun clears the horizon line, its beams filtering through the trees while you slam the door in its face.

You fall to your knees instantly, panting and heaving like a dog as your deep injuries throb and ooze. Your whole body is shaking, weak from a pain and hunger you haven’t experienced before. You can feel the ache in your teeth, the drool that still runs down your chin despite how many times you’ve wiped it away.

Remmick is less fazed, simply shrugging off his sweat and blood soaked button up and tossing it aside, his suspenders falling loose around his hips and leaving him in his once white tank. The thin gold chain around his neck glints in the dim lighting, a twin to the gold band on his ring finger. He’s cut it close enough times in his long past that he’s familiar with the sensation of the sun at his back, but he’s been more careful with you. He makes sure to have you both fed and back with time to spare, but everything seemed to go wrong tonight. Though, he supposes the scare was probably good for you. Teach you not to wander off again.

He looks idly at his hands, at the blisters that are already beginning to fade. He’s always healed pretty fast, while you on the other hand aren’t as fortunate. The scent of your blood fills his nose, fills the room of the house. You’re both lucky his hunger was satiated earlier, otherwise he’d be on you like a leech. Even after he turned you, your blood stayed just as mouthwatering, just as delicious to something twisted inside of him. It proved to him that you were something different, something he’d been searching for without really knowing it.

“Are you upset with me?” You sniffle, quite pathetic really. But it’s been a long while since you’ve felt this much shame and embarrassment, and your body doesn’t quite know what to do with it besides force it out through tears.

Remmick stands in silence with his thoughts for a moment more before he sighs, defeated. “I ain’t angry with ya, sugar. Just worried, is all.” He turns, his steps marked by the too-soft thud of boots against hardwood. You see the toes of his shoes in your vision, but you still can’t make yourself lift your head, to look at him—so he does it for you. He crouches down, taking your face in his hand, making you meet his eyes. “Fuck, darlin’, they almost killed you.”

You can see the concern etched onto his eternally young face, the memory of seeing you chained in silver and presented like a sacrifice to the morning sun. You can’t even begin to understand the fear he’d felt; hearing all the commotion far off in the woods, hearing your screams and hoping he ran fast enough to reach you. He could smell the way your blood poured from your body, the way it burned under your confines. He’d sensed your terror too, your emotions sitting just behind his own like a second pair, locked together by a bond too ancient to be understood. You’d called out to him without your voice and he answered without a second thought.

Oh, how he’d raged seeing you against that tree, begging your captors for a quick death. Your face was covered in tears and blood, you’d looked to the horizon with a mixture of acceptance and panic, something he’s seen plenty of times before. He never should have let it happen, should have known to keep you closer, should have known you were still too young into this and got too excited over fresh meat. Hell, he didn’t even know how you managed to sneak off but he’d looked away for one damn minute and then you were gone. He’d been a fool to trust that you’d come back before a gunshot rang through the forest.

Killing those men was one of the easier things he’s done. Remmick barely even registered their deaths, the only thought in his mind being eliminating any threats to you and getting some food out of it as well. Their wards and stakes and silver bullets did nothing to deter him, they were weak and weightless—the opposite of the other hunters he’s come across, the ones with real strength. No, those men were new and ultimately inexperienced, and yet still stupidly dangerous.

He’d worry about them later. They’re dead and gone while you’re still bleeding and sniffling in front of him.

You lean into his touch like a cat, desperate for comfort. “Yer starvin’, ain’t ‘cha?” He murmurs, running his thumb along your cheek. He can see it clear as day in your gleaming eyes, the drool that won’t stop, and the way your wounds are refusing to close because you don’t have enough sustenance. You nod sadly, your head bowed while tears of frustration burn behind your eyelids. Remmick is quick to wipe them away. “Shh, don’t cry, sugar. You’ll be alright. You got food right here.”

You look at him with confusion before seeing the way he’s presented his thick forearm to you, underside up. Your eyes widen and you almost jump immediately at the opportunity, your teeth aching painfully and hunger howling within you. He nods his head towards his arm. “Go on, darlin’. You know I wouldn’t let ya go hungry.”

You sit up, acting on autopilot as you grip his arm in both of your hands, your drool dripping onto his skin before your teeth sink in. Blood immediately comes to the surface of the puncture wounds, and you take every drop you’re offered. The iron-sweet tang on your tongue instantly brings out your hunger tenfold, your fangs digging even deeper into the soft skin. Remmick makes a low noise, something between a groan and a grunt, watching with satisfaction as you take from him.

It’s rare when he lets you do this. Typically there’s enough food for the both of you, enough to keep you happily satiated until the next time that primordial hunger comes knocking. But sometimes there’s nights when the hunt fails, nights like tonight when the need to feast is bad enough to kill you if it’s left too long, when you need to rely on your last resort. However, no matter what, Remmick will never let his lady go hungry.

The age of Remmick’s blood blooms in your mouth, rich with an aftertaste of ancient iron and old, hidden stories. Only people like you would know how much you can learn from someone’s blood, from the life force of their body. The whispers of the lives they led running along your tongue as you feast, the emotions they held within hopes and dreams. It’s fascinating, and it was something Remmick was eager to show you when you were first turned, teaching you the crimson stained wonders of being what he is.

You relish the feeling of his blood flowing through you, working to heal the wounds littering your body. His other hand rests firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers occasionally squeezing and letting you feel the pricks of his claws that have begun to slide from their sheaths. He keeps you there, encouraging you to take and take and take.

You eventually pull back, twisting out of his hold on you and releasing his bloody arm with a pop. Your breath comes as pants through your open mouth, blood staining your lips and teeth, the gleam having returned to your eyes. Your bites have always been cleaner than Remmick’s, less gruesome and destructive, leaving his forearm with tiny wounds that will heal quickly. The sight of red beading from them still makes you salivate but it’s easier to reel yourself in now, dragging your hunger back by a leash around its neck to keep it from going rabid. It allows your fangs and claws to be more willing to retract, your mind no longer running in restless, desperate circles around the concept of food.

You notice the way Remmick has been looking at you, full of some type of reverence mixed with relief, you think. Relief at the fact you’re not a sniveling, bleeding mess on the floor anymore, your usual shine quickly coming back. Your wounds have stitched themselves back together, bone no longer showing and just the outermost layers still being torn and burnt. It makes you feel like you can breathe again, every movement free of the horrible agony.

“C’mere.” Remmick says, voice dropping a few levels as he continues staring at your blood stained mouth. He pulls you in before you even have the chance to sit up properly, your lips meeting in a clash of tongues and teeth. He groans when he tastes his own blood on you, practically taking it from you with the way he licks you. You gasp against him as he fully invades your space, your back hitting the wooden door so that there’s nowhere else to go, his body effectively caging you in. His hands easily roam over your form, knowing every inch and detail with the precision of a man who’s explored them a hundred times before.

Hands come to rest on your waist and before you know it, you’re being hoisted up with a startled noise that Remmick quickly swallows with a kiss. His muscled biceps flex as he easily holds you against him, your legs coming to wrap around his hips and your hands gripping at his shoulders for purchase. You’re carried upstairs with a newfound urgency, Remmick kicking open the bedroom door and roughly laying you onto the soft sheets of a bed that used to belong to somebody else—before you two took over, of course.

Blood, sweat, and dirt immediately stain the covers beneath you, smearing across the fabric as you move. It’s nothing new, this happens just about every time you return from an exhilarating hunt. You both barely ever have the foresight to wash off first before climbing into bed together. Remmick follows after you, your hands resting on either side of his face to draw him in, never wanting to be apart for too long. His fingers pull at the shirt that was tucked into your pants that are too big on you, the ones you always wear on a hunt that are now ruined by the burn marks of silver chains.

His touch is always just on the side of too cold, a consequence of being undead, the same one that you suffer from. It’s something you were quick to grow used to, along with the way his temperature fluctuates depending on how much fresh blood he has coursing through him. His ring bites like ice beneath your shirt as he eases it up and over your body, tossing it somewhere into a corner to be picked up later.

“Mm, Remmick..” you mumble, your hands coming up to run through his short black hair, his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. His bloody chain dangles from his sternum, hanging just above you like a taunt.

“I know, sugar.” He responds, feeling the way your legs rub together beneath him, your body quivering with anticipation. His kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, past the spot where he bit you all those years ago. He licks away stains of the dried blood remaining from your sealed injuries, groaning like an animal at the taste that leaves him drooling.

Saliva smears across your skin on his way down your body, stopping briefly at your breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling it against his tongue and teasing it between his thankfully normal teeth as you arch into him, little breathy moans and gasps tumbling out of you. He envelops the other breast in his calloused hand, squeezing and rolling the soft flesh between his fingers. “So beautiful… so good fer me, sugar.” He murmurs against you, his nose nudging at the space between your breasts where more blood has dried. It doesn’t take long for him to clean it off.

He makes quick work of your pants, undoing the buttons deftly and lifting your hips to tug them free. His hands run along your thighs lovingly, goosebumps rising in his wake. He straightens, red eyes roving over your now exposed body with appreciation. Drool beads at the corners of his lips, steadily building and running down his chin while you smile at him.

“Pretty thing, all fer me.” Remmick says it like a confirmation and a vow, even though he needs none. There’s nothing that could separate you two besides a stake through the heart or the sun’s warmth. You gave yourself to him completely the day you let him bite you, let him take your life and forge it into something new, something unholy and damned.

“All yours.” You agree, stretching your arms above your head like a cat. You give him a sly grin. “Now stop teasing.”

His eyebrows shoot up, a deep chuckle leaving him, even as he hooks his fingers beneath your underwear and tugs it off. “Always impatient, huh?”

You hum as he kneels, his strong arms coming up to wrap around your thighs and settle them nicely on his wide shoulders. “I just know how good you feel. Can’t a girl be excited?”

Remmick smirks, huffing a laugh. “Shoot, I don’t see why not.”

His breath fans across your cunt, already wet and glistening with your arousal. The red in his eyes smolders like coals, burning brighter with his desire as he looks at you like you’re his next meal. He leans in, that first connection acting like lightning shooting through you, your body arching and mouth falling open. His tongue licks between your folds, collecting your slick and dragging it up to your clit where he toys with the bud, circling it with little flicks and pecks while you moan above him.

Remmick sucks your clit into his mouth, the rest of you immediately responding in turn as you jolt from the pleasure. He knows how to play you like his banjo, how to keep you easy and pliant while he works you to climax. He knows your body like it’s his own, the bond you share allowing him to hold a presence within you, to tell your emotions and thoughts. Most of all, he knows how you like to be licked, his tongue dipping into your hole as your noises raise a pitch.

“Remmick.. fuck-“ You moan, hands coming down to run through his hair, tugging after a particularly harsh kiss to your clit. He groans into your pussy, the sound reverberating through you as he swallows down your arousal with an eagerness he doesn’t even display during feedings. His drool makes your cunt shine, mixing with your slick to the point you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

He practically buries himself into your cunt, licking and kissing and taking whatever you have to offer. His hands are like vices on your thighs, the unmistakable tips of his claws occasionally pricking your skin as they again slide from their nail beds with his excitement. You can feel the way pleasure courses through you, tightening your muscles and creating a familiar knot in your lower abdomen that will steadily build until it’s ready to come loose. It won’t be long with the way Remmick eats you like he hasn’t had a meal in years.

His nose nudges at your clit, his tongue circling your hole before slipping inside, collecting the wetness you continually drip for him. You whine loudly, pulling harder at the black strands of his hair, your thighs attempting to clench around his head. “Shit- feels so good Rem, fuck-“ You curse, falling back against the pillows, chest heaving.

You writhe under his ministrations, his hands having to move up to your hips just to keep you still, his biceps flexing against your legs. He knows how close you are so he ramps it up, licking from your center to your clit and drawing it into his mouth, his brows furrowed in concentration. Your moans and whimpers are music to his ears, listening to the way you call his name with a breathy gasp as he makes you cum.

It crashes over you like a wave, that knot coming undone and pleasure wracking your body. Remmick drinks it all, not letting a single drop of it go to waste as his eyes burn red. He’s quick to slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sinking into the plush heat of your pussy, his claws sheathed just for now. He pumps them in and out while you ride through your orgasm, scissoring your gummy walls to stretch you even further. He doesn’t let up, even as you grab at him to try and get him off, the attention bordering on overstimulation. He continues to kiss at your clit all the while, his fingers and his mouth bringing you straight into another orgasm that has you seeing white.

Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, overly sensitive and leaving your legs twitching. Remmick licks you clean with as much care and diligence a man like him can muster, his fanged teeth occasionally scraping against you and making you shudder. His fingers slip out of your warmth covered in your cum, your walls fluttering and aching at the emptiness that you know won’t last long.

He finally releases your thighs, letting them fall from his shoulders as he lifts himself from between your legs. The lower half of his face is covered in a shiny mixture of drool, cum, and blood, making him look all sorts of a mess. You couldn’t care less, knowing that no matter what he does, it’s going to be a little messy—and you love that about him.

He slowly makes his way back up your body, kissing from your clavicle to your ribs, to your breasts, and then up the column of your neck before at last reaching your lips. You’re eager to kiss him, hands tugging at his shoulders to pull him in, keeping him as close as possible. You taste yourself on his tongue, along with a familiar iron tang that has your hunger flaring again. You pull away only to lick along his chin, eagerly collecting the bloody mixture until there’s none left. Your fangs released without you even realizing.

“Yer still hungry.” He says it as a statement rather than a question, seeing the blatant craving in your dazed eyes, feeling it within himself as if it was his own. You’ve tried to subdue it all this time, not wanting to take more than you’re allowed, but it still makes your stomach clench, your teeth ache. Your body is too weak to resist the pangs, still too busy patching up whatever damage can’t be seen externally. Remmick coos at you, “c’mon, s’okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

You begin to protest, your more human sensibility allowing guilt to take charge. “You already gave me-“

He shakes his head, silencing you. “Sugar, ya won’t last long if yer starvin’. I think I ate enough for the both of us anyhow.” You think back to all those dead hunters in that clearing, their bodies strewn along the forest floor and their blood splattered on the grass like paint. You can still smell their foreign iron-laced scents on Remmick, and it only serves to make you crave more. Drool falls down your chin, and he just smiles knowingly. His head tilts, the skin on his neck becoming taut as he bares it to you. “C’mon now.���

There’s a singular moment of hesitation, where you look into those red gleaming eyes of his for a type of confirmation, and all you find is that he’s just watching you expectantly. Well, if a meal’s going to be served to you on a silver platter like this, you’d do good to take it.

Your jaw goes slack, your teeth sharp and ready, before your body lunges up to latch onto his neck. As the first drops hit your tongue, he grunts, his form falling over yours while he wraps an arm swiftly around your waist so you can both fall back onto the bed. His other hand slams down next to your head while his blood fills your mouth and you gulp it down like there won’t be a tomorrow.

Being fed on is always jarring for Remmick, his body still not used to it after the centuries of him being the only one to feast. His neck is so much different than his arm, he realizes, something dangerous being set off within him this time as a result. But it turns out he’d do just about anything for you, so he makes himself ease into the sensation, even as his claws dig into the bedsheets and his fanged teeth grind together hard enough to shatter, the primal part of him fearing that, for once, he’s being preyed on.

“That’s it, sugar.” He says with a husky laugh. “Shit.”

Past the initial shock, it’s easy for the pain to shift into pleasure. It is quite erotic, really, the way he can feel his own blood coursing through your body. The little noises you make while you feed on him, the trickles of blood mixing with spit on your chin, your strength returning all because of him. It fills him with a twisted sense of pride, knowing that he’s the one satiating that bone deep hunger, knowing his blood is mixing with yours and becoming one inside you. “Take it all, darlin’, suck me dry.” He groans, the tips of his claws making little pinpricks in your sides as he holds onto you.

It’s almost involuntary, the way his hips rut against you, his cock straining in his pants and demanding attention. It has his hands fumbling between your bodies, eager to undo the thick buckle of his belt with a clink, the buttons of his trousers following after. You nearly choke on his blood when you feel his shaft rubbing between your folds, coating himself in the mixture of your cum and his drool. He does a few slow, experimental thrusts, not sinking in just yet but simply feeling you instead. It has you groaning against his neck, your teeth digging in deeper and greedily drinking at the ambrosia that is Remmick’s blood while he pants above you.

You release him with a sharp gasp when the head of his cock catches your entrance, at last pressing in with slippery ease. His moan is throaty and guttural, a shiver running through him at the way your walls draw him in, enveloping him in plush warmth. He sheathes himself completely and he stays with his hips flush to yours for just a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the initial pleasure. It amazes you how he never gets tired of it, even after his centuries of being alive and his years of fucking you.

You pull him back down with hands on either side of his face, encouraging him to kiss you. He does, of course, his mouth enveloping yours just as he begins to thrust, drawing almost completely from your cunt before slamming back in. His tongue roves over yours, licking away any remnants of his blood and swallowing down your moans. He pulls away with his chest heaving, a sharp groan falling from his open mouth, fangs on full display just beneath his lips.

There’s a sudden wetness against your collarbones that makes you jolt, looking down to see blood from Remmick’s neck splattered along your skin. The wound you’d bitten into him is still bleeding, droplets coming loose with his thrusts and the way he’s bent over you. He smirks, lifting two fingers and drawing them over the bite marks, collecting the blood smeared there. “Clean up yer mess, sugar.” He tells you between breathy pants, bringing his fingers to your mouth.

You take them eagerly, swirling the pads against your tongue, licking off every bit of blood and enjoying the earthly, metal taste. He watches you in awe, his eyes burning bright red in the dim lighting, full of adoration and reverence and desire. Your spit coats his fingers generously, leaving them shiny when you let go with a wet smack. He buries his head into the side of your neck with a disbelieving chuckle that quickly morphs into a moan, his hot breath fanning across your skin as your hands clutch at his bloodied white tank.

You use the opportunity to mouth at the bite on his throat like an animal, like a cat grooming its mate. You whine suddenly when he hits that spot at the top of your core, the one that has you keening and pleasure sparking like lightning beneath your skin. “Fu-fuck, Remmick-“ You mewl, claws digging into the expanse of his back, even through the tank. He growls appreciatively at the pain, at the red, angry lines undoubtedly rising along his skin and beading with blood.

Remmick nips hungrily at your neck, his hands digging harshly into your sides. He’s practically laid over top of you while he thrusts his cock deep into your throbbing pussy, keeping you as close as possible. There’s something possessive and raw about it, about the way he breathes you in, clutching at you desperately, biting you as if to prove you’re there.

“Ain’t never lettin’ you out of my sight again. Nearly fuckin’ lost ya.” He snarls with a groan, his claws digging in a little deeper at the memories of what happened just hours prior. Though your body no longer holds proof of it, he won’t forget anytime soon. He’ll chain you to him if he has to, just to make sure you’re safe.

“I- I know- I’m sorry-“ You say, moans stuttering with the way his hips slam into you, fueled by his declaration and the feral desires that howl a constant song within him. It’s not often that Remmick reveals any kind of vulnerability to you, instead letting you guess at it based on what you can gather from the bond you share. But it seems the very real idea of you bound in silver and burning brought it out of him, even if only a little.

You’re both nearing release, the pleasure burning in your core while his movements grow choppy and uneven. The noises he makes change, becoming breathy at the edges as his brows furrow, his nose nudging at your jaw. “Rem- Remmick- shit-“ You whine, feeling the way you’re so close to tumbling off the edge.

“I got ‘cha, sugar.” He says, voice rumbling right next to your ear. One hand comes between you, his calloused fingers finding your clit and swirling it in hurried circles, your mouth falling open and your eyes pinching shut as your muscles tense. His response is near instant, his free hand pinching your chin like a reminder, “nuh-uh, look at me, darlin’.”

You have no choice but to oblige him, meeting his gaze through tear stained lashes. You learned quickly how obsessed he is with seeing your face, seeing your eyes. No matter what position you’re in, he’ll make sure he can still see you or else you’ll find yourself flipped around to rectify it. You think he does it as a way to ground himself, a near impossible feat in an immortal body that’s hundreds of years old. You let him use you as an anchor, keeping him tethered here with you, two lonely souls finding company in one another.

It feels like all the breath gets knocked from your lungs as your third orgasm overtakes you. You whimper and whine and moan Remmick’s name, your hands scrabbling at him desperately. The way your cunt spasms around him makes him quick to follow after you with a loud curse, his cum hot as it paints your walls white, filling you to the brim with him. He rides out his high, emptying every last drop into you with small jerks of his hips and soft words, encouraging you to take it all.

“Fuck, sugar, yer somethin’ else.” Remmick pants, muscled chest heaving, straightening just a little to look at you in your fucked-out state. Hair wild, skin flushed, looking almost human if it weren’t for the unholy gleam in your eyes. There’s sticky trails of blood and spit all along your forms, remnants of both the hunt and your copulation. It’s made a further mess of the sheets below you, but quite frankly, you’re too tired to care.

He slowly pulls out with a groan, cum dribbling from your abused hole with his cock no longer there to keep you plugged full. You wince at the feeling, your energy spent and your body rightfully exhausted. As much as Remmick would love to keep you ruined with the reminders of what he did to you, he knows how you hate sleeping while sticky—and he needs you to be able to rest. He gently pries himself from you, even as you continuously try to wrap your arms around him again. “I’ll be right back, darlin’.” He promises, finally getting free despite your grumbling.

He gets a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting it with warm water before returning. Your arms are open for him, welcoming him back into your embrace so you can feel him against you, so you can feel complete. He holds you like something precious, cleans you like you’re made of delicate glass. He wipes the blood off with no issue, his appetite blissfully satiated for now, and he’s gentle between your legs, this routine so familiar that he could do it with his eyes closed. You go limp from his touch, your body pliant beneath him. He kisses you more than once, unable to help himself when you bask so nicely in the afterglow.

When he’s finished, Remmick tosses the cloth absently into a corner somewhere, followed by his bloody tank that joins his button up on the floor to be washed later. He then settles into a non-soiled part of the bed, sitting back against the headboard and easily pulling you on top of him. You simply follow wherever his hands want you to go, more than happy to relax in his lap with your head pressed to his bare chest and his thick arms enveloping you. His scent floods your nose—sweat, iron, dirt, and old leather, making you hum appreciatively.

“My sweet girl,” Remmick murmurs against your hair, his hand running along your back in soothing lines. He pulls one of the spare quilts free and wraps it around you and you nestle into its comfort, the heavy material soft against your bare skin. You nuzzle against Remmick, too tired to resist fully giving in to those base desires for warmth and safety, knowing he’ll give you exactly that. There’s a kiss pressed to your forehead. “Rest. Y’need it.”

“You’ll still be here?” You mumble, barely able to muster a sentence, eyes already beginning to shut. Sometimes there’s days when you need that extra confirmation, his promise that he won’t leave you behind, that he’ll still be waiting for you by the time you wake up. You feel his grip on you tighten, just for a moment.

“‘Course I will, sugar. I ain’t ever leavin’.”

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Tags; @vesnaragast

[alsofoundinpeas]

Dinner for Two(ish)

Summary: Since the beginning of your relationship, you and Spencer have made it a tradition to share a candlelit dinner at home every Valentine's Day. But this year, the evening has a surprise guest—one who’s about to change everything.

CONTENT WARNINGS: (While this fic itself isn't explicit content, my blog is 18+ so please keep this in mind!!) Mentions of past infertility issues. Pregnancy announcement. Both reader and Spencer cry but it's happy tears!! Established relationship. Fluff <3 (I think that's all but feel free to let me know if there are any I should add!)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader/afab!reader

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day my angels!! <3 This is way different than my usual fics so I hope you guys like it :') I figured something short and sweet (not a Sabrina reference but still giggling) would be best for today. I did try a different writing style instead of using Y/N so any feedback would be greatly appreciated! I also have a requested fic coming out Sunday or Monday that I'm excited for you guys to read <3 As always, please tell me what you think! If you enjoy it, please like, reblog, and share it with your friends :) Thank you and I love you all!!

Nerves wrack your body as you pace the kitchen, your heart pounding so hard you swore it was bound to leap right out of your ribcage if you were to stop moving.

Spencer called a few minutes ago to let you know he was on his way home, leaving you with almost an hour to set everything up for his surprise. You’d kept the call brief and kept your voice even so he wouldn’t suspect anything—a surprising feat, considering your body was (and still is) trembling like a leaf caught in a windstorm. In a way, you were thankful he’d had back-to-back cases recently.

Despite missing him so much it ached and worrying about him every second you were awake (and even in your subconscious as you slept), Spencer being away so often made keeping your secret much easier.

The wedding ring on your finger spun endlessly as you continued to fidget with it—a nervous habit that you’d picked up the second Spencer slid it on. A glance at the clock on the stove told you he’d be home in roughly five minutes. A shaky sigh filled the air as you attempted to swallow your nerves, lighting the candles you’d set up on the dining table and fixing your plates with the food you spent over an hour preparing because everything had to be perfect for tonight.

The familiar sound of keys jingling and the lock turning sent your blood rushing through your veins, humming beneath your skin in an excited current as you wait for your husband to open the door.

Spencer stepped inside, wearing an exhausted smile and holding a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers he could find last minute before the florist down the street closed their shop. His face lit up at the sight of the candlelit dinner, the crinkles around his eyes making your nerves settle just a little. It reminded you that the man in front of you was the love of your life, and that, despite how scary it felt, everything would be just fine.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” he murmured as he made his way over to you, pulling you into a tight but mindful hug so that he didn’t crush your flowers. "Dinner smells amazing. You spoil me."

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you waved a hand dismissively, pressing a tender kiss to his before taking the flowers to put them in a vase. "You don’t need to butter me up, Spence. I’m already your wife," you teased, though your cheeks flushed at the compliment.

"Something I’m grateful for every day," Spencer said with sincerity, moving behind you to wrap his arms around you and place a soft kiss on the top of your head.

After arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on the table, the two of you sat down to eat. As you picked at your food, Spencer noticed you nervously fidgeting with your ring. His brow furrowed in concern as he wondered what could possibly be making you so anxious. Finally, he set his fork down, unable to stay quiet any longer.

"Honey, what's wrong? What's got you so worked up?"

His voice caught your attention, causing you to glance up from where you were gathering another bite onto your fork. Your teeth dug into your lower lip as you averted your gaze, contemplating waiting until the both of you were done eating or just telling him right now so you could get it out of the way. With a deep breath, you decided on the latter, letting your fork hit the plate with a soft clink as you cleared your throat.

"I...um. I actually have a present for you this year. Stay right here," you whispered as you got up, ignoring his protests as you hurried into your shared bedroom to grab the small box you'd put together for him. The box couldn't have been more than half a pound at most, but its contents had you feeling like you were carrying the weight of the world in your hands—and technically, you were.

Spencer eyed you skeptically as you returned, his gaze immediately dropping to the box as you placed it in front of him. "Sweetheart, I've told you that the dinner is more than enough for me—"

"Just open it," you urged, gesturing for him to go ahead with a quick, impatient motion from where you stood beside him.

A surprised chuckle escaped him as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay! Sorry." His fingers fumbled with the red ribbon, unwinding it carefully as he slowly lifted the lid. You kept your eyes fixed on his face, anxiously watching for his reaction as he peered inside.

Inside was a tiny onesie with Baby Reid printed in delicate cursive, accompanied by an ultrasound photo and the three positive tests you’d taken (because you hadn’t quite believed the first one).

Spencer stared down at the items in complete shock, his mouth opening and closing for a moment before he glanced up at you. "W-we're having a baby?" His voice trembled, his eyes welling with tears at the realization.

For more than a year, you and Spencer had been trying to conceive, with him meticulously tracking your cycle and researching every possible method to increase your chances. But each time, you were met with heartache and disappointment, tossing negative test after negative test into the trash. Eventually, you both resigned yourselves to the reality that, as much as you longed for a baby of your own, it might not be in the cards.

You’d never been happier to be wrong in your life.

Nodding your head, tears began to well in your own eyes as you flashed him a watery smile. "We're having a baby, Spence."

Before you could even process what was happening, he was up and kneeling in front of you, his hands gently cradling your stomach as tears began to fall. A choked laugh escaped him as he looked up at you, eyes wide with awe. "We're having a baby," he whispered again, pressing a tender kiss to your stomach despite the barely-there bump—just over eight weeks along.

The sight made your heart swell, one hand instinctively wiping away his tears, even as your own continued to fall. The other hand rested gently beside his on your stomach. And as you watched your husband speak softly to your unborn baby, you couldn’t help but feel that everything you’d ever wanted was finally right there, just beneath your fingertips.

Continued A/N's: AHHH this got posted a little later than intended because I kept coming back to edit HAHA but I truly hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I did. I truly believe that man deserved a happy ending with baby geniuses of his own and this is my way of coping :') BUTTTT thank you so much for reading and Happy Valentine's Day again <3

REMINDER: I do NOT give permission for my work to be re-uploaded to any other platforms (c.ai, TikTok, ao3, etc.) under any circumstances. If you'd like to translate my work, then please ask me before doing so. I know it sounds whiny, but I (as well as many other fanfic writers) spend so much time on these and it's genuinely not okay to take credit for work that isn't yours. It's insulting and completely unnecessary. If I do see my work uploaded anywhere without explicit permission, I WILL say something.

[tourturestarradio]

Helloooo!! I hope you’re doing alright :3

‼️‼️‼️SPOILER FOR DEADPOOL 3‼️‼️‼️

Can I request a crack fic? With either male or gender neutral reader, with Logan and Wade, in that car fight scene?

Like, the three of them are in that Honda Odyssey, and when Logan and Wade start fighting, reader just gets so fed up, they’re like: “oh my god can y’all just kiss already? This is painful to watch.” Bc that was me the entire time I was watching that movie😭🙏🏻 You can add anything else you want in there but I would love to see that! I absolutely love how you write so I don’t doubt you could make this just as well as your others!! ☺️💙

𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔

"𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫."

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Prompt: You're sick of Wade's and Logan's BS and for the first time you lose your temper on them.

Pairing: Deadpool/Wade Willson x G/n reader x Wolverine/Logan Howlet

Warnings: Cursing, Spoilers for Deadpool 3

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

You ducked and dodged under both of the mens attacks they had been fighting each other for the past 30 minutes with no breaks. All because Logan couldn't keep the mouth shut. So now you sat bruises, bullet wounds, and cuts covering your body.

"Guys! G..Guys can we please stop fighting...please?" but they both ignored you again, usually you were the calm one to defuse their arguments and they'd relax, before they were back at it again.

You looked between the two your irritation growing stronger by the second.

"Uh...Wade?" he was stabbing into Logan "one moment cupcake." you dodged a stray knife headed your way "Logan?..." he broke Wades arm "not now."

You were willing to just let them fight it out that was the plan until Wade had redirected Logans blades into your leg.

That was your final straw, "Will you two just fuck already?!" you shouted looking at the two "what the fuck are you-" "Logan shut the hell up!" he closed his mouth Wade laughing at him "ha you're in trouble now-" "Wade so help me God I will shove that stupid kitana so far up your ass you're be tasting metal for a god damned month!"

They both hushed surprised by your outburst, your were usually so calm all the time.

"Every time you both are around each other it's like a enemies to lovers trope just waiting to happen! the sexual tension is palpable between you two!" You pulled Wolverines blades out of your leg "you two just can't go five fucking minutes without wanting to rip each other apart, for fucks sake!" you rolled your eyes "by some grace of God I've made it this far with you two assholes without having a brain aneurysm!"

You pulled a baby knife out of your torso pointing to Wade "I mean I get it you both have your differences, you're doing this because you got a girlfriend that barely loves you. Little to no friends who enjoy being around but you care about them and that's what's important right? Right.so you want to do everything in your will power to make sure those people don't die because without them you have nothing to distract from the impending doom you feel in your gut that you're not good enough. But god forbid you ever feel safe or scared so you cover up all your problems by making half funny jokes and witty comebacks. How's that am I in the right ball park?" You faced Logan as Wade pondered on your words.

He opened his mouth to speak but you hushed him quickly "And you, you try to be all big bad and tough but you're not you're a sad lonely man with no family or friends because in your universe they're dead and there's nothing you can do about it. But because you were left alive you carry the guilt of losing the people you cared for the most everyday wishing you could go back and fix things and make them right, but you can't they're gone for good but instead of making something out of your life and trying to start new you decided to go on a murderous rampage. So now you carry that guilt on top of everything else so you drown yourself in those chemicals in a bottle to forget or ignore your problems instead of growing a pair owning up to your mistakes!"

You got out of the car "so in conclusion you both have your reasons for being here, you want to get back the things you love most, but you two fuck faces are too idiotic to realize how much you have in common so you ignore the good character writing and argue and fight every other scene! I mean come on how much more gay could you two get!" You huffed finally letting that off your chest and turning to walk away "now i'm going to leave for an hour to blow off some steam and you both have two ultimatums you either A : take those sweaty suits off and have the best hate sex of your lives or B: shut the fuck up! Grow some balls! and get it the fuck together!" you stormed away both Logan and Wade too stunned to say anything.

.

.

.

"That was pretty hot, i've never seen them so angry."

Safe to say they made up for now and continued on with the rest of the movie.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

A/n: sorry this was so short!!!!! hope you enjoyed!

[slowsonic69]

Leave My Body

Chapter 1

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc

Summary: His words collapsing Alex's walls as easily as a blow could collapse a house of cards. It had felt right. Authors note's: Story is happening during the five years between season 3 of Daredevil and Daredevil: Born Again. I don't what this is, but the lack of Dex fic made me write it. I am in no way an experienced writer, so bare with me. I hope everything is coherent and if you notice any grammar mistakes, please tell me and I'll fix it. English is not my first language. Maybe I'll write more about those two maybe not...enjoy!!

Word count: 2.7k

———————————————————————

The most horrifying aspect of life for Alex Hazel was change. Change in seasons, in people, in time. Everything seemed to move toward someplace or another, in a hurry for something different — something better.

Alex preferred stagnation, using the same trustworthy tools she had been given at a young age. The same vanilla scented softener her older sister used to wash her clothes with. The same gun her father taught her how to kill with.

With change came complication, unknown factors accumulating into an uncomfortable feeling that settled heavily in her chest. So heavy that she had to focus on her breathing while watching Benjamin Poindexter make omelets in her kitchen — with the wrong pan.

“You like ’em scrambled or flat?” His back was turned to her. His muscles shifted underneath the tight-fitting black t-shirt he had stolen, as he shook the eggs in the cast-iron pan instead of the non-stick one.

With no answer, he turned, an eyebrow raised, unsure if she was still there.

“I don’t like eggs,” Alex finally responded, her hands tightening into fists. He noticed and smiled, turning back to the chaos he was unleashing in her kitchen.

“Of course.” A chuckle resonated deep in his throat, mocking her in her own kitchen. Wearing her t-shirt and sweatpants, using the wrong fucking pan. She had to look away, to let it go. He was here only for a few days, and then he’d be gone.

She’d never have to deal with him again after finally repaying this favor — they’d be even and strangers once more.

With all the strength she could muster, Alex moved her legs toward the sofa, sitting herself down with a rigid spine. Her hands awkwardly placed on her lap. She didn’t know what to do with herself, not when someone else was here. A long-forgotten skill of sharing spaces. The last time had been when she still lived at home with her siblings and father. Since then, she was alone — for the better.

Seemingly trying to torture her, he came to join her at the sofa, a plate in hand and cutlery. He sat with a flop, a lot more comfortable than she felt. From an outsider's point of view, he seemed more at home than she was. It irrationally irritated her.

Placing his plate on the living room table, he picked up the remote and put on whatever channel she had last been watching: Cartoon Network. He eyed her for a moment, the same mocking smirk on his lips.

“Watching kid’s shows?”

Her fingers twitched to grab her AutoMag III hidden underneath the couch and put a bullet between his two eyes. But she didn’t — for some unknown reason.

“It’s entertaining,” she answered instead, her gaze laser-focused on the screen in front of her. Not absorbing anything of the show. Benjamin Poindexter hummed in a taunting way but didn’t change the channel. He preferred to lean forward and start eating his omelet instead, one big bite at a time. Some pieces fell from his chewing mouth back into the plate.

Alex felt her face contort from disgust — She might watch kid’s shows, but he ate like one.

“How long will you be staying?” The question slipped out of her, in desperate search for a possible release from him.

He shrugged, taking another bite. Her left eye twitched. “That’s not an answer.”

Swallowing after barely chewing his food, he placed his fork and knife crisscross on the now-empty plate. Finishing his omelet in record time —Did he even taste it?

“Already growing tired of me, Hazel?” He leaned his elbows on his knees, his head tilted, as if this was a genuine concern of his. She knew better.

“I ask for inventory’s sake,” Alex reasoned, wishing it were socially acceptable to just say ‘yes’ to such a question. Then again, she shouldn’t care about what was socially acceptable with a man like Poindexter. He surely didn’t.

For a moment, he just looked at her in a silence only filled with whatever show was playing in the background. His black pits searching hers, perhaps for a weakness, or maybe a hidden weapon stashed behind her eyeballs. A show of strength, most likely. Alex had never found the hitman intimidating — or anyone.

She had no reason to. He was like every person she had ever met. Annoyingly human with badly hidden insecurities. He was flesh and blood, something she could pierce and hit until it was black and blue and dead.

“A week or two. Depends.” An answer, less vague but still unspecific. Every fiber in her body wanted to ask for more, to know the whole ordeal of his stay here. She restrained herself, deciding it was better to know as little as possible to avoid getting involved altogether.

With a nod, she stood, escaping to her bedroom.

“Oh! Before you go.” She stopped mid-walk, slightly turning.

“Next time you order groceries on your phone, can you add a pack of beers?”

A pause. “I’ll consider it.”

Without waiting for an answer, she retreated to her bedroom, sat in the corner of her bed, wiping the tiredness from her face with her hands. Finally alone, Alex was left with one last question echoing through her mind.

How did he know she ordered her groceries

--------------------------------------------------------

Poindexter was strange, but ultimately not such a bad roommate. He cleaned up after himself, cooked his own meals, and most importantly — left her alone. Most nights, when Alex came back from her office job, the apartment was empty, as if no one else had ever lived there but her. It was only hours later, in the early mornings, that she would hear the keys jingle in the door lock — then a loud thud on the couch.

Leaving for work, she sometimes inspected his unconscious body from afar. Checking if he had any open wounds bleeding into her couch, if he was really asleep or simply resting his eyes. She even kept quiet while making her breakfast, glancing over every so often to see if he stirred at any noise. If he did hear anything, he didn’t seem to mind — too tired to care, perhaps.

And after each morning, watching him snore softly, more questions kept popping up in her head about his whereabouts — questions she would never ask, even if it ate her alive. She couldn’t. She had left that life behind, and tipping one foot back into it would be enough to make her topple forward in full force. Alex had to accept the mystery, for her own sake.

She contented herself with imagined scenarios, ones she built from the few clues he left behind. An open newspaper on the kitchen island—a picture of a New York lawyer winning a case, a red bullseye scribbled over his head. His next target? Although throughout Poindexter’s stay, no news ever came of the lawyer’s death. Strange.

There was also the collection of knives drying on a towel in the bathroom, ranging in size and thickness. Some duller than others, telling her he preferred the thinner ones. They must pierce skin easier—he preferred quick deaths, then.

Mud-stuck shoes were neatly placed in the hallway closet. A H-S Precision sniper rifle rested upright next to them, a model well known among federal agencies. An ex-fed? His stiff mannerisms pushed her more toward a military angle. Perhaps he had been both.

She couldn’t build a coherent story for him, and it made her brain itch and stretch, frustrated by her own imposed rule of not looking him up.

It was a good exercise in self-control—one she planned to succeed in. He wouldn’t destroy what she had worked so hard to build.

So days went on, the both of them almost never crossing path. Even when they did, not much was said. Only the few things he needed her to order from the groceries. Beer, mac & cheese, premade meals ect…

Whatever asked the least of effort to make but gave enough fuel to go through a day —practical stuff. It became a routine, one she could follow. One she could accept for the time being.

Until she came home after two weeks of living together. He was sitting at the kitchen island, a cold beer in hand. She froze for a second, not expecting him at this hour.

The thought of greeting passed through her like a shiver. An urge to ask about his day, if he enjoyed the beer she had bought for him. If he was as lonely as she was. Alex shook her head, silently scolding herself —they weren’t even real roommates.

He ignored her too, facing the kitchen his back to her. Lost in his own a daze it seemed. Did he even know she was there?

“Welcome back.”

Of course he knew she was there. “Hello.” She settled on as she put her coat and shoes away in the hallway closet. A stinging sensation crawling up her spine —she realized she was nervous. How stupid. How pathetic.

"Good day at work?" he asked, sipping from his beer and finally turning his whole body to face her, a curious look in his eyes. He made it seem so simple, these questions — as if they were nothing, a leaf in the wind.

"I didn’t take you for someone who participates in small talk," she said, placing her bag on the island and unloading her empty lunch box and reusable water bottle.

"What can I say? I’m full of surprises." He smiled, his full upper row of teeth on display, leaning toward her. She could smell the beer on him — and something else. An odor she had noticed in her bathroom towels and the cushions of her couch.

Leather, with a hint of gunpowder and soap. A scent that had crawled its way into her home. She had been alarmed when she first detected it — it was different, it wasn’t hers. She had washed the cushions and towels, using more detergent and softener than needed. But it stuck, and it only amplified every time he reused them. So she gave up.

Then — without even realizing it — she grew used to it. To him.

His smile suddenly became unbearable to look at.

“It was fine. Work was fine.”

It felt unnatural to answer, to even consider how her day had gone. Alex didn’t think about such futile things. Days were days; how she felt about them didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change the fact that she had to go back to work the next day.

"Susie didn’t give you any trouble today?"

Her movements halted, her eyebrows creasing together. She figured.

"How long have you been following me?"

He chuckled. "Well, I had to know what kind of person I was dealing with."

She had been too focused on how she acted and spoke, questioning every action with tedious care — not even spending a second to look further than her own nose. Her father would be disgusted by her carelessness.

Alex managed to stare him down then, not out of anger or fear; she simply looked at him. Observing him, catching up to the fact that he had observed her first.

Crooked dirty-blonde hair, gray strands growing from his sideburns. A square jaw meeting in the middle at a cleft chin, covered with light stubble. A straight nose, and two brown eyes beside it, heavy eye bags holding them tightly.

He was handsome —she concluded with a frustrated sigh.

“And?” She asked, taking her empty lunch box and bottle to the kitchen sink.

He finished his beer with one last sip before answering. “I was disappointed to find out about your change of career.”

Washing the metal box, her back now to him, she shrugged. There was not much to say. Not much she wanted to tell him. Or anyone. It was a choice she had made on her own, so, she would handle it alone.

“You know you can’t run away from it forever right?”

Alex placed the metal lunch box on the dish drying rack, turning her attention to the water bottle. She could feel the wall between them building inside her — brick by brick. He could spy on her, mock her, steal her clothes, use the wrong kitchen utensils — but she wouldn’t allow him to give her advice. As if he knew her. As if they were friends.

Finishing up, she passed him with hastened steps. "I’m tired. I’m going to bed."

A small gasp escaped her as he shot forward, his finger wrapping around her arm painfully. "You can’t throw away what you have like it’s nothing. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you, kill like you."

The couch was only 6 feet away. Beneath it, the AutoMag III was still waiting to be used. She could reach it in time, before he could even throw the first object at her.

His hold tightened as if hearing her thoughts.

“That night... when we first met." A low wavering whisper, only for her to hear. Stepping closer the smell of cheap beer followed him. Overfilling her senses once more, but Alex stayed put nonetheless. Focusing forward, waiting with a squeezing heart on whatever he was about to say.

"When we fought side by side, it was effortless. It felt..." . She could grab her gun now, easily. Yet she didn’t, instead her face turned on its own. Meeting glistening brown eyes with apprehension.

“It felt right. Didn’t it?"

Did it?

They were both cornered, she remembers — strangers accidentally caught in the same problem at the same time. Alex knew then she couldn’t take them all on by herself; there were a dozen broad, strong men ready for the kill. She had to use Poindexter to survive.

And when they fought, she did what she did best — imitated his movements: a precise swing of the wrist, balanced feet, and a right hook here and there. In that large, desolate storage unit, just for one fight, they were one. She complemented his close encounters by moving to the back, throwing whatever she had in hand — hitting their knees, their hands — pushing forward only when his knives started flying through the air, piercing them between the eyes each time.

In the end, they were the last ones standing. At least Alex tried to keep herself upright. Although, with two bullets in her stomach and another in her left knee, it slowly became harder to do so. That’s where the favor came from. Poindexter took her in, treated her wounds, and helped her survive another day.

“It was out of survival,” Alex rationalized, pulling her arm out of his grasp. He let her. “Nothing more.”

In a blur, she reached her room, locked the door, and sat back down on the same spot at the end of her bed. Immediately grabbing her own arm, clutching it as tightly as Poindexter had, closing her eyes firmly, savoring the feeling just a little longer. Her chest tightened, her breath jagged and uneven, almost painful. His words collapsing her walls as easily as a blow could collapse a house of cards. It all fell down upon her — what she refused to recognise.

It had felt right.

When they fought together, when he tended her wounds in complete silence afterward, when he had grabbed her arm just then—his glistening brown eyes swallowing her whole. Begging her to admit it too.

Her hand left her arm as she startled at the harsh sound of the front door closing. He left as she had left him. Her breathing worsened. Goddamn it, Alex. She didn’t even know him. They had barely talked. He had been here for only two weeks.

And yet, in the last five years, he had been the only one who had ever touched her outside of a fight. Who had talked to her like a human being. The closest thing she ever had to a friend.

[totaly-obsessed]

Could you write for leah but reader is her little sister and she's been like misbehaving at school so her mum asks her to talk to her as of she's being like bullied or something to get reader to admit it.

(Sorry I miss spelled something the first time and didn't realise I took the name out when I was fixing the mistakes)

Big Shoes to fill

Leah Willamson x reader fic

pt.2 here

-> Reader, Leah's younger sister is having trouble in school - mysteries get solved.

-> Talk of bullying, homophobia, (maybe child neglect?)

-> @ anon, I hope you like it - a little bit angstier than most of my stuff

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Amanda and David Williamson had had enough. Since school started again, they have received nothing but bad news from their youngest daughter’s school – your school. At first, it was just forgotten homework, until you missed attendance a couple of times – then they made sure, that you did in fact go to school and classes. But after getting better, it got worse again – you had started to misbehave more and more, talking back to your teachers and being constantly rude to everyone around you.

It was stressful. Of course, you didn’t change your behavior overnight, and you didn’t change because you were bored – but nobody seemed to care. Leah had moved to central London a couple of years ago and your older brother Jacob moved to Australia – leaving you all alone in your parent's home.

They weren’t bad people or bad parents, but they were busy. Work. All day, every day. Both of them had already been older when they had you – Leah already eleven, and Jacob seven when she was ‘blessed’ with a younger sister.

The footballer loved to tell you how your first meeting went, boasting to everybody that you wouldn’t stop crying until she held you for the first time, falling asleep in her skinny, little arms. It was her favorite picture of you as a baby, even to this day.

When your principal called Amanda at work for the third time that week, she was done trying. Instead of picking you up, she told the man on the other side of the phone to let you walk home – no matter how much you whined. To his surprise you did not even complain, taking your bag and walking out the door – dull, tired eyes and an empty smile on your face. You finally did it. Maybe you never had to go back. Maybe they finally gave up on you.

Once you had arrived home you were drenched by the London rain, shivering as you made your way through an empty house, taking a shower before you started cleaning up your muddy footsteps. Everything was normal until no one came home. Usually, your mom would get home at five and your day by eight – but now it was already nine and no one was answering your texts.

The lock of the front door ruckled, and after a few tries, it was finally flung open. Like in a bad horror movie a silhouette was shown by lighting in the background – but after a deafening silence aside from the falling rain, Leah stepped inside. Her hair kept back in a beanie and a bag of take-out food in her hand – “I’m homeee!”

You took the food into the kitchen before handing her towels and dry clothes, leaving her to get changed. “You, my love, are the best sister, ever!” By now you had plated the food and set up on the couch, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. “I’m your only sister, Lee.” Her blue eyes softened at your weak voice. “I knowww, but you’re always so good to me.” She pulled you into a tight hug, almost afraid to let you go.

You handed her one of the plates, two slices of Pizza on it – your joined favorite – as she eyes the glasses. “Aren’t you a little too young to drink, Missy?” A sheepish smile was the only response that she got, and it was enough. Leah could see that something was up.

Usually, you had time to prepare when she visited, knowing of it beforehand – but today was different, she just showed up. You didn’t have time to hide the bags beneath your eyes, or do your hair in a way that didn’t look completely life-less – and she noticed. Of course, Leah noticed. She would always notice.

You ate dinner in silence for a while, just happy to be in each other's presence, having missed that feeling once Leah had moved out and you had gotten older. But when both plates were clean, Leah literally licking the crumbs off them, you couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m guessing you’re the one I have to thank for Mum and Dad being somewhere else?”

Your older sister swallowed hard, knowing that you would ask, but she had still hoped that she could gently lead you into the conversation. “Yeah, they’re at my place.” Leah’s place was a stunning apartment closer to the Arsenal training facility. As gently as she could, she took your hands into hers, immediately noticing how cold they were. 

“They told me that you’ve been havin’ trouble in school. What’s goin on Bug?” You hated that look. Leah’s eyes clouded with worry terrified you. She really did care, and while that was nice to know, it also meant, that you would hurt her, no matter what.

“Mom doesn’t know what to do anymore, and Dad- he, well he doesn’t either.” Of course, you knew that. Your mother's tired eyes nearly mirrored your own. But you couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand.

The silence was deafening, and your older sister tried to be subtle with her concerned staring. Sadly for both of you, Leah’s subtle was like an elephant in a fine China store. She really did try not to coax anything out of you, wanting you to feel safe enough to open up.

“School’s just not my thing.”

Both of you knew that you were lying – you loved learning new things and while school might not have the right topics for you, it was better than dying dumb.

The Arsenal player’s eyebrow was intimidating enough for you to just give up. You were tired of fighting your feelings, hurting yourself and everybody else.

“Why are you so rude to the people in your class?” She really was serious, there was no backing out now. “They are not nice people.” Her gaze hardened, her suspicions forming even further. “Why don't you like them?”

But she was met with silence. While you wanted to let her know, that those kids were mean ones, you didn’t want to tell her why they were so mean to you. It would break your sister's heart.

“Okay, what about your football team? Do you have any friends there?” Every time your eyes wandered up from staring at your joined hands to meet Leah’s, they snapped back down. The look in her eyes was terrifying. She seemed scared.

And it was all your fault.

“Oh, I stopped playing football.” Your parents hadn’t even noticed. You washed your own laundry, so when at some point your sweaty training clothes stopped showing up, no one noticed. The only one who did was your trainer – she was now missing one of the most known last names in English women’s football in her team.

You didn’t need to look at your sister to know that she was shocked, her stunned silence doing all the talking. “W-What to do you mean – You quit? But you love football!” You did. You loved watching Leah and her teammates play football, there was so much passion on the field, silent understanding, and mastered routines when they played. “Just drop it, Leah.”

Realization set in for the England captain – you were growing up. Gone was her little sister, who would do anything to be like her. The little sister who worshipped the ground she walked on.

“Why did you quit then? Mom didn’t tell me about it. Why didn’t you call?” You had downed the contents of your wine glass, stealing Leah’s as well. It scared her, just how tired you looked. “Didn’t want to interrupt your day, you’re a busy woman now. Mom always says that.” You took a deep breath, before making air quotes “Leah has more important stuff to do now, honey. Don’t call her, what if she is in an interview?”

The silence was suffocating. It never used to be like this, at least not that Leah remembered. “You would have never interrupted. I will always make time for you, Bug.” As much as you wanted to believe that, you couldn’t. No one made time for you. Not even your mom and dad, who used to do so many exciting things with all their kids in the house. But it was different now. With Leah and Jacob gone.

“A phone works both ways, Leah.”

The footballer was stunned. You were right. She was complaining to your mum, on and on, about how she didn’t know what was happening in your life – but she herself made no effort to change that.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Her confession and apology meant everything to you – even if you feared, that they were empty.

The wine bottle was now empty, and Leah still sober – but that was her plan, and it was working a charm, as your slightly slurred words started to pour out.

“I am so proud of you. You know?” A deep sniffle filled the brief silence “Winning the home European Championship, leading the team to the win, playing every game.” Your eyes were staring into space, as your sisters’ hands tried to warm yours, scared of how hollow you looked and felt. “But it’s not easy living up to that, you know?”

You once again grabbed the glass, disappointed when it was empty. But you didn’t get up to get more. “All everyone said when we went back to school, was how I would never be as good as you.” Tears threatened to fall from Leah’s eyes as things started to make sense. “That’s not true, y-“ but you didn’t let her finish her desperate try to change your mind. “It is true, Leah. I will never be as good as you – because I don’t really like football that much. Your passion and love for it, made you work harder to get where you are right now. I just played so that Jacob and you had something to talk to me about.”

Your whole life you had been pretending to love the game just as much as your siblings did – and when Leah thought back on it, she started to see it. You never had a team you supported, but it was always the one she had played for, or preferred. Not a single well-known footballer came to your mind when you were asked. The only answer you would give? ‘My sister, Leah. She is my favorite footballer of all time.’

“People had never been the kindest to me. I mean I could handle it when they just made fun of me for defending you. But after the win, all of a sudden everyone loved you, and then I was the one they were hurling insults at.” Tears made their way down the blonde's face, leaving a salty taste on her lips. “What did you need to defend me from?”

She knew it was bad the moment that your hands let go of hers. Seeking space. “Well, people knew. They knew about you and Jordan.” Sobs started to wreck her body as you desperately tried to soothe her by rubbing her back.

People were insulting her for being gay, and you stood up for her, making yourself the target.

“Bug, I- I don’t know what to say…”

The tipsyness started to make way for your guilt. She wasn’t supposed to know. You knew that it would break her heart, knowing what was happening at school.

“I hoped, that if I acted cold enough, people would leave me alone. But they didn’t. I tried to tell Mum that I wanted to change schools, but she was busy.” Now she understood. You tried to get yourself kicked out of school so that your parents had no choice but to notice and send you to a new one, where you could start over.

“I am so sorry. You shouldn’t have to go through that.” Your gaze finally met hers, gone was her baby sister. The teen in front of her was much too mature for her age, needing to wise up after being left all alone in the world.

“I know Lee.”

My god. What had she done? Leah Williamson was sure if there was an award for being the worst sister – she would have surely won it.

[typicalopposite]

wip wednesday <3

so I have been tagged by quite a few people (thank you all 🫶 @desert--moonchild @bidisasterevankinard @onthewaytosomewhere @lavenderleahy -- got bamboozled by @sunnywithachanceofbi -- @judymarch15 @marvelousbuckley @tailsbeth-writes @cafe-con-letty & @theotherbuckley ... and that's going back a month) over the span of... a time for different things... lol I have not been keeping up with the games I have been tagged in like I use to... its been a messy life! BUT I'm finally catching up by sharing (quite a bit of) not an already established wip... but a new one! you know, now that we are all collectively in our grieving/fix-it era <3 so consider yourselves -- eyes Chrissy -- tagged back!

take me back - tommy amnesia fic

Tommy cracks his eyes open, fully expecting to be met with that damned water stain on his ceiling he keeps meaning to get looked at — when the spot caves in on him he’s going to regret it — but for the past six months his mind has been on… other things. Regardless, this is not the sight he is met with, and he looks up in confusion at the garage ceiling instead. He blinks a few times before realizing that he’s laying on the cold concrete floor. It takes just a moment longer before he is overcome by a splitting headache and his vision blurs. 

“What the fuck…” he groans, forcing himself to sit up. He reaches for his head, unable to pinpoint where exactly the pain is radiating from; he feels it throughout his entire skull... it’s in his eyes, his temples, all the way down into his neck. He’s not even sure what happened. If he passed out; if he tripped… Why was he even in the garage when he was supposed to be getting ready. The room feels like it’s spinning, and he feels waves of nausea wash over him. He doubts he’ll be able to stand up unassisted, so he crawls over to his workout bench and uses it for support. 

He almost crumples back to the floor from the vertigo he gets from rising to his feet, but he holds tight to the pull bar and takes a few deep breaths until it finally subsides. He opens his eyes again, relieved his vision has cleared, and tries to take a step. His legs are wobbly but he manages to remain stable and upright as he crosses the garage and walks back into his house. 

That’s when he realizes it’s already getting dark. Shit. He was supposed to be getting ready! He goes for his phone but it’s not in his pocket, so he slowly makes his way to his room, except it’s not on the charger either— 

And his bed spread is different… 

His bed spread is—

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut as the headache continues to get worse. “Fuuuck…” he drawls out, once again reaching for his head. He needs to get medicine, to find his phone, and to get out the door or he is going to be late. He can’t be late tonight. Tonight is special.

Another deep breath and he takes another step, towards the bathroom this time. He pulls the medicine cabinet door open, eyes going to the middle shelf where he keeps his ibuprofen… and finds a prescription— two prescriptions actually. He stares at the little orange bottles, both made out to him… one is acetaminophen-- and since he doesn’t have time to figure out why they are there-- he ignores the second and just takes the prescribed dose of the pain medicine and recloses the door. 

All he has to do now is to find his damn phone. 

It’s not in the kitchen, or on the coffee table, or out in his truck, or buried in the couch cushions… The last place he goes is back into the garage; lo and behold it’s there. The problem? It’s shattered. How it got shattered he doesn’t know. Possibly from his fall. 

He tries the side button and the screen lights up. It’s five thirty; he needs to go. He tries to carefully input his passcode: 5724. It doesn’t work. He tries it again. Still nothing. One more time and then another… he assumes the problem is the broken screen, but the phone disables for one minute and he doesn't have time to keep trying. Oh well, he can just leave now, and be there a little early. It’s not like it actually matters if he’s early, anyway. 

He goes back into the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror— reels at the images looking back because, damn. His eyes are bloodshot with dark circles and his face is puffy and drained of all color as if he’s been crying. Has he been crying? He pushes the thought aside and takes out his eye drops, dropping a couple into each eye and wincing from the pain tilting his head back causes. The medicine will kick in soon, the headache will subside. He will be early… but when is extra time with his boyfriend a bad thing?

*

He parks and climbs out of his truck, the remnants of his headache finally starting to fade away. He takes the stairs two at a time once he’s inside the building, getting that giddy little pep in his step he always gets the moment he reaches Evan’s floor. He strides down the hallway, feeling light on his feet— like he’s floating on air. He reaches the door, lifts his hand and raps against the wood… once, twice, and three times. 

There’s a quiet commotion from inside, accompanied by the sounds of voices— plural, so someone else is here. Tommy tries to think about whether Evan said he had any plans prior to their date… he can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. He bounces on the balls of his feet, feeling his heart pick up in speed as footsteps get closer to the door. The lock turns, the knob twists and the door opens. 

Tommy can feel the tug of his smile spreading high up onto his cheeks. “Hey—”

“Uhm… Hi?” A voice that’s not Evan’s replies— Tommy stares at a face that is not Evan’s… A man he doesn’t recognize; dressed in comfortable clothes-- practically sleep clothes-- with tousled hair and a sated look that instantly has Tommy feeling some type of way. He tilts his head to see the number on the door, thinking maybe he came to the wrong apartment. He didn’t, and so he’s left thoroughly confused at who this stranger is and why he looks so… comfortable in his boyfriend’s home. “Tommy, right?” The guy continues. He lets his eyes travel over Tommy, like he’s studying him, keeping a careful and friendly enough smile on his face. 

“Wha- uh, I’m… sorry. Do I know you?” 

“Doubt it. But I have heard plenty about you…” The voice is suave; his tone is flat but not necessarily cold. Who the fuck even is—

“Dylan?” That is Evan’s voice… Tommy peers around this guy— around Dylan to see his boyfriend come bopping off the stairs. “Who is it— oh… T- Tommy?!” Evan’s face blanks, and his arms stall just as he was starting to slip them around this— this— Dylan’s waist. Tommy thinks he might actually be sick. Evan looks just as debauched, in his gray sweatpants and no shirt— sweat glistening over his bare chest leaves very little to be imagined of what the two were up to before he knocked. He finally truly looks at Dylan and the shirt is Evan’s… his oversized faded Nirvana band tee. Tommy has had to quickly slip it on when they have been disturbed time and time before. “What are you doing here?” Evan asks.

A sarcastic laugh bubbles its way out of Tommy and he has to take a step back from the door— from them. “W- What am I doing here?” He asks.  “What am I doing here…” he repeats. His face is starting to flush and there are tears filling his eyes no amount of blinking speed would be able to push away. He dares a look back at Evan. Wants to see if he even looks guilty; does he even look sorry? He just looks shocked, and that pisses Tommy off more. “I can't believe this...” he mutters under his breath and turns on his heels, willing his feet to get him out of this nightmare as fast as possible. 

“Tommy?” 

Ignore him. 

“T- Tommy!”

Ignore him. Forget him.

The steps are easier to get down than up; he is practically jumping the whole way down each flight. He should have known… he should have prepared better… he should have never given him that second chance… Tommy knew this thing with Evan was only going to be temporary— Evan was figuring himself out, and Tommy was more than willing to be the kind, caring, and supportive hand through the journey. But Tommy knew one day he would reach the end, he wouldn’t need the security of Tommy anymore, and Tommy was prepared to bow out gracefully. He just thought they had more time. 

But this…

This hurts so much more than he had anticipated that that would. 

“Tommy…” 

A hand grabs his shoulder and he realizes he has stopped just outside the apartment building. The cool night air is drying out the tears that have already streaked down his face. His chest feels like it’s caving in… and great, his headache is back. He shrugs Evan’s hand off of him, and starts moving towards his truck again. 

“What— Dammit Tommy! Are you seriously going to be this stubborn right now…”

That stops him. He turns and glares at Evan, taking a step towards him with seemingly enough fury Evan stops in his tracks, keeping distance between them. “Stubborn…?” Tommy chokes out. “Are you really calling me stubborn right now?”

“I- I mean… yeah! That’s how you’re acting right now!” Evan crosses his arms, having the audacity to appear angry. “You come to my apartment, had a stare down with my boyfriend, then just stormed off with no explanation!” 

Tommy feels his heart sink— hell it does more than that… it falls all the way to the floor and shatters. “B- Boyfriend…” he repeats. This has to be some kind of a prank. It has to be. “How can you stand there and look so calm about this… You—” You asshole… You lying, manipulative— “Cheater…” 

The look on Evan’s face at that word almost— not fully, but almost— surprises Tommy. So stunned; his eyes bouncing around from Tommy’s, to the ground, to the cars around them, up to the sky… before finally coming back to Tommy’s. “Ch- Cheater? Tommy.. wh- what are you talking about.” Tommy huffs out another sarcastic laugh and turns to angrily storm the rest of the way to his truck, all the while knowing Evan isn’t going to just let him. Maybe there’s even a part of him hoping Evan stops him with a viable explanation, because this… this can't be how it ends— this is going to do more than just crush him… it’s going to annihilate him. “Oh my god…” Evan groans and as Tommy suspected he would, starts after him again. “Tommy! Can you please— just this once— stop running and talk to me?” 

“Talk about what, Evan…” Tommy all but screams and, oddly enough, that seems to stop Evan in his tracks. “What do you want me to say? That I should have seen this coming… That I should have known it was too good to be true. Or maybe admit that I always knew I wouldn't be your forever, no matter how bad I wanted to be… but I sure as hell didn’t see this—” he gestures frantically at Evan then up at the apartment building. “—being how it ended.” The more he let the words spill out, the more confused Evan looked. “Or should I just come out and address the elephant in the room— the man up in your apartment you’re cheating on your boyfriend with.” 

Evan’s brows pull together, hardening his stare into something Tommy has never been on the receiving end of; it hurts to see, instead of angering him like it probably should. “I don’t know if you’re drunk… or if this is some kind of joke… but it’s not funny— it’s not fair! You— You don’t get to barge back into my life unannounced— today of all days. Then— then you accuse me of— That man up in my apartment is my boyfriend, Tommy… he has been for eight months now.” 

Tommy feels like a bomb was shoved down his throat and detonated. His entire body trembles and goes through after shocks of what Evan said. Partially from the unexpected sting of jealousy at the thought of someone being with Evan longer than he has… but mostly because of the absurdity of it all; does Evan really expect him to buy into the nonsense he’s spewing; claiming he has been in this other relationship for this long— and on their anniversary. Except Evan looks serious. 

Tommy tries to find his voice; he tries to string some words together in his head to say something back. “W- What?” is all he manages to come up with; his voice betrays him, coming out small and broken. 

Evan steps closer to him, cracks clearly forming in the cold and serious look he was just giving Tommy, making way for looks of concern, or confusion… or maybe even of sadness. “Tommy,” he says the name for the upteenth time, and Tommy feels himself flinching at his own name like it assaulted him. “Are you— Are you okay? What’s going on? Why— why are you here?” He steps closer, Tommy steps back. 

Just like that the medicine’s effect dissipates and his headache comes rushing back with a vengeance. Tommy’s vision blurs and he gasps at the return of the pain, now with a spot to single the bulk of it to. He brings his hand up to the back of his head, fingers instantly touching something wet. 

“Will you stop— dammit Tommy, stop running away from me,” Evan continues, almost in front of him now, although his voice sounds muffled and far away. Tommy stops backing up and lets his hand fall down from his head, revealing bright red blood coating his fingers. “Oh my god…” Evan gasps just as a wave of dizziness sways Tommy backwards. Two strong arms grab him, steady him… but don’t exactly hold him, and that hurts as bad as this headache. Evan is so close Tommy wouldn’t have to lean in far to capture his lips… but he can’t. Not like this. Not while everything feels so off and confusing. 

He allows Evan to help him over to his truck, but shies away from his touch the moment he is able to lean on its bed for stability. Evan pulls out his phone and dials 9-1-1. “What are you doing?” Tommy asks when his jaw is grabbed, gently but firmly, and Evan is guiding him to turn his head. He is ignored as Evan talks to the dispatcher, giving the location and a short gist of what happened, before he stops talking abruptly.

“T- Tommy… were— were you in an accident?” 

Tommy can’t help the sarcasm heavy laugh at the ridiculous question. “Don’t you think you would know if I had been,” he says coolly. 

Evan sighs. “He has a pretty big wound on the back of his head,” he tells the dispatcher, and Tommy stares at him in shock. “There are staples but it’s been reopened.” Tommy feels his skin prickling. He feels this strong sense of unease, like the floors about to fall out from under him. “Hey… look at me,” Evan says, resting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and looking in his eyes, he turns his phone’s flashlight on and scans it over each eye. “His pupils are receptive. Do— Do you know what day it is?” 

Of course that’s a logical question but given everything it is like a stab into his already ripped open chest. “It’s… November 7.” 

“Okay, good. And the year?”

“2024…”

“Okay— wait. Wh- What did you say?” Once again Evan is staring at him confused. “You said it’s 2024?” Tommy breaks his eyes away; Evan is getting that kicked puppy look and he doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to make Tommy feel bad right now. “Tommy…” Evan pries. “You— You said 2024?” 

“Yes Evan, yes! It’s November 7, 2024! It’s our six month anniversary! But I guess that means nothing to—” His voice cracks. He covers his trembling lip with the back of his hand and tries to calm himself down. 

Sirens break through the deafening silence, and an Ambulance turns into the parking lot. Evan flags it over and it comes to a stop behind Tommy’s truck. Thankfully it’s not the 118, and Tommy doesn’t recognize the paramedics that get out to help him. They check over the apparent wound on the back of his head, and start asking him questions. Questions he mostly ignores because he is focused on Evan talking to the one of them off to the side. “He— he thinks it’s 2024…” he whispers but Tommy catches it anyway. 

“What do you mean ‘I think’,” he asks past the mountain of questions the paramedic accessing him is still piling on. Evan’s mouth clamps shut and he looks over at Tommy. “You said I think it’s 2024… what the hell does that mean Evan.” 

“I- I don’t— uhm…” Evan looks helplessly at the paramedics, avoiding looking at Tommy. 

“Sir, please, just calm down. Take a deep breath. We can get everything figured out at the hospital.”

“To hell with that,” Tommy snaps— which surprises even himself, because he is usually compliant with first responders, being that he is one. “I want everything figured out now. What do you mean?” 

“Tommy…” Evan begins, takes a deep breath and sighs it out. “It’s 2025.” 

“What?”

“It— It’s 2025,” Evan reiterates.

~~~~~~~~

Sooooo 😀 trying to actually get this fix rolling because I am not going to post the whole first chapter until it’s done! Fingers crossed I don’t lose inspiration before then 🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼

Throwing out a couple more tags just incase you wanna share something fixing this mess thrown on our poor sad boys or just to heal yourself, or something entirely new! 🫶

@nine-one-wanton @herrmannhalsteadproduction @30somethingautisticteacher @bangpop91 @racerchix21 @rdng1230

@somethingaboutfirefly @kinardsevan @bucksxkinard @unhingedangstaddict and anyone else who wants to share their stuff or just follow along 🫶

[duplicitywrites]

I’ve been reading your fics for quite some time, probably about since I first got into Tomarry (mid 2020). I remember I used to be SO intimidated by you for some reason— you’re this incredible writer who knows so many people in the Tomarry fandom and I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I just silently read your fics and left guest kudos every time I could, but I never ever tried commenting or reaching out in other ways. I discovered your tumblr a little while ago, and I’ve been seeing your posts and reading your kind responses to all the asks you get and I’ve been constantly seeing them on my dash for at LEAST a year and now I feel like a parasocial freak but I and anyone else with eyes can see that you are SO kind and welcoming and I just want to thank you for making me realize that, despite any first impressions or thoughts about it, fandom really doesn’t have to (and shouldn’t) be a scary thing to get into! It shouldn’t be scary to interact with those around you! And it was hard for a while to realize this, because I get anxious about socializing and inserting myself into already-established spaces (such as fandom; it’s scary!) (and I know I’m not alone in that feeling of anxiety), but reading your posts and seeing you be so incredible has made me excited to interact with this fandom. I feel comfortable now to reach out to my favorite authors with words of adoration and you made me see that these authors are LITERALLY just. Well. Normal (and 99% of the time, very much incredible and kindhearted) people. Not untouchable gods who will smite anyone who has the gall to comment nice things on their fics (truly reprehensible, I know, lol). Thank you for being such an inviting figure/part of this fandom and for being so involved and kind to those around you! <3 So sorry if this is silly or sappy lol, I just want you to know that I appreciate you and that you have an impact on people in this fandom whether you’re aware of it or not.

first let me say it's so crazy to me that it's been almost five years! it both feels like it has and also not 😭 maybe i should do something fancy to celebrate on my tomarrymort anniversary later this year? idk what though 🤔

fandom can definitely be intimidating as a whole, and i think it's also harder when you're not used to navigating these spaces. like, online social norms are obviously different from in-person social norms.

this is actually the second fandom that i've been very involved in, so it's not my first rodeo, and it makes me think it does take experience to become properly comfortable in fandom in a way that feels more grounded and less performative (though i think on some level we are always being performative on social media)

i will say that people always come and go, so you shouldn't see fandom as a fixed space. it's like with meeting people anywhere, some you get along with and some you don't. the nice thing about fandom is you know you already have at least one thing in common 😂

but i digress LOL mostly because i never know what to say in response to nice things people say to me. i think you're so sweet and i'm almost like overwhelmed you took the time to write all this out 🫠💕 so thank you for all your support (almost five years' worth, how crazy is that) and kindness!

also i'm glad you said authors are just normal because absolutely authors are all people (not influencers. influencers bad), and fandom is a community when people treat each other like people! so i try to be nice (and honestly don't always feel like i succeed) but especially nowadays it feels so important to at least try ✊

closing statement is i hope all the lovely comments you leave on all fics get nice replies back 🙏 though i am probably not always in that category as i am massively behind on my replies 😭 my main problem is my portfolio is so big now it's literally impossible for me to keep up 🫠 but i read them all! and i try to reply on the things i actively post!! so know that they are seen and somewhat responded to at least in my head 😭💕

[libraryofneith]

Hiding Place (Frankie Morales x GN! Reader)

Summary: a reunion between you and the guys goes south when you have a panic attack, but your friend Frankie is there for you

Tags: frankie morales x gender neutral! reader, platonic relationship between frankie and reader but it could be read romantically, hurt/comfort, fluff, wholesome

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks, bullet wounds, very mild cussing

This was written for @punkshort AU August Writing Challenge! Thanks for this prompt, it was so much fun! Be sure to check out my joel miller x reader fic Out of Mind.

A champagne cork.

Or rather, a sparkling cider cork.

That was what started it.

It had flown off the bottle with a pop and gone whizzing past your ear as you were cleaning dishes. You'd tried to laugh it off with the others. It was just a stupid accident. Everyone was there to celebrate Benny winning one of the biggest fights of his life and you weren't going to spoil everything with another one of your stupid panic attacks. But the pop and the feeling of the cork flying past you had made time stand still.

Suddenly you weren't in Will's kitchen anymore; you were in a trench, a rifle in your hands, trying to find a fix on your target as bullets fired around you. Your hand went to your shoulder as if it had a mind of its own, grazing over the point where a bullet had shot through five years ago. It was throbbing as if it had only been five minutes ago. You could hear a voice far off. It sounded like it was a million miles away, barely getting through over the pounding in your ears.

"You ok?" You jumped. Frankie was standing beside you looking concerned. When did he get here?

"Yeah, fine. Just gotta take a leak." You pushed past him into the hallway, completely blundering past the bathroom.

Fuck fuck. Where were you? What were you doing? Your chest felt like it was tying itself in knots. You couldn't breathe. You blindly grasped a door handle and stumbled into what you realised too late was Willy's bedroom. As if the flashbacks weren't bad enough now you had to deal with the anxiety of going into someone's room without their permission. But you couldn't deal with that now. Alone, desperate and completely out of breath, you did the only thing you knew you make you feel better.

---

Frankie closed the bathroom door. Nope, not in there. There were three other doors on that floor - one opened to a study, one to a cupboard, and the third a bedroom. It seemed empty but he had this strange feeling of being watched, like someone else was waiting to exhale.

"Hello?" No answer. "You in here?"

"Down here." The voice came from underneath the bed.

"You ok?"

"Yeah."

"Is that why you're under a bed?"

"I… I just… It was just too much."

"Ok, I get it." He paused. He didn't want to intrude but he didn't feel he could leave it like that. "You want some company?" There was a lengthy silence before you replied: "Alright."

He shuffled while you scooched until you were lying side by side staring up at the graying mattress poking through the timber slides. It was a while before he plucked up the courage to break the silence.

"This takes me back."

You snorted. Depressing as it was, you'd spent more than one occasion huddled in a bunker or trench together avoiding bullets, drones or bombs.

"Everyone Ok out there?"

"They're fine, just worried about you." You groaned.

"Now I feel bad, I didn't want to make a whole thing out of it."

"No one holds it against you, we all have… stuff." Stuff. That was one way to put it. You started absentmindedly rubbing the bullet hole on your shoulder again.

"Still hurt?" Your hand flew back to your side.

"Sometimes, when I have these… episodes. Therapist tells me it's not actually the wound, just the trauma."

"Is there a difference?" You shrugged then winced. It was weird, sometimes you hardly felt it, sometimes - like today - it felt so painful you could hardly think straight.

"I'm sorry I haven't been there for you."

"It's OK, you had your own stuff to deal with."

"By stuff, you mean a pile of snow?" You weren't looking at him but you could still hear the self-loathing in his voice.

"Christ Frankie you know I don't blame you for that. After I got shot, I couldn't sleep without polishing off a bottle of whisky."

"You had a good reason."

"And you didn't?" you said, turning to look at him. It was dark under that bed but you could see those big brown eyes filled with regret.

"Not the same." Maybe not but Frankie still had wounds that couldn't be seen on his body. "I know after I just… disappeared."

"You were there when it mattered." You meant that in more ways than one. He'd been the one who dragged you back to his chopper, you screaming with every inch, him muttering "you're gonna make it, you're gonna make it" over and over. After, Pope told you he'd flown like a bat outta hell while you drifted in and out of consciousness. Everyone agreed that if anyone else had been the pilot on that mission, you'd have bled out before you got back to base. Not that it made a difference to Frankie. Something had changed in him after that. Then came the suspension for drug abuse and after that you both felt like animals used up then put out to pasture.

Your hand found his in the dark. He glanced down in surprise. You had always been close, the others always called him your work husband, only partly joking, and there had been times when it felt as though there was… something, like a line neither of you were daring to cross. But that had been a long time ago. You had lost touch after you came home and now he had a wife and a baby on the way and you had… your therapist? You didn't mind, honestly. Just, right now you needed him, his presence, his touch. Neither of you made any other movement. You just lay there under the bed, side by side, fingers interlocking.

"Hey if you assholes are fucking you can use someone else's goddamn bedroom" Will called out, having finally found you both.

"Fuck you William" you responded.

"What're you doing under the bed?"

"Hiding from you" Frankie replied. "Now piss off."

"Fine, not like it's my fucking house or anything." He slinked off muttering.

"We should probably head back out there." You started to crawl out but you were stopped by Frankie's hand on your shoulder.

"Can we… can we not?" You gave him a long look, then nestled back in next to him.

"Ok, whenever you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready?"

"You bring a book?" You both snorted. "But seriously, we can't stay here forever. You least of all, you have a life."

"And you don't?" You resisted the urge to face him.

"Honestly, not really. Maybe I should get one." Frankie didn't seem to have any response to that, so you lay next to each other in silence, counting the boards on the mattress frame. Finally, you asked, "do you think it's gonna be a boy or girl."

"No clue. We wanted to be surprised." At length, he added "hope it's a girl."

"Why?"

"Less chance it'll turn out like me."

"Would that be so bad?"

"You tell me." You found his hand and squeezed.

"I hope it's like you. World needs more Catfish Moraleses." His expression was inscrutable, until his voice finally husked out with all the fear, heartbreak and salvation of the past years,

"I really fucking missed you."

[xtarmanderx]

I don’t ever post things like this here because this is primarily my writing side blog, but it feels too important not to say something.

I started writing 9-1-1 fics for the Buddie fandom and for a friend who was near and dear to me. I quickly left the fandom because of the mods for an event that I was participating in and how awful they were to one of my best friends that joined the event with me. That completely killed my desire to interact with the Buddie fandom at all and I don’t know if I will ever finish posting the fic that I poured my heart into for said event. Because that fic is fully done, but those encounters with those fans made me never want to write Buddie again.

And then Tommy Kinard came along.

And holy fuck, I fell in love with him so fast. I immediately rewatched the show after he reappeared in season 7 because I was so fascinated with his character. And then I fell in love with Lou Ferrigno Jr. and began watching S.W.A.T. just to get glimpses of him and I grew to love that show and its characters, too. And I read his interviews and saw how happy he was to be back on the show and it made me happy, too.

Then I saw all the hate and negativity.

It filled me with so much anger and I blocked so many people across so many different forms of social media so I no longer had to see it. All I wanted was to surround myself with positivity.

Because I’ve been that bitch.

There are people no longer in certain fandoms because of me and I’ll never be able to apologize enough for the ways that I hurt them. Sorry will never be enough to mend those bridges that I poured kerosene on.

It’s why I’ve stayed in my corner and all of my fic comments have been generic, which isn’t who I used to be. I used to engage and leave long comments, but honestly I’ve been terrified to try and join any new community. Because I am fucking terrified of reverting back to the person I never want to be again.

My best friend started watching the show again after I went to his house for dinner and had him watch the BuckTommy kiss episode with me. The last five minutes of that episode, I told him to put his phone down and pay full attention and he was completely engaged and was so happy to see another queer couple onscreen. It gave us something else to bond over every week as we would watch and text about what was happening.

Tonight’s text:

This coming from a gay man who does not engage in fandom spaces at all and who felt blindsided, too. Like so many of us did.

I immediately started writing a fix it fic because that’s who I am. I want to write the endings I want to see. And then I stopped writing and sent Lou a message directly because I needed to get something off my chest.

I was raised in a broken home. Raised by racists who belittled me endlessly and have told me within the last couple of years that I am their least favorite child. I am the youngest of 6. That shit was heartbreaking. It’s a wound that will never heal. But why am I bringing it up? Why does that matter?

Because I saw myself in Tommy. I saw a character who represented the worst parts of my youth, who spouted hateful things my parents taught me to say and then spent years having to unlearn those things. Lou talked about his own ideas about Tommy’s past and it struck so close to home for me. Because Tommy showed he was capable of change. And I did, too. It took therapy and years of reflection and being hyperaware now of the shit I say and having to constantly stay on top of my own thoughts and correct them.

I have been dating a woman of color for the last 9.5 years and she’s the love of my life. She has been there through every stumble and stayed even when my passive aggressive inclinations got the better of me. And I saw so much of myself reflected in Tommy Kinard’s character and Lou’s portrayal of him and saw our relationship in Buck and Tommy, too.

Tonight hit me so much harder than expected. And this probably seems like a jumbled mess of thoughts, which it is, but I needed to get some things off my chest and out into the world.

This is not the week that so many of us were expecting. This hurt. We’re allowed to be upset and need time to process. I sure as hell do.

But I do want to say a heartfelt thank you to anyone who has brought joy and friendship to this fandom. The fics that have been written are amazing and the art has been fantastic. I’ve seen some people make lifelong friends in the past few months thanks to this. It sure as hell strengthened some of mine.

So, if you need a friend right now, know that I’m here. I’ve been subdued for a while, but I refuse to lose out on more joy in my life. Not when we all desperately need it. So I’m here for you.

And please remember to be kind. Don’t let anyone take that superpower away from you.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Based on your last post- how would you handle a villain Adrien arc? Would it be from the get-go, or would you have him change sides somewhere along the line? Would it be of his own choice and motivations, or would he be coerced into it? (Or some mix of the two where he disagrees with the method his father does things but goes along because he has the same motive, his mom?)

(Post in question)

Villain Adrien is an incredibly hard sell for me. I can only think of one fic that felt reasonably in character and I think it only worked because it starts after Gabriel's defeat, so you don't have to actually see Adrien being evil. Anything that actually tries to show Adrien willingly hurting others just doesn't work. It doesn't feel like Adrien. Lashing out in the moment might* fit him, but prolonged villainy? Nope. You'd have to take his character through a damnation arc to make it fit. While canon has set him up for one, I don't particularly want to see that. Canon Adrien has suffered enough.

So why would I suggest villain Adrien as a solution?

I have actually spent a good deal of time trying to figure out how to make Adrien work as a villain because it's a semi-popular premise and I enjoy a writing challenge. After a lot of thought, I have a solution that I think would work. I will probably never write this fic, but the basic ideas are simple enough that I can explain the first act and why I think it would work as a way to take Miraculous beyond the Gabriel conflict.

The story would start in much the same way we already see in Origins. Gabriel activates the butterfly, leading to Fu choosing Marinette and Adrien. The big difference is that, this time around, Gabriel and Emilie tell Adrien almost everything. Adrien knows that his mother is in a coma, that the miraculous exist, and that a wish can fix everything. He just doesn't know that the wish has a downside because Gabriel didn't share that little detail. So, when Adrien gets his miraculous, he sees this as a way to fix everything. Just like in canon, he doesn't let Plagg explain everything. Instead, Adrien immediately transforms and seeks out his partner only, this time, he tries to get her earrings off of her. She knows that's a bad thing and runs away, leaving him confused. He goes to his father who is able to get his hands on the ring long enough to command Plagg's silence about the wish's downsides, ensuring Adrien is kept in the dark.

This leads to a short arc where Gabriel uses akumas to draw Ladybug out so her and Chat Noir can "talk" or something along those lines, but it doesn't go well and Adrien isn't okay with attacking the city. It isn't long before he switches sides and Gabriel is defeated, but the damage is done re Ladynoir. Marinette gets to do her "Adrien is evil" first impression, but while it's still a misunderstanding, it's not a minor one that can be solved with an umbrella in the rain. Fu is much more understanding and forgiving, so he doesn't take the black cat back, leading into a wider story where Adrien and Marinette have to fight a new evil while Marinette struggles to see past her first impression. So it's not so much evil Adrien so much as misguided and manipulated Adrien who has to win his Lady's trust and prove that he really is a hero while also working through his own guilt about everything that happened with his father.

*Quick note: canon has Adrien lash out in anger, so I can't say it's wrong to write him like that, but I think it's a massive misstep writing wise. The black cat's power set needs to be in the hands of someone who doesn't lash out in anger. Harsh words, sure, but cataclysms? Hard no. Season five made Adrien come across as totally unsuited to his powers.

[melmedarda]

I’m sorry to jump in your inbox with that long af rant, but I’ve been lurking and loving every Meljay post of yours since day one and I need to scream in the void.

I’m inconsolable over how bad the writing of acts 2 and 3 was, it literally feels like it was written by a completely different team. What even was that conversation, it sounded like they asked ChatGPT to write a scene based on top 50 tweets about Mel and Jayce after 1x05 aired back in the days.

I’ve never in 15 years seen a ship so cruelly ruined, because how are people supposed to continue at all tolerating Jayce with that idiotically out of character dialogue in 2x08 between him and Mel? What a fucking bad way to treat fans, having them invested all the way until literally the last moment, it already was bad with how the majority of people (fandom, reactors, obviously the artists too) were “interpreting” Mel (if you can even call it that, cause interpretation requires media literacy), but now they have left us so burnt that I'm betting there aren’t even going to be fix-it fics because they. Just. Ruined. Jayce, so bad. And I still love the well written (still flawed tho!) Jayce from 3x01 (setting up a way more natural conflict-to-be-resolved path when he made those weapons five minutes after Mel vowed to protect his dream), but damn, I love Mel so much more, I really don’t know how to cope with all that. Only people who’ve had the luck to not have been treated as that husk of an AU Jayckass treated our girl can’t see the amount of PTSD that scene can trigger in a woman. I am so frustrated with how the creators treated her trauma and slashed the wounds wide open with both that and “You are the wolf”, I genuinely don’t know how to cope.

And the worst part is all of this could have been resolved with a single touch and him being open to her – like he always have been – just tell her he’s doomed instead of showing us a highly specific and unrelated two frames of the voidy-looking infection on his forearm spreading every time he is on screen. Even if that is one of their “yes we meant that all along we just wanted to show not tell it” like with the whole idiotic Sky/Viktor backstory that Overton “spilled” the other day. Jayce has been able to see through Mel’s shields the moment he saw her painting and was always shown to admire her intellectual prowess, he’d never leave her hanging like that.

If they wanted to write a Shakespearean tragedy so bad they made this intro scream “look at us, we gave you Greek last time, now it’s all about good ol’ Billy” why not have Jayce make the same impossible choice (as they brilliantly and am starting to think accidentally?) made Silco do in 1x09, having him choose between his love for Zaun and his love for Jinx, drawing one final parallel between the two men and closing that loop with Jayce/Silco carrying Viktor’s/Jinx’s body and infusing them with the deus ex machina. It was right there staring them at their faces, have Jayce choose between his love for Mel and his love for his brother.

What a spectacular failure of writing, what an even more monumental failure of the artists to come out with those comments, so now I don’t even want to praise their talent, because they should have kept their mouths fucking shut and stuck to drawing.

Sorry to dump this in your ask, can you tell I’m still reeling.

Please, please, do you have any headcanons, I need crumbs, I need to heal my soul and Mel’s.

Lovely anon you've but into words what all Meljay fans are feeling, I think. I cannot lie, I've been trying to let go of the ship. Withdraw sort of, especially since that was the ending we got. But I've had them for three years, and they've sunk their claws too deeply to me. I'm still thinking of them even now. I'm going to make the most of their divorce era, and I'm going to make them return to each other in ever single AU ever. Because Arcane S2 act #3 is not my Meljay. Also, AU Jayckass had me bursting out in laughter!

On the topic of headcanons. I have one in which when Vik tells Jayce to go back, Jayce does. He returns to Piltover but too much time has past, Mel has already burned his name and departed across the waters to Rokrund. Jayce knows he's done her wrong, realizes he's been blinded, and he does his best to atone in Piltover and Zaun, writing letters to Mel. Letters that go unanswered. And then eventually, he goes to Rokrund, and finds a different woman, one stronger and colder than he had known. He loves her anyways, and spends his years winning her back. And when he has groveled sufficiently, Mel takes him back. He sort of grounds her, so that she does not remain the wolf all the time. So that she does not become her mother.

[coraniaid]

Since I'm certain you'll get Fuffy elsewhere for the ship ask I'll go for our shared rare pair Amlow (Amy/Willow)

I'm not even sure I ship it, as such -- I definitely don't think there's any evidence for it being intended by canon -- but I do find it weirdly compelling, yeah.

1) What made you ship it?

I don't think I started being emotionally invested in it until a couple of years ago, but it's a (very minor) subplot in a fic I started writing in 2021, so it's definitely something I've been thinking about for a while. I think it's just a very natural way to try to make sense of Amy Madison as a character.

In the show itself Amy occupies this really weird space. On the one hand, she's one of the first recurring characters we ever meet, she's one of only a tiny handful of characters to be mentioned by name in every season, she's still alive at the end of the show. It feels like she should be important! And yet she's only in eight episodes, one of which only for five seconds, she basically has a different backstory every season she appears in, she doesn't have anything resembling an arc at all (she literally just vanishes from the show forever in the middle of her last on-screen appearance). The writers obviously don't have any interest in or sympathy for her character.

But if you try to make sense of the different parts of the character we're given -- to think about her connection with Willow, the way "being a witch" is treated as a metaphor for most of the show, the fact she reappears in the plot just days after Willow and Tara break up, the fact she tries to get "revenge" on Willow the minute Willow starts a relationship with another woman -- I just think "Amy is secretly in love with Willow and has been for years" is just a really obvious conclusion to come to. Not something the writers ever planned, no, but I don't see a way to make sense of Amy and give her something resembling an arc without this sort of headcanon.

2) What are your favorite things about the ship?

But I think what made me actually care about Amy/Willow as a ship is that ... well, okay, an Amy who is secretly in love with Willow makes sense, sure. But an Amy who is secretly in love with Willow and goes through all the things Amy does in canon is also ... really incredibly tragic, in a faintly embarrassing and pathetic way? And I think anything resembling an actual Amy/Willow relationship would be incredibly unhealthy for both of them.

I'm not really interested in writing AUs where Amy joins the gang in Season 1 and she and Willow start dating before Willow even meets Oz. I'm definitely not angling for Amy/Willow as some sort of endgame. I'm interested in AUs where Amy is the friend Willow talks to about her crush on Xander, and how frustrating it is that Xander has no idea she even likes him, and Amy just sits there awkwardly and doesn't say anything. In AUs where Amy desperately tries to convince herself that Willow is her best friend, even though they hang out as much (and as little) as they do in canon. Or where she meets vamp!Willow and experiences bizarre combinations of grief and attraction, and later "her" Willow confesses in a slightly scandalized way that she thinks her doppelganger was "kinda gay" while Amy mutters something non-committal and hopes Willow never finds out her vampire counterpart remembered her name and licked her neck and told her how pretty she looked when she was afraid.

And I think this version of Amy would help fix one of the biggest problems in Season 6, too. Instead of the whole magic as literal drug addiction subplot, I'd have Willow derat Amy and quickly start an ill-advised rebound relationship with her. Instead of Amy as the token bad junkie friend who gets Willow addicted to magic for no obvious reason beyond malice, I'd have Amy enable Willow's growing reliance on magic in much more more passive and subtle ways. Willow already thinks magic is amazing, after all. Amy just how to tell her how right she is. Amy isn't going to stand up to Willow the way Tara did. Because Amy doesn't have the same magical training that Tara got from her mom, and because Amy has this idea of Willow as perfect and beyond reproach, and because she's waited for this for so long that she's not going to screw it up now.

And if sometimes the magic isn't quite as fun as Willow says it should be, and as Amy immediately agrees with her it is -- if sometimes Amy wakes up at night in a cold sweat because she's convinced she's a rat again and she thinks she heard a cat coming closer, or if she ever starts worrying that Willow's been messing with her memories the way she did with Tara, or if her Dad's been acting weird ever since Willow waved her hand and told him not to worry about where Amy's been all these years, or if sometimes they argue and Willow's eyes go strangely dark or she jokes about liking her more when she was a rat and couldn't talk back ... well, that's not Willow's fault, is it? It's Amy's fault, if anything. It's just like her mom always told her: she's just not good enough. She just needs to try harder to make Willow happy.

(We still get the Dark Willow arc in this AU later, when something serious -- but non-fatal, this time -- happens to Tara and Willow resolves to fix it using magic. But, rather than Giles conveniently owning books of forbidden dark magic he keeps in his shop for ... some reason, I'd have Willow demand that Amy give her her mom's old spellbooks so she could use them to save Tara's life. Amy would finally try to stand up for herself, since she's sure nothing her mom wanted to use can be good, but Willow would angrily accuse her of just not wanting Tara back because one day she and Willow would end up together again and -- after a very short magical fight -- for the rest of the arc, whenever we saw Dark Willow she'd be accompanied by a little rat familiar perched on her shoulders. Then when Amy came back in Season 7 looking for revenge she'd have ... you know, an actual motive.)

3) Is there an unpopular opinion you have about your ship?

That it ... exists? Actually, I get the impression that Amy/Willow was a little bit of a going concern among the fandom while the show was running. It's not something that's really lasted beyond that, though.

Only tangentially an unpopular opinion, but I think it's important to note that Amy's life canonically does suck in a way that, for the most part, Willow's just doesn't (and in which Willow can't really comprehend). I don't think Amy should have been written as a perfect blameless victim -- I do think she should have flaws -- but I do wish the show had at least occasionally remembered that, say, Amy's mom stole her body and left her a prisoner in her house for months or that she spent almost three years of her life as a rat or that she doesn't have any friends and her only surviving family member must have thought she was dead for years.

I don't know: more people should start caring about this ship so that I can develop unpopular opinions about it.

[jrpixarmilf]

Tell Me I’m Your Nation Anthem

Bucky Barnes x Campaign Manager! Reader

Summary: Bucky wasn’t sure when this campaign stopped being about winning, and starting being about spending time with you. 

Word Count: 16.8K

Authors Note: first fic in almost five years!! I’m back from retirement. Anyway, yes I know Bucky’s hair was long in thunderbolts but I don’t care!

Warnings: cursing, inaccuracies about American politics (it’s been along time since I was in a social studies class okay?), gratuitous use of italics, yearning, Alpine, mention of St*ve, and light violence, no use of y/n

You’d always liked a challenge.

As a kid, if the teacher said to write six paragraphs, you’d push yourself to ten. In college, you had interned all four summers, double majored in Political Science and Marketing. Worked full time and still graduated with honors. You even made time to go to like three parties.

Nothing changed when you got into politics.

You took the first job you could get your hands on out of college, and have been running since.

Unfortunately you’ve been running with some of the most infamous assholes Washington has ever seen.

You had a talent for fixing campaigns, tweaking strategies, and saving reputations. This unique skillset was perfectly suited to saving the careers of politicians with questionable tweets, and more often than not, bright red, southern roots.

It wasn’t the “making the world a better place” politics you had dreamed of, you still hoped that a few of the assholes who had hired might find it in themselves to make a few good decisions while in office.

That was until you started working for Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes -former Avenger or something- was running for Congress and had asking your help.

Or more accurately, his Campaign manager was begging for it. An old friend, who was lucky enough to work with all of the good, kind people, you wished would hire you. All the people your candidates kept beating. You’d never had someone beg you to take their job before. So you agreed, part curiousity and part hope that maybe for once you’d get to see the side of politics you used to believe in.

You didn’t get your hopes up though. Preparing for the cycle to begin again. Another politician with skeletons in need of closets. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, and nothing you weren’t equipped to handle.

Oh how happy you were to be wrong.

Other than having no media training, Bucky Barnes was a good man. All of his baggage had already been aired out for the entire nation to see. It was a much welcome change. You’d always been paid to hide secrets, not use them.

However, this meant the Nation already had an opinion of him. Bucky’s reputation ranged from admired hero to public enemy number one. Nevermind the small subset of Winter Soldier fanatics who studied his every move and then dissected it all online.

You had spent a solid six hours just combing through forums to try and understand whether they loved or hated him. You finally gave up after finding one entirely dedicated to different versions of his prosthetic arm.

The only information this research did reveal was that people really, really like photos of him from his time in the service. The government’s Captain America archives made them easy to find.

Just like that your newest strategy was born. You didn’t like to lean so heavily on the veteran angle, but this felt like special circumstances. One of the first fundraising efforts you lead, was simply a release of t-shirts with him in his army fatigues on it. It sold out in twelve minutes.

Unfortunately, sepia stained Polaroids can only do so much heavy lifting.

While there’s no gentle way to tell someone ‘you’re perfect, now change everything’ Bucky took it well. Not enthusiastically, but he was open, which is all you could ask for. He didn’t grumble once when you sent him to an eight hour “media-training boot camp.”

He didn’t even argue when you picked him up afterwards and drove him to a Barber.

All things that further cemented his status as your favorite client.

Watching his hair fall to the floor broke a little piece of your heart. Alas, the short hair had tested better in focus groups, so off it came. It made more sense message wise too, helping consolidate the image of the 40’s soldier and this modern counterpart. Removing as many similarities to the Winter Soldier as you could afford.

“Can you take a little more off the back?” You ask. It’s easily your third interruption and you can almost hear the Barber roll his eyes.

“That okay?” You ask, the question directed at Bucky this time.

Favoritism aside, you were still deeply uncomfortable around each other. At least that’s how it felt. It had only been three weeks, but he was a quiet type. You were used to working with braggadocios, they always told you where you stood.

Bucky liked to watch. Usually giving you one word answers, if that. His stare is what made you uneasy, the weight of his attention was enough to make you falter. Not knowing what it meant was enough to make you second guess, you need to know what it means. Which means you need to know him. Then there was the handsomeness factor.

Today was exposure therapy. You’d worked with plenty of attractive clients before, none that made you fight a blush from eye contact. But that’s okay.

You’ve always liked a challenge.

“It’s just hair.” He replies, voice even and unemotional.

For a second you’re afraid the conversation will end as quickly as it started. You’re about to escape into your phone when Bucky finally makes eye contact with you in the mirror. You’re sitting against the wall behind him, close enough to watch, far away enough that you don’t have to smell his stupid fucking delicious cologne.

Professional distance.

“Besides. You’re holding my reputation in your hands. Whatever you want.” He smiles, as much as Bucky knows how to smile.

Whatever you want. That’s tempting, and three of your favorite words. Especially when coming from a man.

Stop. Professional.

“So if I suggested frosted tips?” You say, raising your eyebrows.

He huffs, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to a laugh.

The barber is nearly done, the effect the cut has on Bucky’s face already dramatic. He looks, young. Or at least the age he would’ve been if it wasn’t for all of- everything.

It’s still a little wet, you can see the ends curling as the barber combs through them and lifts them up to trim. You wonder if he left it long, if someone taught him how to take care of it, would it curl?

You do your best to ignore the stray drop of water that glides down the back of his neck, ghosting over his (now) perfect hairline.

The chair spins around to face you. The barber standing behind it with a satisfied smile, holding the comb triumphantly and letting out a little “Ta da!”

Bucky raises a eyebrow, and you’re startled when you realize- He’s waiting for your approval.

Your stomach burns with satisfaction. You like that a little too much too.

You nod, standing and walking over Bucky, and subsequently the barber. You smile, then hold out your hand.

“You mind?” You ask, though your tone makes it clear it’s not a question.

The barber grunts, giving you the comb and walking with a huff into the back of the shop, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You had called ahead, made sure they’d have the building cleared so you’d be the only ones inside during Bucky’s appointment. Too many variables and prying eyes otherwise.

Wordlessly, you begin to cut. There’s not much to trim, but the barber had left a few stray hairs, and his sides were uneven, which would’ve driven you crazy. It was a short cut, a little left on the top, specifically the front. Enough to let it sit naturally, but also long enough he could style with a smidge of a gel. Versatile, easy to manage for Bucky’s sake.

Then you look down at Bucky, realizing you had neglected to turn him back around, and find him already studying you. Suddenly feeling sheepish, you take a step back, spinning him around to get his opinion.

“You fixed the sides.” He says. You wait for noted but it doesn’t come. You realize that’s probably the closest you’d get to a compliment.

You reach over, putting the comb back and grabbing a small bit of gel. You rub it between your hands and before you can overthink it, run your hands through his hair. Giving the front a little bit of quaffing.

Almost satisfied, you put your hands down on the back of his chair. “You still trust me?”

Bucky lifts a hand to his beard, it’s scruffy, and while you don’t mind that (not even a little). It’s not exactly the look you’re going for.

“You can do it yourself, if you want?” You offer, very aware that this may count as over stepping.

He shakes his head, dropping his hand back into his lap. “I trust you.”

You reach over, grabbing a razor from the station and attaching the 4mm guard. “The beard has tested well, specifically with your female constituents.” Fancy excuse for it would make you sad to shave it all off. “We don’t want to lose it all, just polish it a little.”

Bucky hums, lifting his chin to give you a better angle as you finally switch the it on. The way it shakes to life in your hand once again reminds you of all the faith he has in you. All of his eggs, super glued into your basket.

The buzzing goes quickly. Bucky is inhumanly still. While it normally unsettles you, you can’t help but be grateful. Especially given the next step.

You shut off the buzzer, and reach into the barbicide glass to grab the straight edge razor.

Thankfully in the time it takes you to finish prepping the razor, Bucky has grabbed the oil from the counter and applied it himself.

You give him a moment to settle back into the chair, and wait for him to give the ‘go ahead’ nod.

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, you start on the top of his beard, tightening the edges just under his cheek bone until the form a sharp, smooth line.

“Are you normally this…” Bucky trails off, freezing as you get close to his nose, and subsequently his lips in all their blush pink glory (Not that you’re paying any attention to them).

“Hands on?” You offer, pulling back and cleaning the razor. It gives Bucky a chance to release the breath he was holding. He nods.

You hum. “Not, normally this literally. But yes.” You shape the other side as you speak, triple checking that they’re even. “I don’t normally have this much creative control though.”

“Does that make me a pushover?” He asks. Another borderline smile dancing on his face.

You use a finger to tilt his chin up, making sure to avoid eye contact as you do so. “Makes you the smartest client I’ve ever had.”

“Sweet talking won’t get you frosted tips.”

“Was worth a shot.”

You’re pleased to find that the more you talk, the easier it gets. However, the weight of your current position, isn’t lost on you. His attempts at breezy conversation isn’t enough distract you from the fact that his neck is ramrod straight. He’s hardly even breathing.

He must see you noticed his tension, “Haven’t let someone else shave me since before I was shipped out.” He explains, interrupting your study of his breathing patterns. “The first time.”

Shit. He really does trusts you.

It’s almost too much, overwhelming. This man who has been dragged through hell, is sitting here and letting you use a Sweeney Todd style razor on his neck.

You’re not sure what to say, how to acknowledge the hefty implications in his words. Trusting you with his career is one thing, this is his way of saying he trusts you with his life. You hum, your next swipe with the razor extra gentle.

You fall back into a comfortable silence as you finish. Drawing sharp lines to his neck until the edge of his beard is snug against his jaw. A neck beard is an enemy of the state as far as you’re concerned.

“All done.” You say, turning around and moving out of Bucky���s way so he can finally see his reflection. “A number two guard on your razor will keep it around this length.“ You offer while compulsively cleaning up the Barber’s station. You’re sure he’s watching you from the doorway of whatever room he disappeared into. But the only eyes you can feel on you are Bucky’s. “If you like it, that is.”

You finally turn back around to face him. You don’t know if he likes it, but it’s safe to say it’s exactly what you were going for. He looks cleaner, more professional, more like a politician.

But still Bucky.

All he does is hum in response, and your stomach drops to the floor.

He hates it. He hate it’s, he’s going to fire you, and then you’ll be back to helping assholes hide hush money and-

“You do good work.”

Deciding to become, or deciding to try and become a politician was something Bucky had yet to wrap his brain around.

His resume wasn’t that of your typical bureaucrat. No political science degree or volunteer work. Sure there was his time in the service, but last he’d checked the military had changed quite a bit since World War II. He had more experience in fighting U.S. forces than actually serving in them these days.

He knew better than to admit it out loud, but the choice to run for congress, was one he made a whim.

Part had been born out of desperation to leave Brooklyn. Another part was his desire to be useful. To make a good change for once, and do it in a way that didn’t involve voilence.

Bucky just wishes he’d done a little more research.

If someone had warned him about all of the paperwork and bullshit and he had to do just to run, (never mind the pile that would be waiting on the other side if he won), he may have reconsidered.

Bucky hated to admit it, but he didn’t start trying to win until you joined the team

Full of vigor and good intentions, you actually managed to make Bucky want to win this stupid thing. Your infectious energy (and the fact that you were completely overqualified) instilled a newfound confidence in his entire team. Everyone started doubling down on their efforts.

For fucks sake he even let you shave him.

Before he knew it, Bucky was only behind by five points instead of thirty.

Now he found himself in a pickle. Physically he was knee deep in mockups of lawn signs, poll numbers, and focus group answers. Mentally all he could think about was you.

You were talking, making expressive hand gestures as you tried (in vain) to explain what the statistics in front of him meant.

Bucky was too busy thinking about your fingernails to focus.

They’d changed overnight, from a soft pink to a bright eye-catching red. He wasn’t even sure when you would have had the time, you were with him at the campaign office until well after eight last night and you had beaten him there this morning.

“Bucky, do you understand what I’m saying?” You finally broke through, tone half exasperation and half exhaustion.

Luckily, his lack of experience saved him once again. As it so often did when he was too busy watching you, to actually listen. “You know I suck at the numbers stuff.”

Why red? Is red your favorite color? No, he’s pretty sure that green is your favorite, you wear it at-least once a week and your water-bottle has a single green sticker on it.

You gave him a small smile, “I think you could win Bucky.”

Why red? He remembered girls back in Brooklyn who would paint their nails red, talking about how they’d pick it to match their lips. Subtle ways to get a boy to thinking about kissing them. He knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help the ache in his gut when the thought of it being for a date crosses his mind.

Wait what did you just say?

“I could win?”

“A few strategic events, some well timed social media posts and I think you’ve got it in the bag.” You confirm with a smile, it’s one he hasn’t seen before. Confident, almost smug. You’re good at your job and you know it.

“Holy shit.” Is about all Bucky can manage right now.

You finally sit. “I think it might time to find an apartment.”

He groaned. He had hated apartment hunting in New York. Too many people, not enough leases and he doesn’t exactly have a credit score.

“Can’t have a future congressman living in a hotel.” You say, clicking your tongue for emphasis. “Don’t worry I have a friend who can set you up.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling slack jawed.

“But, we’re still falling short in a few key demographics.” You explain, “We need to get you back to Brooklyn for a few days.”

He nods, sitting straighter and actually trying to read one of the papers in front of him, “Millennials?” He asks, pointing to a particularly sad pie chart. “I thought they liked me?”

“There’s a rumor on TikTok you killed Kennedy, true or not it’s been gaining some traction and it’s causing some of their trust to falter.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you they’re not totally off base, but before he can you lift your hand and pinch your fingers together in a shushing motion.

Why are they red?

“Less I know, the better.” You say.

Fair enough.

“We’re also falling short on the older, male, right leaning side of the fence.” You explain, shuffling to bring forward a poll dated from a week prior. “Their wives love you, which means they don’t think you’re a man’s man.”

“How do we fix both of those in just a few days.” He asks, trying to ignore the way your manicured fingers tap against the laminate desk. He’s beginning to think it might be intentional on your end.

“That’s why you hired me.” You smile, “Just have your bags ready for Friday morning and make sure you pack a pair of jeans.”

He nods, knowing better than to ask you to explain when you’re in business mode like this. He hasn’t known you long, but there’s something about seeing you in your element that makes you shine a little brighter.

“I could win?” He finally doubles back, still not sure it’s entirely he believes it. Still not sure he wants it to. Still wondering why are your nails are red.

“Bucky, You have me on your side. You’re going to win.”

You had a friend at a local pet rescue in the city, and to say he owed you a favor would be an understatement. Getting them to let Bucky host an event was easy.

Getting Bucky to agree was even easier.

As always, your instincts had been right on the money, and it was a perfect match. Animals are an easy win with Millennials, if you only you could have gotten him a puppy interview.

The event was a huge success anyway, truly a publicists wet dream. The people loved him, and after only being there for an hour, a majority of the available cats had already been adopted.

Never mind the visuals, since arriving Bucky hadn’t gone five minutes without a cat in his arms.

“Had one back in the day, used to kill the rats in our building and sleep at my feet.” He had explained as he casually picked up a black little soot ball in his right hand, while the left deftly scooped up a little grey tabby. Each cat a limp noodle in his arms.

His big, strong, straining through the sleeves of his button up arms.

It’s not your fault, you’re pretty sure theres some kind of law about men being allowed to look this good while holding a baby- dog, cat, or human.

You change your train of thought, getting ready to go find the intern with the good camera and ask them to snap some candids of Bucky with the animals. When a voice stops you.

“Hey stranger.”

Jack.

Your ‘friend’ or more accurately, ex-boyfriend/shelter contact. You had hoped he wouldn’t bother coming, so you wouldn’t have to bother having this conversation.

“Jack! How are you?” You smile, turning around to face him, which sadly meant turning your back to Bucky (just as he was picking up a little scrawny, white kitten). Your people-pleaser smile in full effect as you bring him into a half-hearted hug.

He squeezes you back with a lot more enthusiasm than the interaction warrants. “It’s so good to see you!” He says, dragging out the ‘so’ for emphasis. “You’re a big shot now. Working with an Avenger and everything.”

You fight the grimace, you’d already been well established when you met Jack, he was just completely politically uneducated and didn’t believe in watching the news because ‘If something is that important, I’ll hear about.’

He also didn’t know the difference between Senate and the House of Representatives.

In hindsight it’s a miracle your relationship lasted as long as it did.

“Thank you again for letting us borrow some of these cuties.”

“No big deal, it’s a great chance to get some of the animals adopted.” He nods in Bucky’s direction. “Seems like he might be taking one home.”

You turn around, finding Bucky holding the white kitten in the crook of his elbow, the little thing is stretched out with its arms straight above its head, belly up and fast asleep.

You resist the urge to groan, finding a pet friendly rental in DC is a fucking nightmare.

Then you watch as Bucky looks down to acknowledge the kitten, ever so delicately scratching under its chin with his free hand.

Worth it.

“Turns out he’s a cat person.” You say, turning back to Jack.

This time you really take the opportunity to study him, all the ways he’s changed. He’s shorter than you remember. He also started dyeing his hair black. It looks bad. He’s less imposing and handsome than your brain dreamt him up to be.

It’s hard to find anyone handsome when they’re in the same room as Bucky.

Jack still has the same eyes, vacant. Bright and engaging, not a whole lot happening behind them.

You hadn’t ended on bad terms per se. It was mostly a mutual break up, with each of your agreeing your lives were just too different. He wanted a golden retriever, Sunday night pasta dinners, and a house so loud he never has to hear himself think.

You need quiet.

“That cat hasn’t let a single person pick her up since she got to the rescue. I’m not letting him leave without her.” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’ll take much convincing.” You smile. “It’s good to see you Jack.”

“Yeah you too, you look good y’know.” He says

Oh you know.

“Thanks, you look happy.” You mean it. “I should get back to work though. Someone needs to make sure babies get their foreheads kissed.”

“Like I said, you’re a big shot.” He pulls you into another just a little too tight hug. “You think he’s gonna win?”

You give Bucky another look, this time surprised to find him watching you. You can quite read his expression, but you never can. The sleepy little kitten in his arm is pawing at his chest trying to get his attention.

“Yeah I do.”

With that you finally escape, grasping onto Bucky’s attention like it’s a lifeline. You use the few steps it takes to reach him to shoot off a quick text, make sure there was nothing on fire, and then you put your phone back into your pocket.

Looking up you give Bucky a smile. “You know they have dogs here too right?” You ask, tone light and facetious.

“Who was that guy.” Bucky asks, always straight to the point.

“My contact here.”

“He seemed awfully friendly.”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip Barnes.” You smile, stepping a little closer, bringing a hand up to pet the baby in his arms. “If you must know, we used to date.”

He hums. “Seems like he’s still interested.” The kitten stands on his forearm, leaning against his chest while it stretches. “If you are I mean.”

You would laugh if you weren’t so surprised. The conversation was beginning to tip toe on that line of unprofessional, you could hear the sirens beginning to wail inside your head. But Bucky is looking at you with all of his attention as he waits for your answer. It’s the same stare that always makes you melt, so you ignore the alarms.

You’re not stupid, you know what he’s really asking.

Are you interested? Single? Looking?

You’re just surprised he cares about the answer.

“I know he isn’t.” You answer, choosing your words carefully, “He has two little girls at home and a gorgeous wife who wants all the same things as him.” You finally leave the cat in his arms alone, resisting the urge to coo as it reaches for you with its paw. “I wasn’t ready. I would’ve kept him waiting too long for all those things.”

It’s a more honest answer than you would normally give, but it’s Bucky. You feel safe with him holding the truth.

He nods, and you notice the slight twitch of his lips. Like he’s fighting a smile.

“I think I have to adopt this cat.” He says, sparring you any follow up questions. He guides the kitten up to his shoulder, where it quickly makes itself at home.

“I already had one of the interns start the paperwork.” You smile knowingly.

“How do you do that?” He asks.

“Do what?”

He holds the kitten up to his face, staring as if it might answer instead of you, “Know exactly what I’m thinking?”

Bucky knew you only acted in the best interests of the campaign. Each event carefully crafted to boost morale, or fix a statistic you didn’t liked

However, for the first time he wondered if maybe you had chosen this event, just because you wanted to go. Okay maybe it wasn’t the entire reason, he was sure you could back up with a graph and something about polling numbers if he asked.

But after everything you’d done for the campaign, he was inclined to let you have the win. Besides, seeing you in a jersey and jean shorts wasn’t something he felt like he needed to be upset about.

Don’t forget the baseball cap, which it really brought home for him.

Honestly the only thing that really pissed him off about today, was the fact that the first baseball he got to watch in eighty fucking years was a Yankees game.

His Ma would be rolling in her grave, and he told you as much.

“What are you a Mets guy or something?” You ask barely tearing your eyes from the field to look at him.

“Mets?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. He hadn’t found much use for baseball since rejoining the world. Watching it on TV felt too static, but he didn’t have the heart to go to a real game alone either.

“Guess not.” You answer yourself.

“Dodgers were my team.” He explained.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but they’re on the West Coast now.” You say with an over exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan.” It’s not a question, but the way your voice lilts up at the end sure makes it seem like one.

He can’t help himself but take the bait.

“My Ma used to bring me and my sister down to Ebbet’s every Sunday. Could never afford tickets but there was a great park right out the stadium, we could hear everything.” He said, feeling himself start smiling just remembering it. “I’d lay on the grass, close my eyes, and pretend I was inside.”

“I hope you know, I’m picturing this all on black and white.” You cracked, if Bucky wasn’t so caught up the memory, he’d notice that your voice was dripping with fondness.

“Very funny.” He responds.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Only got inside once, just me and Steve. We snuck in when we like 15. He was short enough to pass for a kid and I was fast enough to lose security after jumping the turnstile. Best game I ever saw.” He feels himself smiling while he pictures it, “Even though security kicked us out halfway through the fourth inning.”

“You got into a lot of trouble as a kid didn’t you?” You asked, turning yourself in your to face him. While at least as much as you can turn in a stadium seat.

“Steve did, I just felt guilty letting him get in trouble alone.”

“How selfless.” You joke.

“I’ve always been a man of the people.” Talking was so easy with you. Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself lately.

“I’m sorry but hearing you refer to Captain America as Steve is never gonna stop being weird for me.” You say, taking another sip of your drink. A beer, which had surprised him. He had pegged you for spirits.

“Hearing you call Steve, Captain America is never gonna stop being a total mind fuck for me.”

“Since when do you curse so much Barnes.” You ask, tilting your head in a way Bucky found so cute he thought he might explode.

“Since I have to sit through a Yankees game, sober-“ He nudged you with elbow, reaching over you to tap the bottle in your cupholder, “-and since you’re too tipsy to yell at me about it.”

You shrug, apparently not finding much fault with his argument. “It’s not my fault you have a supernatural metabolism.” You take another sip, grinning at him as you do so. “I don’t get a lot opportunities to drink shitty beer and eat greasy food these days, gotta take advantage.” You finish.

“I’m not judging.” He defends.

“Everything has to be a bit of mind fuck for you though doesn’t it?” You ask. No malice despite the harsh choice of words, just curiosity.

“Who’s cursing now?” He elbows you.

“No seriously. I mean, it can’t be easy, and yet here you are, still trying to make the world a better place.” You lament. For the first time ever, Bucky thinks you might just feel sorry for him. Not because of his past, but because of his decision to go into politics. Which is fitting for you.

“Sure, it’s hard.” He admits, “Ebbet’s is a bunch of apartments, people don’t even go dancing anymore, the Dodgers play for LA, a hot dog costs a month’s rent-“ He pauses, taking a deep breath, “-and Steve is gone.” No matter how many times he says it, it still tastes bitter. You’re right, his entire world had been turned upside down, twice.

“Trying to be good is the only thing I still know how to do.” He finishes. His words hang between you for a moment, and he’s worried he’s said too much.

“People do still go dancing.” You respond.

“They don’t dance the way they used to though. I don’t think I could keep up now.” He says.

“It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.” You smile, “I’ll have to take you when this is all over.”

Bucky is too busy reading into that last sentence to try and respond to it. The idea that you think about spending time with him even after the election is enough to send him into a tailspin.

A few minutes of quiet pass between you. You shake your head, taking another swig before speaking. “You don’t give yourself enough credit Bucky.” You say, finally leaving it at that.

Bucky is grateful, he wasn’t sure how he had veered so far off course. Somehow he’d managed to ruin a conversation that he swears was beginning to border on flirting.

Don’t get him started on how flirting as changed.

You’d bumped his shoulder and laughed at enough of his jokes that the old Bucky would’ve asked you out by now. But he didn’t know if either of those things meant what they used to back then. He was pretty sure they did.

He was also pretty sure you’d had at least three beers. You’re the closest to relaxed he’d ever seen you. Laughing freely, not worried about optics, or the political implications of Bucky being seen eating cracker jacks. If he knew you as well as he thinks he’s starting too, you probably have some ‘no dating clients’ rule anyway. It wouldn’t be fair for him to make a move now, not when you could finally breathe.

Regardless of if you were flirting or not.

Besides you wearing jean shorts and it was the first time he’d ever seen anything above your knee and staring at your thighs was the closest thing to drunk Bucky had felt in years. He wasn’t of sound mind to be making decisions like that.

“You’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met,” You smile, and your hand reaches over to touch his resting on top of his thigh. “And I’ve met a lot men.”

Bucky feels his brain get dangerously close to exploding.

Somehow, he still manages to find words. “It’s not all selfless.” He confesses. Turning the hand yours was resting on upwards and lacing his fingers through yours.

It’s as forward as his confidence can afford right now.

He squeezes your hand and then releases it. Bucky stands up and resists the urge to stretch his back because Jesus, these seats are uncomfortable. He gets ready to walk away, with the plan of shaking a few hands, and getting you a pretzel (for alcohol absorption purposes of course. It has nothing to do with an comment you made about craving one).

Before he leaves he bends over and whispers his last admission in your ear.

“I’m not trying to make the world a better place. I’m still trying to make him proud.”

8:00 A.M.

That’s when your flight leaves, which means it will board around 7:15 A.M.

So you should really be at the airport by 6 A.M. Your entire team has TSA Pre-check so it shouldn’t take too long but it’s better safe than sorry.

That means you have to leave the hotel by 5 A.M to get to JFK in time.

You need an hour to shower, and get ready so you look some version of human so you can hit the ground running when you land in DC. So wake up at 4 A.M.

You look down at your phone and sigh, 10:45 P.M. If you fell asleep right now you’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to move.

Surely it had nothing to do with the man sitting across the table from you. Bucky raises his eyebrows, giving you that stupid, handsome, knowing look.

“Your brain is working.” He says, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. This time you let yourself stare stare at them.

You had gotten back from the event a little over an hour ago. A charity gala for some businessman’s tax write off. It was a great opportunity for him to rub some elbows, smile and make small talk with all the right people. It was your last stop on his mini Brooklyn tour.

You had joined Bucky, acting as his -strictly professional- plus one. It was out of your normal scope of responsibilities, but Bucky had made a very convincing argument, something about how you were better with names, and faces, and how if you didn’t go he’d end up sulking in a corner all night.

It made the most sense for you to go. Keep Bucky company, feed him names and information. Maybe one quick dance.

It had nothing to do with the fact that saying no to him is quickly becoming impossible.

Definitely nothing to do with wanting to see him in a suit.

“I’m doing the math on when we need to get to the airport.” You tell him.

“Knew it.” He says, “Is that your way of saying we should call it a night?” He asks, but doesn’t move an inch.

He’s giving you an out.

You shake your head. “I’ve done more with less sleep.” You take a sip of your drink. You feel wide awake but you’re pretty sure it’s not from the alcohol. “What about you Barnes, need your beauty rest?”

Bucky smiles, he had shrugged his jacket off when you first sat down. At some point the first few buttons of his shirt had been undone. You’re not even sure when he took the tie off. “Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.”

You had worn a long black dress, formal enough to blend in without drawing attention away from Bucky. It also looked so good on you it was bordering on unprofessional.

You had drank, eaten, and made so much small talk you’d probably have a sore throat tomorrow. Yet when Bucky asked if you were up for a night cap, you once again found yourself struggling to get that two-letter word off your tongue.

You didn’t want say goodbye just yet, and there was something about having him all to yourself that you were starting to become addicted to. So you sat down at a table in the nearly empty hotel bar, and you couldn’t help but think about how you probably looked like a couple to the rest of the world.

“Can I admit something?” You asked, tilting your head.

Bucky nods. “Anything.”

“I didn’t think you stood a chance.”

Bucky almost chokes on his drink. “Jesus, that’s reassuring.” He scoffs.

“You had terrible optics, no political background, and everyone who I asked about you either hated you or was scared shitless of you.” You explain.

“I do have a bad history with politicians.” He cracks. “If I was so hopeless, why’d you take the job?”

Your walls are lowered enough that you give him the real answer. “Needed a change. Didn’t hurt that I thought you were cute.” You take another sip, as if it will hide the heat spreading across your cheeks.

Bucky hums, if he was going to say anything else you don’t give him the chance.

“Bucky you’re my unicorn.” You sigh, cue another embarrassed sip, “You’re a good man, willing to take feedback, and running for all the right reasons.”

You let your words sit there in the silence, biting your lip to force yourself to stop talking. Christ you’re nervous, you’re never nervous, why is he making you so nervous?

“The other guys must’ve been real assholes.” He says, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get to him accepting the compliment.

“This is the first time in ten years I want the person I’m working for to actually win. I want you to win Bucky.”

You wouldn’t normally risk being this honest, this open with a politician, but you were beginning to feel like that word fit him less and less.

Or maybe it was the forced professionalism that was ill suited.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you hate your job sweetheart.”

You’re already rolling your eyes when you hear it.

Sweetheart.

Your heart stutters, your fingers twitch, your face flushes.

“Love the job, hate the people.” You manage to choke out, finally downing the rest of your glass in an attempt to collect yourself. Buy yourself a little time before you have to talk again. “I get the chance to help make the world better, by making sure the right people are in charge of it. But at the same time I’m the reason Whitmore ever got in office.”

Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Whitmore? I fucking hate that guy.”

You nod, grimacing.

Preston Clay Whitmore IV. You worked for him back when he was running for Senate in Texas, and using all of his Daddy’s money to do it.

“It was my first job, I was his communications consultant. God I hated him.” You shake your head, “But I was fresh out of college, green and broke.”

“A deadly combination.” He offers.

“He thought he was the next Kennedy, and he talked like it. Every single interview, debate, and ad sounded like Preston thought he was gods gift to humanity.” You can still hear his catchy little stupid theme song now.

Whitmore’s a comin’ to Whip DC into shape!

“How’d you turn it around?” He asks, a smile playing at those gorgeous lips.

Okay maybe you are a little buzzed.

“I made him drop the Roman numerals to start.”

You weren’t super enthusiastic about him, and you certainly weren’t thrilled about being in the South. Yet Preston’s father knew all the right people, you knew getting him into office would mean a career. A great one.

You don’t mean to bore Bucky with all of the details of Preston’s campaign, of his miraculous win, and how he ended up being elected the youngest Senator in Texas’ history. But the way he listens, the way he asks you questions. You almost think he enjoyed it.

Suddenly he’s telling you about how he recently got his hands on a tape of one of Steve’s old USO shows, and how he wishes he could hold it over his head.

You’re telling him about how you worked two jobs in high school in order to save up for college.

Then he’s promising to take you to Wakanda someday, once things have settled down some, how it’s nothing like how you picture it.

“I’ve got a few friends from when I lived there.”

You swear your jaw almost hits the floor, “You lived there?”

“Yeah for a few years,” he laughs, “They helped straighten my brain out, made it possible for me to almost be like a real person.”

He smiles, finally polishing off his drink.

“Why do you drink if it doesn’t affect you?” You ask.

He shrugs, the glass still in his hand. “I still like the taste of a good drink, that’s why I didn’t bother with beer or any of the crap being served at the game the other day.” He puts the cup back on the table.

“I think it still has a placebo effect on me too a little bit. Even though I can’t metabolize it, I still feel like it smooths the edges.”

You nod, understanding.

You can’t help but finally look at your phone again.

1:45 A.M. Shit.

You look back up and meet Bucky’s knowing gaze.

“We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?” He asks, this time he shrugs his jacket back on.

“Afraid so.” You answer, voice softer than you expected. “You have to go back to your apartment or can you get a room here?”

He shakes his head, “I got a few things I wanna pack up, plus I have to get Alpine ready.”

You smile, brightening at the mention of your new favorite feline. “You decided on a name!” He nods, his smile just as wide.

“Can I walk you up to your room?” He asks, finally standing.

God you almost forgot just how taller he is.

“You don’t have do that Bucky I’m all the way on the 8th floor.” You stand too, at some point you had kicked your heels off and you can’t be bothered to force them back on, instead leaning down to pick them up in one hand.

“Humor me. Please?” He gives you the eyes, ones you can only describe as begging. The ones he uses whenever his not getting his way, “It’d make me feel less guilty for keeping you up so late.” He takes the shoes out of your hand as he speaks, completely dwarfing them in his grasp.

“I guess it is the least you can do.” You joke, starting to walk towards the elevator. You don’t get far before Bucky catches up and quickly takes the heels out of your hand.

The ride up is spent in silence, but not the awkward kind, like the day at the barbershop. It’s softer, warmer and like the air between you is humming.

Your door is all the way at the end of the hallway, and if you were in tune enough with your body to remember just had badly your feet hurt, you’d probably complain about it.

But right now, with Bucky so close so you can’t bring yourself to worry about a blister.

However, it was only a matter of time before you got to your door. While digging the hotel key out of your purse, you turn around to face Bucky.

“Thank you again, for tonight. And for walking me up to my room.” You nod toward the door, still not moving to open it.

When had he gotten so close? Less than a foot was between you now.

Bucky smiles, looking down at the floor, then back up to you. “Least I could do after you saved me from a night of getting people’s names wrong.”

You laugh, it borders just enough on being a giggle than you feel your stomach turn a little. “Seriously, I had a really good time tonight Bucky.”

You feel yourself leaning into him, it’s not entirely conscious. The smell of his cologne is drowning out the voices screaming: Back up! Move away! Too close! Danger! Danger! Danger!

But he’s leaning in too. With him, it feels the opposite of scary.

“Me too.” He says, his voice is so soft now, and you know this proximity isn’t lost on him.

You feel yourself move before you can actually think about it, your heels lifting up from the ground, your hands rising and settling on his broad shoulders.

And then you kiss his cheek.

As you pull away, it’s like you’re stuck in slow motion. A slow sink down while your hands drift from his shoulders to pecs.

Your eyes are shut, too afraid to open them and see his reaction when-

Bucky leans down and presses his head against yours, forehead to forehead. His chest brushing against yours as you each breathe, or in your case, try to. His eyes are closed too. His brows scrunched the way like when he’s thinking really hard about something.

Your body feels like a live wire when he’s this close. All rational thoughts are completely overwhelmed with the desire, no- the need to kiss him.

You angle your head, tilting your chin and just like that- contact.

He only takes a few seconds to respond.

He’s softer than you imagined, catching your top lip between his and treating it with such care and the whole moment feels so much more, gentle, than you had expected it to.

Not that you had been thinking about it or anything.

He pulls away, but you’re quick to grab one of his a lapels, ensuring he can’t go far. You do your best to read him, before either of you can open your mouths and ruin this.

You can’t decide if he wants to kiss you again or apologize. You’re not sure which you want either.

“I don’t do this.” You say, sounding a lot more breathless than you intended. “Kiss clients, I mean.”

“I know.” He says.

“We really shouldn’t do this.” You add, not sounding even a little confident.

“I know.” He says.

“I have a rule about it.” You try, sounding even weaker.

“I figured.” He says.

But Bucky has made up his mind, with his free hand (which had at some point made its way to your hip), he slowly guides you until your back is flat against the door to your room.

Your hands are still frozen, clutching his jacket. Your knuckles almost white with tension. Your noses are almost touching.

“Just one more.” He says, closing his eyes and pressing his lips back to yours.

Distantly you hear him drop your heels, and feel his hand come up to cradle the side of your face.

He’s not as gentle this time, the force behind his kiss is greater. It’s more confident, hungrier. You can’t help but melt into it, hands climbing until they find a home behind his neck.

You’re hungrier this time too.

You feel your body filling with want and need. The urge to bite and claw him, then kiss and stitch him back together. If you were anyone else you could let it consume you. Part of you wonders if he would let it consume him. The way he’s kissing you, it’s like he already has.

When you break for air, you’re suddenly aware of just how tightly he’s pressed himself against you. How delicious warm, firm, and broad he is.

He drops his head against your shoulder, pressing it into the crook of your neck. You feel him release a long, deep sigh against your neck as if he already knows what you’re thinking.

You allow yourself to run your hands through his hair, just once. Working up the strength to get the words out.

Bucky presses one last soft kiss to your neck and then detaches himself from you.

Wordlessly, he picks up your heels, fixes the strap that had fallen off of your shoulder, and manages to grab your long discarded key card.

He fixes you with a look, one that you hadn’t seen before. It’s reverent, deep, and knocks any words you had out of your mouth.

“After?” Is all he asks.

But you know what he’s asking. “After.” You answer, a firm nod to accompany it.

You don’t need to say more than that, as if the kiss had also created your own short hand.

He smiles, and leans forward to unlock your room. Propping the door open with one hand, he waits until you’ve stepped inside it to hand you your heels, and your key card. As if he can’t resist, he also presses one last chaste kiss to your forehead.

“See you in a few hours sweetheart.” Finally he turns around and he leave.

You stand in the door way dumbfounded until you hear the elevator ding, and then you finally close it.

Your typically nighttime routine takes twice the time it should, with frequently interruptions of muttering “what the fuck was I thinking?” and deep reflective pauses to try and remember what his lips looked like when they were well kissed.

When you finally fall onto the bed, the last thing you see is the digital clock blinking at you, or more accurately taunting you.

2:30 A.M.

“Shit.”

Bucky is Dragging.

He didn’t make it back to his apartment until after three, the walk took him twice as long as it should have because he was too busy thinking about you.

What else is new?

However, this time, his thoughts were clouded with memories, instead of hypotheticals. He remembered how you felt beneath his hands. How you tasted. How you smiled against his lips. How you wanted it as badly as he did.

By the time he’s packed, and the cat is finally stowed away in her travel carrier (a mesh backpack one of the interns had picked up) it’s time for him to head to the airport.

Safe to say the lack of sleep isn’t helping his clarity.

He’s trying his best to listen to what the flight crew is saying, Something something cat, something something landing, something something drink service.

He’s too busy ogling you. And too tired to try and hide it. You were sitting across from him, nose deep in a packet someone had handed to you while boarding.

Normally Bucky would try to sleep on this flight, after all he had kindergarteners to read too once he got to DC. Or something, he honestly wasn’t even sure what he’s rushing back for. All that matters is that he should be sleeping, but he can’t because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.

Since sitting down you’d been able to spare him a glance, and a tight smile, but that was it.

Maybe you had changed your mind? Sure, your agreement last night wasn’t super fleshed out, but he thought the implication was clear.

After, meaning after the campaign.

He just needed to make sure. God it made him feel like a little boy, even just to admit it to himself.

He clears his throat, and waits for you to finally meet his eyes. “You get any sleep last night?” He asks, if the way your eyes droop are any indication the answer is no.

You shake your head, “About an hour, if I’m lucky.” You tell him, but you smile again, this time it looks more like your own. “You?”

He shakes his head, “Too much to think about.”

You hum, and he knows you’re acutely aware of the staff surrounding you in the plane. Each one is either napping or too engrossed in their own tasks, but still too risky.

“You’re in the home stretch now, little more than two weeks to go.” You say. Placing the files you had been pouring over to the side. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Despite the mention of the rapidly approaching election, Bucky can’t help but relax as you talk. “I was thinking about after.” He says. It’s as on the nose as he can get.

Your smile widens. “You need sleep to get to after, Bucky.”

“Too nervous.” He shoots back.

You shake your head, stretching your legs out in front of you, until the toe of your shoe touches Bucky’s.

“No reason to be nervous. It will still be there.”

That was all he needed to hear.

“It’s worth waiting for.” He says. It didn’t quite make sense in the conversation you’re having out loud. But in the real conversation, the one being had under a layer of professionalism, he’s saying:

You’re worth waiting for.

Based on the way you duck your head, embarrassed. He knows you heard the second one.

“Before you try to sleep, there is something else we should talk about.”

And just like that, you’ve slipped back into the professional. Your voice changes in a way Bucky can’t quite define, but he’s been spending enough time with you that he can hear the difference.

“We’re going to up your security, we have three more guards who will be joining your rotation when we land.”

It catches Bucky totally out of left field. “Wait, what?” He asks.

You nod, “I know it sounds dramatic,” you try to appease him, as if you can already hear the argument on his tongue. “But there have been three credible threats made against you in the past forty-eight hours.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Is it really neces-“

“Yes.” You cut him off, “I don’t care that you’re built like a tank Bucky.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his face at that, “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He relents, and he feels the shit-eating grinning that’s still plastered across his face. “Any thing else?”

You smile, pleased. “The social media team has drafted a post about Alpine- just stating you’ve adopted her and laying on the cuteness factor. Permission to post?”

“Yea that’s fine.” His eyes dart to the seat next to him, where the little creature is curled in a ball. It’d only been a few days, but it was nice to have a cat again. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

You nod, pulling out your tablet and he hears your (now French) nails tap at the screen.

Were they like that last night? He was pretty distracted, but he surprised he didn’t notice. The novelty of getting to touch you had turned just about everything but the memory of your lips to mush.

“You’re going straight from the airport to Howard Stark Elementary. The plan is for you to tell a few jokes, color a few pages, and read them a Doctor Seuss book or something.” You explain, “It’s grandparents day so there will be other people your age.” Bucky would have believed you if it weren’t for the way you started smiling at the end of the sentence.

It was more of smirk actually. Like you thought you were hilarious.

Even when it was at his expense he was inclined to agree. He doesn’t let it show though, keeping stoic until you break.

“Kidding.” You promise. “Then it’s off to a luncheon with a few of the other candidates. You should be done by three, and then you’re free to nap.”

“Thank god.”

“You mind if I put a suit fitting in your calendar for this week?” You sound like you’re asking, but Bucky knows it’s really just your way of telling him it’s happening. “You should have a new suit ready for election night.”

You make a good point. He had plenty of suits, but he wouldn’t mind having something a new for the big day. “Only if you help me pick it out.” He offers, playing right into your charade of his control.

“Of course.” You agree, standing up and your arms above your head. It causes your blouse to ride up just enough to make his fingers twitch. Then you- as casually as possible- look around.

You must be satisfied by what you see, because when you walk next to Bucky’s seat and lean down so you’re next to his ear. He feels your warm breath hit his skin, and the smell of your perfume has the hair on his neck standing up. He almost doesn’t hear what your whisper.

“As if I’d miss the chance to see you in a suit.”

Then you’re gone, turning around and making your way up to the bathroom as if you didn’t just send him into a tail spin.

Maybe flirting hasn’t changed that much.

You were honest on the plane.

Hell would freeze over before you miss a chance to see Bucky in a suit. Especially after the other night.

But it wasn’t just your new obsession driving this shopping trip.

He was going to win. You wanted him to look devastatingly handsome when he did.

You could feel it now, it was completely in his grasp. You were used to quick results, but this had been unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You’d never seen a candidate jump this far into the lead after only two months.

The numbers looked great. You felt confident saying that despite your very unprofessional bias.

Speaking of-

You’d been back in DC for a week and still hadn’t been alone since. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it since the plane.

Did that even count?

Sure, you’d stared at eachother about it, and smiled about it, and brushed eachothers hands about it, but no words had been spoken.

Inside this shop was the closet you’d gotten to privacy. Just you, Bucky, and the old man measuring his inseam.

Much to your surprise, the tailor, Eddie, was Bucky’s pick.

Even more surprisingly, the two of them hadn’t shut up since you walked in the door. You had sat down on one of the chairs in front of the mirrors while Eddie began the fitting. Trying your best to figure out who the hell replaced Bucky with this middle school girl.

“So,” you ask, after a lull in their conversation finally presents itself. “How did you two meet?”

Eddie perks up, as if he just remembered you were there. “We live in the same old folks home.” He tells you, just as Bucky is saying “Neighbors.”

If you had a water you would have done a spit take.

“I’m sorry the same, what?” You ask, lifting a finger in Bucky’s direction as you add “just Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, completely oblivious, as most old men are. “We live in the same apartment complex. Lincoln Estates.” He confirms, too busy measuring to notice your smirk. “Boss man over here just moved into the penthouse.”

“Bucky you told me you moved, but you never said where!”

“On purpose.” He says, voice flat.

Before you can comment, Eddie continues. “Yeah it took some convincing to get the HOA on board, but he technically meets the age requirement. Plus I told them having a congressman in our building might actually get the city to do something about the messed up sidewalk.”

It’s like Bucky can see the jokes forming in your head, “It’s an active adult complex!” He defends, jostling so much that Eddie has to pull him back into place.

“Mhm.” You hum, biting your lips to keep from laughing. “It’s a beautiful building, its by the hospital right?” You ask.

Eddie nods, “Yeah, it’s great! We also have a physical therapist who works out of the building. Plus, there’s a proposal to add a pickle ball court on the roof.”

You nearly choke. “That’s amazing!” You add, completely overdoing your enthusiasm.

Bucky melts in front of you, his face a brighter shade of pink with each passing comment.

Eddie taps Bucky’s shoulder, “Almost done, just gotta run to the back for a few minutes.” It’s innocent enough, but Eddie winks as he says it.

As soon as he’s gone Bucky speaks, “They were pet friendly.”

You don’t ease up, “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“That was the plan.”

“So you were just going to let me figure it out when I saw shuffleboard in the lobby?”

“Why are you in my lobby?” He fires back.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no shuffleboard in the lobby.” He laments,“Honestly, the apartment itself is normal.”

“Are there handle bars in your shower?” You ask.

Bucky sighs, it’s obvious he will not be winning this round, “They’re very convient.”

You stand up, walking over to a display of ties. You run your fingers over the different fabrics, stopping when your fingers land on a baby blue one. “Bucky do you know how much of your appeal as a candidate relies on the fact that you’re not an old man?”

“I thought my appeal was being an Avenger.”

“Avenger adjacent.” You add, part of your job is to keep him humble afterall. “Yes, that’s a lot of it too, but so is your physical age. If we take out the popsicle years, you’re about to become one the youngest senators on the floor.”

“Popsicle years?” He asks, making that stupid, cute questioning face he always gives you.

You give him a quick, but apologetic look, realizing how that sounded, “Seriously Bucky, just try to keep a low profile in the building for a bit. Last thing we need is someone’s Nana spreading gossip about you.”

He winces and you fix him with a stern, ‘What does that mean?’ look.

You grab the blue tie and walk over to Bucky. “I promised to bring Captain America to the next Barbecue.” He admits.

You’re standing in-front of Bucky now, so close your toes almost touch. Wordlessly, you bring the tie up and around his neck, tucking it under his collar. “You like it there?”

He nods, “I do.” You can feel the weight of his eyes as you begin to tie his tie. You try you best to focus on the steps, but the way he’s staring makes it hard not to mess up. “They play music I actually know, and treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

You smile. “Then that’s all that matters.”

He smiles back. Clearing his throat as you finally pull the knot tight. You let your hands linger this time, the way they had wanted too that day in the barbershop. You rest your palms against his chest, finally lifting your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still pissed you didn’t tell me though.” You tease.

“Promise not to do it again.” He says. His tone isn’t quite as airy as yours.

Just as you’re about to back up, his hands find your hips. The short distance between you feels so charged, trying to come up with any words feels impossible.

You have a rule and you already broke it once. You’re not trying to get in the habit of breaking it again, not when you’re so close to the finish line. But you can smell his cologne, feel his breath, and it all makes you dizzy.

You should say something. Tell him you shouldn’t, tell him it’s not a good idea, tell him Eddie will be back any second.

“Hi.” You whisper.

Fuck that is not what you were gonna say.

“Hi.” He smiles back, pulling you just a little closer. He looks down at the tie, “Blue?”

“Matches your eyes.” You try and make it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, a futile attempt attempt to break the tension. You realized it had the opposite effect of when you feel his grip tighten.

“Bucky.” You warn, but still not dropping your hands.

He ignores it. “What if I fire you?” He asks

You laugh. Unable to help it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.” You exhale.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “One week, then you’re taking me dancing.” He says. You tilt your head up towards him, l body all but melted against him at this point and you give in. Leaning up onto your toes you’re just about to press your lips to his when-

“All right Buddy you are all set!” Eddie’s voice booms as he walks back into the room. You and Bucky jump apart like guilty teenagers.

Bucky recovers quicker than you do. “That’s great Eddie, what do I owe you?”

You pick up your bag, and do your best to try and fight the heat in your cheeks. “It’s my treat.” You insist, reaching into your purse to grab your card.

“No way.” Bucky fights back, his wallet is already opened on the counter.

“I’m the one who insisted you get a new suit Bucky.“ you fight back.

“It’s my treat.” Eddie says. “Consider it your house warming present.”

You can tell Bucky is stunned, “You sure it’s not a bribe to get that sidewalk fixed?” He jokes.

“Next one is free if you pull off that miracle.” Eddie smiles, and then not so gently adds, “Now get out of my shop and go flirt somewhere else.”

You laugh, embarrassed. “Thank you Eddie.” You look over at Bucky. “You do good work.”

“I know.” He winks.

The sun beats down on you as you step outside. Eager to get to air conditioning, you walk ahead of Bucky, joking about how he was going to sweat through his new suit.

He’s about fifteen feet behind you, halfway through a comment about how he won’t miss New York winters (as if DC is that much warmer) when you hear the car come to life. Your hand is a foot from the door when the world erupts.

There’s a sudden breeze, then a flash of heat. You feel yourself fly through the air, before you back crashes into something hard and jagged. Then you hear the blast, the reverberation of it shaking the ground you landed on.

Your body starts to catch up, the rest of the world coming back into focus. Your leg is throbbing and you can feel yourself coughing, but you can’t hear a thing over the ringing in your ears.

You look around, trying to find Bucky, but everything is covered in a blanket of smoke. Distantly, you register the car. The entire frame is on fire and either it flew across the street, or you did.

Then it all goes black.

It was like the entire thing had happened in slow motion.

One second you were laughing, smiling at him like you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else- the next thing he knew you were rumpled against a brick wall, covered in dust, blood, and your leg bent beneath you in a that definitely wasn’t natural.

Bucky was far enough away that he only had a few bumps and scrapes. He didn’t even need stitches.

You weren’t so lucky, and you didn’t even have serum on your side.

Every single Doctor who came to check on you marveled at the fact that you had managed to get away with just a few broken ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, and a fractured leg.

Nothing absolutely this felt lucky to him. He spent three hours waiting for you come out of surgery. It felt like you had been seriously hurt, and it was his fault.

If he had gotten to the car first. If he hadn’t sent the extra security home early. If he had taken a separate car instead of making some lame excuse about saving gas just to be closer to you. This wouldn’t have happened.

Bucky has never needed help with coming up with new and inventive ways to feel guilty and he had plenty of time to do so while he waited for you to wake up.

As an act of contrition he forces himself to just watch. Watch you breathe, watch your fingers twitch, watch your monitors and try in vain to decipher them.

No pacing, no yelling, no tracking down the men who set it all up. None of the things he’d have done if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hear your voice in his head telling him not to.

Telling hum how violence doesn’t suit him, doesn’t match the Bucky he’s become. A man he’s trying very hard to be right now.

You also keeps telling him to call his therapist, but that’s not happening.

Somewhere around hour two he had taken off the tie, it was dirty, dusty, and speckled in your blood from when he lifted you out of the rubble. Now he just kept wrapping and unwrapping it in his hands, anxiety radiating off of him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s doesn’t matter how many people tell him you’re going to be fine. Their words don’t change how small you look in the hospital bed, how cold your hands feel when he tries to hold them. The bruise from where you hit your head looks brighter every time Bucky can bring himself to look at it, dark purple staining your forehead.

He’s exhausted. A few hours of sleep would do him a world of good, but he can’t sleep until he sees the whites of your eyes.

Bucky has always hated hospitals. He hated them back in when he’d go visit Steve as a kid. He hated them in the war, when they were just tents help to other by rope and a bandaid. He hated them in Wakanda, when he was getting his bearings, relearning how to be human.

He hated them most, when he was a visitor. Being patient comes with a certain degree of acceptance. There’s a surrender that comes with being a patient too, being able to let someone else make all the hard decisions for him.

As a visitor there is no comfort. He sits in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, and waits. He waits for doctors to come with news, he waits for you to need anything. Waits to to feel useful. The rest of the waiting is just a reminder of how no matter what he believes, what he trains for, or what he does, he has no control.

Looking at you here, connected to tubes is a reminder of why he has can never let his guard down. He knew better than to get close, he certainly knew better than to start whatever this thing between the two of you was. He’s already convinced himself that he’s going to get as much distance from you as possible as soon as-

You wake up, or more accurately you groan into consciousness.

Your eyes crack open, lips parting like you’re trying to speak. At your side your hand lifts, stretching as much as it can towards him.

Bucky grabs your hand, holding it between both of his. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers.

You hum, craning your head with a wince towards the untouched glass of water on your table. Bucky grabs it wordlessly and brings the straw to your lips, “Small sips.” He encourages. You nod, closing your eyes as you drink.

When you finally pull away, you fix him with a worried look, as if he’s the one laying in the hospital bed.

“You look,” You clear your throat, “-like shit.” You voice is hoarse. He knows how smoke inhalation feels, like swallowing around glass. That’s without having been intubated.

Bucky is sure his relief is palpable, his entire body unclenches. “Then you probably shouldn’t look in the mirror sweetheart.” He says, presenting you the cup for another sip. This time you take the cup from his hands. “You got one hell of a shiner on your forehead.”

You lift a hand to your temple, recoiling when you make contact. “I’ll get bangs.” You say, not giving it another thought. Dropping your hand back to your side, you take a deep breath, or you try too, but a wince interrupts it. “It was really bad wasn’t it?” You ask.

Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. He doesn’t want to say that you’ll be in a boot for at least three months. That you’ll be out of work for two. Doesn’t want to tell you that if you had been six inches closer to that car you’d be dead.

“What happened?” You whisper.

Of course you don’t remember, you were ten feet into a brick wall, how could you? Never-mind the concussion to the mix.

“Car bomb.” He explains, “Turns out you were right about needing the extra security.”

“Add it to the list.” You smirk at that, lips cracked from dehydration. You look down, noticing the bump of the bandages around your leg. You bring a hand to your ribs, gently feeling at the wrap there as-well. “Shit.” You whisper.

He nods. “Was worse than really bad.” One of his hands crept up to cradle your hand, two fingers pressed firmly to your pulse. He needs to feel anchored to this moment, to the reality that you’re okay.

He’s fixed his gaze on the blankets covering you, when all of sudden you start to cry.

Your chest heaves with silent sobs and a few scattered tears run down your cheeks. Then you let out a pathetic whimper than Bucky can’t for the life of him understand.

“Hey, hey it’s okay.” He tries to soothe, moving so he’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to your legs. He brings a hand up to cradle your face, sweeping away the tears with his thumb.

You nuzzle into his palm, resting the entire weight of your head against it while you mumble something.

“Honey I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, buts it’s okay. You’re okay now, everything is fine. You’re only gonna be in a boot for three months! The rest will heal on its own with some rest.” He explains, smoothing your hair as he speaks.

“I almost died.” You explain, slower this time. “And now I’m gonna have bangs when you win!” You add, sounding even more wrecked.

Already thinking about work. You’re still you. Under the scratchy voice and bruised skin, you still have all of your priorities out of order. You still have your sparkle. Something Bucky had spent the last several hours afraid you’d lost.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He promises, “We have a week until the election, no need to pull out the scissors just yet.” He reminds you.

“Six days.” You bite back. The ghost of a smile on your face as you calm down. You nod towards the nurses chart on the wall, “It’s tomorrow, only six days left.” You explain.

“My apologies.” He jokes. Dropping his palm from your face back to your hand.

“You’ve been here all night haven’t you?” You ask, eyes looking him over, taking in his disheveled state. Bucky nods, fighting a yawn as you say it. You give him a real smile this time, all of your warmth directed squarely at him. “Better not be blaming yourself Barnes.”

God, you know him better than he gives you credit for. “That’s because it is my fault.” He admits, suddenly finding great interest in the floor.”

“No.” You say, voice firm.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t-“ He stops, choking on the words.

“Did you put the bomb in the car Bucky?” You ask. Tone sharp and unyielding. He instantly recognizes it, having heard you use with anyone who tries to challenge you. He’s never heard anyone succeed.

“No.” He answers, still unable to look at you. “But that doesn’t change-“

“Bucky.” You interrupt, “Look at me.” He listens, as always. “This is not your fault.”

He wants to fight with you, to yell that is, to give you a hundred different reasons why you should run in the opposite direction.

“I got hurt, because someone wanted to hurt you.” Knife - twisted. “Both of those things can be true, without it being your fault. Okay?”

He nods, “Okay.” He says.

“It’s my pity party, don’t make it about you.”

He almost laughs at that, there’s something about you that makes wallowing so much harder. Besides, you’re you’re giving him that smile, how could he.

So he chooses to believe you, at least until the voices start up again.

“I talked to your boss.” He says.

“Oh?” You ask.

“Some wannabe congressman.” He elaborates.

“Oh!” You giggle, catching on. “How’d it go? He’s a real hardass.”

“He was tough,” he plays along, “But I managed to convince him to give you PTO for the next four months.”

“Wow.” You pretend to be surprised, “That’s very generous considering my contract is up in a week.”

“Mmm, he said something about that too.” You widen your eyes, “Said he had big plans for you.”

You nod, smiling wide. “I can’t wait to hear them.” The second half of your sentence is lost to a yawn.

Bucky feels lighter as he watches you snuggle into the blankets. It’s hard to resist the urge to crawl in next you, but he’s been fighting those kinds of thoughts since Brooklyn. He hasn’t earned the right to that domesticity- yet.

“You should go home. Sleep, feed your cat. Maybe go crazy and take a shower.”

He nods, already picturing the stink eye he’d get from Alpine when he got home. He still wasn’t used to having a roommate. “A shower is probably a good idea.” He says, standing up.

“Thank you,” you say, and Bucky looks at you quizzically. “For staying,” you explain, “I was so worried about you, waking up and seeing your face was-“ You stop, and he watches you search for the right word. “Everything.”

He leans over, kissing the crown of your head, something thats quickly become a habit. “No where else I would have been.” He answers. “Call me later?” He ask.

You nod, “I promise.”

This was arguably worst than being in an explosion.

Okay maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but never in your career had you been forced to watch your victory from the comfort of your deeply uncomfortable couch. If this injury has taught you anything, it’s that you really need to invest in better furniture. It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually spend time in your home.

You also didn’t have any food in the house, which is why you were still waiting on your third DoorDash of the day. No pity party was complete without a snack.

Back to the torture at hand.

On your screen, in gorgeous technicolor you watched in real time as it was revealed that the voters chose Bucky as New York’s newest Congressmen.

He had given a wonderful speech, short, succinct and powerful, like him. You had proofed it so of course it was perfect. Then as the crowd applauded you watched as the team you had spent the last several weeks of your life managing, celebrated without you.

Blue confetti rained down, getting tangled in his hair, and blurring with his gorgeous blue tie (you had a replacement delivered to him after seeing how ruined it was at the hospital). Sure they had all been calling and texting you throughout the night, you knew they missed you. Almost all of them had already sent you a congratulatory text

Almost all.

The entire day, the one person you didn’t hear from was the person you wanted to talk to the most.

Bucky was avoiding you.

At least you think he is, he wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You knew first hand how chaotic election days were, add to that how Bucky often forgot his phone even existed. A week ago you would’ve written it off as nerves clouding his mind. Two months ago you’d have forgiven it as him having other people to celebrate with.

That was before three things happened:

1. He kissed you so well, you forgot you’d ever been kissed by anyone else.

2. He spent all night at the hospital, waiting for you to wake up.

3. He spent all week texting, FaceTiming, and calling you non-stop. Partly because you were working remotely to get the campaign across the finish line. Partly because ‘he needed to hear your voice again.’

‘Needed too’ until this morning.

He was all vague promises of a plan and sending you cute photos of Alpine, until today.

Maybe this was his plan, ruin you for all other men, and then ghost. You were pretty sure he doesn’t even know what ghosting is, but it’s happened to enough times that you’re skeptical.

To top it all off, you can’t event drink. Your special cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics ruling it out completely. It was a sad predicament, just you, the dry bowl of cereal you had for dinner, and the eleven o’clock news.

It had been almost forty-fives minutes since the results were annouced, and still no word from Bucky. After triple checking your ringer is on, you shut the TV off. It was almost time for your next dose of Tylenol, hopefully it would give you the extra push towards sleep.

Knock knock knock.

For a moment you panic, no one knocks on your door. You don’t know your neighbors, and then you remember.

DoorDash!

Sacrificing grace for speed, you hobble over to the door. You weren’t used to maneuvering with the boot, still cringing everytime time it scraped against the floor.

You opened the door without thinking, looking down expecting to see a brown bag of greasy comfort. Instead you see black dress shoes.

Ones you instantly recognize, you bought them after all.

Your eyes work their way up slowly, clocking the brown bag clutched in his hands. Then the rest of the way to his handsome face.

“Shouldn’t you be at a party somewhere Bucky?” You ask.

He gives you that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah I should be.” He says, and despite how pissed you were five minutes ago, you let him in.

In all your time together you had never felt scared of Bucky. Nervous? Sure, but never scared. Except for right now. Staring at him in your apartment, watching him put the bag of food on down, you were scared. Not of the man, but of your very big, heart pounding in your chest feelings for him. Scared because you had let yourself fall, hard. You had let yourself plan and dream and fall asleep every night thinking about how you would grab him and kiss him the second they announced he won.

Then he ignored you all day. Had he finally realized your organization was annoying? That having a plan A, B, C and D wasn’t called being prepared and was actually called being crazy.

He was watching you too now, and despite your fear, it was like your body came to life under his gaze. A week without seeing him in person made being this close feel electric. Then Bucky broke your gaze and it was like all the sparks died.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to do this in person.” He explains, coming closer.

A sense of doom creeps up your neck as you watch him approach. You’re stuck in the entryway, as if the boot on your leg has become a cement block and your body can’t be bothered to try and move it.

This is it, you think he’s here to tell me, whatever this almost was, is over.

“You’re fired.” He says, his voice is monotone but his face is wearing an expression you can only describe as a satisfied grin. It feels a little tone deaf given the circumstances.

You open your mouth, hoping to find a biting comeback, or even a sour ‘congratulations’ would work, anything to show him you are not on the same wavelength when lips find yours.

Bucky kisses you, and it’s so obvious he had been holding out on you in Brooklyn. He’s cradling your face in between his palms, but this time he’s not holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s not the desperate hunger and grabby hands from New York

This time it’s all softness. It doesn’t take long for you to melt, hands finding his neck and making a home there. You both relax into the kiss, all of the stress, the tension, and blurred lines finally lifted. All that’s left are two people.

You kiss Bucky in until your lungs feels like they will explode. Pulling away Bucky follows you, trying to chase your lips- briefly succeeding, before finally settling for resting his forehead against yours.

You catch your breath, lungs weak, leg going numb from standing on it for so long. lips smiling so wide you’re afraid your face might split in half. Delirium.

“You skipped your party to fire me?” You ask. Tone light, giggles interrupting each word.

Bucky nods and his hands travel to your waist, where they plant themselves firmly. He lifts you and brings you that last foot forward so your chest is pressed to his.. “Knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate.” He explains, lips brushing yours as he says it.

You want to ask him more questions, does he have to leave? can he stay forever? what does this mean? was the food still hot when he brought it in?

Instead you kiss him again. When you break away this time it’s because your lips are numb.

“I know today was crazy, and I should have called you back, I wanted to so badly. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to handle hearing your voice without coming here.”

It sounds a bit dramatic, but he says it so earnestly, you don’t question it. “That’s a good reason.” You whisper, “If you had come here and kissed me like that I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

Bucky tried to kiss you again, but it’s sloppy, both of you smiling too much into the kiss. “You gonna keep me?” He asks.

You nod, shoving the suit jacket down off of his shoulders you can you rest your hands there. Feel all of the strength and power there. Bucky is pliant under your touch, letting it fall to floor with a soft thump. “Yeah, Brooklyn’s gonna need to find someone else.” You answer, “Besides you ruined my job, how am I ever supposed to work with someone else now that I’ve had you.”

Bucky kisses you again, one hand snaking up under your shirt to ghost over your ribs.

“Had an idea for that.” Bucky says he pulling away, but still not detaching. You tilt your head, silently asking him to go on. “Gonna need to adjust my team, now that I’ll be sticking around in DC. There’s one job I need to fill.” He said explains, “You’d be around me constantly, telling me what to do and what not to do.” You smile.

“I do have some recent experience with that type of work.” You offer, “Need me to email you my resume?” You ask, bringing one hand up to scratch your nails down the back of his neck. You watch gleefully as he shivers beneath your touch.

He shakes his head, “You’re overqualified.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Chief of Staff.”

If it wasn’t for the boot (and the concussion) you’d jump on him. Spend every day with him, and actually do good?

“I accept!” You answer, pressing your chest against his, afraid the ball of light forming inside of it will explode if you don’t glue yourself to him.

After months of calculated touches, and fighting your instincts, the freedom to hold him is addictive.

“Thank god.” He whispers and kisses your forehead, neither of you have stopped smiling. “There’s one other job though.” He says. “It would mean sneaking around, and flying under the radar.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You say.

“Mhmm, it is. Comes with the risk of spending even more time with me, maybe forever.”

“Don’t think that’s long enough.” You respond, distantly wondering who is this sappy, boy-crazy girl and what has she done with you?

Bucky squeezes you again, as if he’s making sure you’re still real. “I’ve got a lot of shit to unpack, you sure you wanna take all that on?”

You nod fervently, “I can handle it Barnes.”

He presses one more kiss to your lips. “I know better than to doubt you.”

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I have no expectations posting this, I just started writing and couldn’t stop! I love these two so much. Anyway, I hope it didn’t suck, love you say it back

[quinloki]

quin-uhhh:

would you?!

Fic authors self rec! When you receive this, reply with favorite five fics you've written (include links, and if you want- a few thoughts about each one), then pass on to at least five other writers if you're up for it. Spread the self-love ✨

If you don't, I'll just... I'll just... well I won't do a thing but please?!

many fist pumps,

▲ I'm a symbol now

\o/ Tri, my sweet friend, you are - if anything - a symbol of good cheer =D ♥

Let's see, five favorite fics I've written. That's much easier than trying to pick just one ^_^

Birds of a Feather Marco/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - This is my most recently completed fic, at least at the time of this post, but I love it so much. My passion for Marco feels like it came out of nowhere and has made itself reigning champion in my thoughts. But a story I expected to be relatively short, ended up almost twice as long as I expected, and it was so easy. It was fun to write, and I think it goes down smooth, despite being nearly 90k words people consistently devour it in a single sitting.

Quicksand Sir Crocodile/Reader ( tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - Not sure if you're a fan of the sandy crocodile-themed warlord? Tread carefully, reading this title is statistically likely to convert you. Quicksand has an alternative ending because the story was originally intended to be a very dark Yandere - to the point that Doflamingo would've been the "good" guy. That's not how things went, and I'm quite glad for it. Quicksand going its own direction is what helped seal the deal in creating the Tales of the Grandline Metropolis, which is currently 3.8 completed stories. (it'll be at least 8 before it's done).

A Light Touch Eustass Kid/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - My first Eustass Kid/Reader story. Set in the same AU as Quicksand, it was started from a pun, of all things. I figured Kid would be fancy tech stuff like neural-linked prosthetics, and the idea that would make a prosthetic for the reader after they lost a hand was something I wanted to write. Creating something like that would take a light touch, and if it glowed, that would be a different kind of light touch and getting close to Kid requires a light-- you get the point. Like I said, it's all based off a pun, but I'm really proud of the story, it's one of my favorite re-reads.

Some Direction Zoro/Reader (tumblr / Ao3 / Wattpad ) - A Modern AU where the government mandates who you marry. I have to give thanks to @lyndsyh24 for not only inspiring me to write this one (start to finish in a single month, I was obsessed!) but also for allowing my to play in the AU she'd built up. From Matchbook to the laws themselves, it's all thanks to Lyn. Zoro started out as one of my favorite characters in the series - I still have love for him, and I'm always happy to write him, but he's taken a bit of a back seat to my top three. Still Some Direction is a story I'm really proud of - even if I worry there'll be a mob after me for who the antagonist is 😅

Family Ties Doflamingo/Reader ( Ao3 / Wattpad ) - I was torn on this last choice - even with five slots it's hard to decide between stories I suppose ^^; Also, oops, apparently I only put the first ten chapters on tumblr... I need to fix that >.> Ahem, anyway, Family Ties is the first fic I wrote after over ten years of not writing at all. It's my first reader insert, my first true multi-chapter too. When I wrote it, it was the longest fic I'd written by nearly 50k words. I wrote it because I wanted a more morally ambiguous reader compared to what I'd been reading. It's not a dark fic though, it's pretty tooth-achingly sweet, honestly, but it's currently the only fic I have where the reader is a murderer in a very undisputed and direct manner.

Honorable mention I almost posted as piece 5 - The Dragon's Clause - my Sabo/Reader Noble/Fantasy/Magic AU, and also the only title I mention that's incomplete. But it's a an ode to my favorite genre, and a great many of my favorite tropes.

[obsidianpen]

Should I cry or laugh?** I don’t know — much like Tom didn’t, if I may quote the final chapter of the most *glorious* Tomione fic I have ever read.

Never have I written an ask on a blog before, but **YOU, OP**, *you made me*. I've been reading *B\&G* since it was still a WIP. I remember trying to resist reading around chapter 50, because I knew once I started, I’d have **nothing but B\&G** on my mind for weeks until the next update. But hey — in Oscar Wilde’s words, *“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it,”* and that is exactly what I did. Every single time.

Gods, I even made a Tumblr account *just for you*. And more than that — you’ve inspired me so deeply with my own writing. You are my idol, no lie. You paved my way into fanfic. I love you so, so much.

---

**\[Spoilers for B\&G]**

That ending — or should I say, that *alternative* ending — was *bloody beautiful* and yet completely heart-wrenching. Knowing that *our* Tom and Hermione — the ones we followed and suffered with — **never** got their happy ending? *Brutal*. But knowing that this son of a bitch *could have* had redemption, could have chosen differently, could have been the man he almost was… only to go full psycho dictator? EVEN MORE BRUTAL.

Why couldn’t he have been like the Tom in the alternate universe?

Why couldn’t he just let people be, as he once said, “content” if not happy in his regime?

Because Hermione could’ve fixed him then. But nooo. Boy had to go all edgy. While I know he suffered all five stages of depression for years and years but did he really had to add vengeances to the list? I sympathize with him yet I scream into the void

“You dumbass. Despicable. Pitiful. Lovable. Absolute mindfucker. AHHHHHH”

And honestly? I loved that you didn’t exactly tell us what happened to them in the end. You let it stay open, and for me, that was one of your act of mercy. Because I swear on all my savings that whatever “ending” you had for them would have emotionally wrecked me for months.

So instead, I imagine this: Hermione, in the throne room, stepping into his mind — and this time, pulling him into the void of hers. No hesitation. No mercy. Only her hand reaching for him. And I wager... he would have gone willingly. Because there, in that shared space of memory and ache and what-could-have-been, he wouldn’t be no one but just her tom and she his hermione.

In that flower garden. Forever. Blazing in the sun. Hermione’s laughter echoing through the field, asking, “It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?”

And Tom smiling softly, looking only at her, replying, “It is.”

---

Thank you. Truly. Thank you for offering this majestic, emotional rollercoaster of a ride — for free. Thank you for shaping mere words into the dying embers of their corpse —of hope, of love, of this great shakespearen tragedy.

🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

thank you 🫂 and hey, where you see a tragedy…..