#operation ruthless

[silviakundera]

Random The Grand Princess snippet of Pei Wenxuan having absolutely no chill about Li Rong during the early Divorce Era™.

No sooner had he left than Pei Wenxuan's men reported to Pei Wenxuan about Li Rong's deployment of the guards' patrol time.

Although Pei Wenxuan had left the Princess's residence, he had many people in the Princess's residence; and it could be said that the Princess's residence was the place where he had the most information in the whole of Huajing. This was the third time in recent times that Li Rong had deployed guards for patrol time, and they were all at night, so Pei Wenxuan could not help but have some thoughts.

He immediately asked someone to find out the details of the three patrol schedules before going to bed, but after he fell asleep, he could not stay asleep.

He believed that he trusted Li Rong and that she would never betray him.

However, he was worried that Li Rong was already a pretty girl, and if he was not around, what if she had some ideas and met some bad people and was coaxed to go over there?

When Pei Wenxuan thought of this possibility, he was so worried that he couldn't rest, and he wanted to get up and go to Li Rong right now, but he thought he was being redundant.

Li Rong was not a silly girl, how could she be so easily coaxed?

After tossing and turning all night, he finally arrived at the entrance of the palace the next day and waited there, finally seeing Li Rong's carriage.

When Li Rong saw Pei Wenxuan, she could not help but smile, "Lord Pei, what a coincidence?"

Pei Wenxuan had to pretend to be indifferent in front of people, nodding his head and not saying anything.

[vaguely-concerned]

I am for sure inextricably mariana trench deep in dragon age brain right now and not coming out any time soon, but some part of my mind and my heart is also always thinking about agent 'where's blue? is blue okay? *passes the fuck out gently smoking from all his circuits post-force lightning*' zero

[orchideae]

Uncle Tian. The importance that is Uncle Tian. ... With a "cameo" of Yelan in the second half, exactly at 1:00, which is incredibly so very important if you really want to get a proper glimpse into her 'professionally'.

[incandescentflower]

Jung Jiun became a doctor who provided medical care to poor children because Dam-I made a wish about it when they were children.

ok fine, show, I'm not immune.

[spurbleu]

i really need johnny with a bird who’s never been eaten out before because I know that man is hungry.

johnny and you have been inseparable since the cradle. a friendship older than his siblings children. which means the both of you are entirely transparent with each other- the skin and bones of your stories is consumed without question. that includes, appropriate or not, sexual encounters.

when you tell him, he’s just shy of appalled. given, you hadn’t been with too many men, but enough that it’s strange none of them have even offered to get their mouth between your legs. especially with how good he knows they’d feel, on his-their shoulders. how sweet you probably taste. how hot it would be to watch you- fuck.

“ah will.”

you throw a confused look over your shoulder as you pour the both of you another cup of tea.

“you’ll what?”

“eat ye out.”

you feel the lavender go up your nose and steam your sinus until it short circuits. you miscalculate where the stove is, and set the pot down with a loud clank. wincing, you look back up at him, searching the blue of his eyes for any sign of humor.

when you come up empty handed you realize he’s entirely serious.

“johnny- i don’t think-“

“donae play coy nae, ah wanna show ye whatcha been missin’.”

your lips flatten into a harsh line. you run your tongue on the backs of your teeth, trying to collect any courage you’ve got in you to respond. friends don’t eat each other out…right?

but he’s doing it to help you. to…show you what you’ve been missing. a favor. a kindness between you and the strong, wide shoulders you’ve cried on.

your mouth is sticky when you respond. “okay.”

his grin is wolfish. “aye, tha’s a girl.”

he guides you to the couch, with enough gentleness to make you flush. kneels between your legs as you rest up against the pillows he set behind the arch of your back. slides your pants off with one hand, the other on your waist, thumb swiping in a soothing rhythm below your belly button.

you feel like syrup, leaning your head back and missing the way he licks his lips when he looks at your damp panties.

“relax, hen. yer gonna enjoy tis, promise.”

he does not eat you out with the same softness he prepped you with. slides your panties to the side and immediately shoves his nose between your mounds, and you gasp, spine arching away from the pillows instinctively. he laughs, but it’s muffled by your soaked lips.

explores every fold until you don’t know if you’re soaked by your own arousal, or his spit. but doesn’t matter, because soon he focuses on your clit, and your hands come to crowd his hair. tugging at his mohawk, rolling your hips forward into his face.

“w-wait…hah..”

he doesn’t, tongue ruthless against you. the sensitivity burns- new sensations flaring up from your core to your belly, legs beginning to shake. he feels it, and hooks them around his shoulders.

he’s messy, too. the sounds echoing off your cunt and against his nose are obscene, but he doesn’t quit it until you’re riding his face and to lost in your bliss to still operate under your usual shyness.

you silently wonder what he’s getting out of this. you’ve been friends forever, and although sometimes your banter feels flirtatiously charged, neither have ever acted on it. something you acknowledge but never name. water it and then shove it back in the closet you played dress up in as kids.

and now he’s eating you out. for fun.

you want to ask him, but you only get as far as, “J-Johnny…Johnny fuck- fff…w-why?”

you moan when he separates from your swollen cunt, only to be yanked from your stupor when he pulls you closer to his mouth by your hips.

“because,” again, eyes uncharacteristically serious, “ah’ve been tryin’ fer years.”

dives back in, and adds his two fingers deep into your hole as he sucks on your clit. at that, you cum over his face, limbs crowding his head with the incoherent curses your orgasms rips out of you.

when he pulls back away from you, he gives your cunt a harsh pat, and pulls your mouth apart with his thumb, before placing his fingers on your tongue.

“taste tha’?” his stare is hungry, like he didn’t swallow everything you had, “tha’s what the bastart’s you’ve been wastin’ yerself on have’bin missin’.”

you nod, like you’ve been taught a lesson. he pulls his fingers away, stands and stretches. when he looks back at you again, whatever beast possessed him is gone, and he smiles at you smugly.

“fun, yeah?”

you lean your head back, spent, “fuck off.”

“aw, c’mon nae, no tank yew? shame on ye, using me like tat.”

you throw your hands in the air. “you offered!”

he laughs, and the air is normal. you almost forget you’re naked. almost forget you came over his face.

almost miss how he pockets your panties before grabbing the cups of tea from the kitchen.

[chimerafeathers]

i really love how intensely Mirabelle reacts to act 5 Siffrin botched friendquest.

Isabeau is mostly operating out of concern and, eventually, hurt. he already knows something’s up before Siffrin gets to him. he knows something truly awful must be wrong for Siffrin to be lashing out like they are, and as soon as he can’t handle the situation anymore, he leaves and asks (with strained cheer) for time apart to cool off.

most of Bonnie’s anger comes from being upset and afraid that Siffrin would willingly put themself in danger for no reason, when that’s exactly why they’ve been so unsettled since the eye incident. they hate that Siffrin values their own life so little, they hate that they’re the cause of any pain or loss for him, and here he is, putting himself in that situation AGAIN. on purpose. it’s loud and explosive, but it’s familiar, too, being “hated” by Bonnie for this reason.

Odile pushes, and keeps pushing, until her concern overwhelms Siffrin and they strike where they know she’s most vulnerable. she gets physical, just for a moment, grabbing his collar before controlling herself and letting go. her fury shuts down into cold detachment, and she walks away.

but Mirabelle—dear, sweet, gentle, loving Mirabelle, “the most wonderful being on earth,” with her secret “ruthless side” that largely involves lightly badmouthing people behind their backs and then apologizing—slaps them. immediately.

and then COMPLETELY RENOUNCES THEIR FRIENDSHIP.

not just “we’re not friends anymore,” but “we were never friends in the first place.”

that’s!!! pretty extreme!!!!

of course, she ALSO starts by asking what’s wrong. something must have happened for him to act like this. but as soon as Siffrin brushes her off, she jumps past that line of questioning and dives headfirst into re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about them as a a person.

if he could say something like that to her and not see anything wrong with it, then she was wrong to treat him as a friend, wrong to read camaraderie into his teasing, wrong to think they must care about them all under their aloof demeanor.

that’s how Mirabelle phrases it—“I was wrong about you”—but i think that there’s a hidden layer of I was right about you, too.

she talks about the way they tease her like she had to convince herself that he was doing it in a friendly way. she says they talk like they “know better than her” like that’s a thought she’s had for a LONG time.

“Always soooo mysterious, Siffrin, always talking as if you're better than me! As if you know me!!! But you don't, Siffrin!!! You're just as lost and useless as I am!!! So stop!!! Talking!!! As if you know me!!!!!!”

none of this comes across as a new, sudden way to view Siffrin for her. it doesn’t shock or confuse her. it makes her angry, defensive, almost like she was waiting for something like this to happen at some point. the feeling of resentment, frustration, jealousy, being patronized and condescended to—this is something she’s been actively pushing down and rejecting this entire time, but they’ve given her ample reason for it all to boil to the surface. violently.

Mirabelle’s kindness is not inherent or easy. it’s a choice she’s making. she treats Siffrin warmly because she gives him the benefit of the doubt—refusing to act based on anxiety-fueled, cynical speculation, and reassuring herself that his actions are driven by care and friendship even if she can’t quite see it.

“I was wrong about you” doesn’t mean she always and without question believed them to be a fundamentally kind, caring person from the beginning—it’s that her first, colder instincts were right, and she was wrong to convince herself otherwise.

never mind that she asked what was wrong at first. she barely gives them time to speak in their own defense, to explain what they really meant by what they said. all of her suppressed doubts and frustrations are getting aired out now, now that all the trust she’d so deliberately placed in him has been betrayed. her pain feels bigger than this singular moment, so when she hurts him back, she makes sure it extends back through the entirety of their relationship for him, too.

“You're awful. You're not my friend, not my ally, not anything. You never were.”

like the others, she goes back to the clocktower and tells Siffrin not to come back until later. but there’s a finality to the way she ends this confrontation that isn’t quite there with the others. Isabeau and Odile reach their breaking point and remove themselves from the situation, asking for space to cool off but still somewhat leaving the door open for Siffrin to tell them what’s really going on at some point. Mirabelle is the only one who tries to fully cut ties—after everything else she says, her “I don’t want to see you until tonight” reads to me somewhat as “I don’t want to see you anymore unless I have to.”

I can’t wait to never see you again.

even back at the clocktower, Mirabelle doesn’t really defend Siffrin’s place in the party when Odile suggests leaving them behind out of concern for their trustworthiness on the most important day of the journey. Isabeau and Bonnie protest out of sentimentality and faith in Siffrin’s abilities and connection to them, and Mirabelle agrees, but…

“I agree, but... B-But would he even agree to come with us, still? Maybe they won't even come back tonight...”

she doesn’t say much outside of that. maybe the stutter and hesitation here are signs of regret about how things happened, but she lacks Isabeau and Bonnie’s confidence that Siffrin even wants to come back to them in the first place. she doesn’t trust that their bond was real anymore. maybe it never was in the first place, or maybe she broke whatever was there herself.

and she’s still mad when they finally catch up to Siffrin at the King! and she makes sure Siffrin knows that—after saving them, assuring him that he no longer needs to fight, that they’re all there for him. she still cares, of course she still cares—she’s still hurt, too, but they can figure that part out once there’s less world-ending stuff going on.

she’s the first to say that they all reserve the right to still be angry at Siffrin later—and that they’ve already forgiven him.

she’s also the first to say we want to stay with you, too. it’s not just you.

she was wrong! she thought they didn’t care but they care so much, it’s overwhelming, it’s world-ending.

i think she’s gonna be wallowing in guilt post-canon the moment she remembers what she said and did TO SIFFRIN and not just what Siffrin said to her. especially now that she knows Siffrin’s exact hangups, and especially especially if she figures out what Siffrin was trying to say.

they put themself through hell out of loneliness and fear that none of the others cared about him the way he cared about them, he was going insane from repetition and exhaustion and hunger and trying to keep them all safe and together, and all they did in the midst of all that was say something kind of mean to her one time (that turned out to not even be MEANT to be mean it was supposed to be HELPFUL they just SAID IT ALL WRONG) and she SLAPPED THEM? and told him that they WEREN’T FRIENDS AT ALL??? how could she!!! she should have known better!! what they said hurt a lot but still!!!

so when they eventually manage to try to talk about it, they end up almost in, like, a guilt competition.

Mirabelle apologizing for how she reacted, that she shouldn’t have yelled or hit him, that she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts that way out of anger and she’s sorry that she made Siffrin expect that reaction from her, she should have known better and believed in him more and they only messed up like that because they were losing their mind in a time loop but what’s HER excuse—

and Siffrin going nononono stop I deserved it—(HUH DON’T SAY THAT NO YOU DIDN’T)—and that he should never have said such awful things to her, ever, and she was under so much pressure already with the weight of the country and everyone’s lives and futures and her religion and their whole party counting on her to do this impossible task because she’s the only one who can, all this unbearable expectation and hope crushing her, and they KNEW that but they thought they could skip to the ending as though her feelings didn’t matter at all, like helping her wasn’t as important as saving a little time—

until they’re just. in tears together, apologizing for all the horrible things they did in between complimenting each other’s strength and kindness and resilience and how much they admire each other and saying that no, everything you did was completely understandable, actually, the only one who sucks here is me. which neither of them will accept coming from the other!!

they’re so similar, in ways they couldn’t really understand, before.

warm, affectionate, perfect Mirabelle, the resolute hero, a beacon of compassion and hope for all those around her, who wears her heart on her sleeve, her fear making her courage shine all the brighter—nothing like the insignificant, forgettable Siffrin, too terrified to be known, too fragile to touch, too selfish and disgusting to bear letting go.

cool, mysterious, unflappable Siffrin, the worldly traveler, as charming and silly as they are confident and skilled, who brushed off losing an eye like it was nothing, accepting the risks of this journey with barely more than a shrug—nothing like the anxious, stagnant, undeserving Mirabelle, a fraud and a nobody crumbling under the weight of a mission too important to be entrusted to someone like her, doubting herself, doubting her friends, doubting her mentor, doubting her faith, too weak and brittle to bend and change the way the world needs her to without breaking.

not worth bothering others with their problems. they should be able to handle this alone. stay positive, stay calm. breathe in, and out.

they’ll struggle with it, still—the hiding, the minimizing—but now, they understand each other a little better. they can hold each other accountable for what they leave unsaid.

it’ll get easier, eventually. they have plenty of time.

[eufezco]

BRING YOUR BUCKY TO SCHOOL DAY 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

congressman!dad!bucky x teacher!mom!reader

synopsis – bucky shows up for family friday day for your daughter.

fluff

she was ecstatic.

you could see how her tiny legs swung eagerly from the edge of the chair as she kicked back and forth. her hair was pulled into two pigtails that bounced with every excited shift in her chair. she kept looking at the door, eyes wide, for the moment she'd been waiting for all week.

today was her day to bring her dad to class, and saying she loved her dad was an understatement. she adored bucky.

you tried to keep the lesson moving, but the other kids were also whispering and giggling, feeding off her energy.

outside the classroom, bucky stood, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. he'd fought hydra operatives, aliens, and androids, he'd stood in congress facing the most ruthless critiques, but none of that had made him sweat like this. he was trained to face enemies, not five-year-olds in circle time. today wasn't about politics or missions, it was about being a good dad, the kind who shows up on time, brings the juice boxes, and knows the names of at least three cartoon characters.

—alright, everyone! —you announced, clapping your hands once to pull the kids' attention back to you. —it's time for family friday! —she sat up straighter than you'd ever seen her, eyes moving fast from the door to you and back to the door. —whose parent is coming today?

a chorus of voices answered all at one, —rebecca's!

—can i please go get him? please? pleasepleaseplease?

you laughed, —of course, go ahead.

and she was out of her seat like a rocket, pigtails bouncing, sneakers squeaking across the classroom as she threw the door open and there he was, just where he said he'd be. bucky's eyes met hers and everything felt lighter, the tight lines around his mouth eased, his lips curved into a smile.

she threw her arms around his waist. the kids inside the classroom leaned across their desks, trying to catch a glimpse of the man they'd heard so much about. bucky gently placed one of his hands in the back of her head, steadying himself more than her.

—hey, little one.

—guys? why don't you come in with all of us? —you asked.

—come on, —rebecca murmured. she grabbed his metal hand without hesitation and led him inside the classroom with all the confidence in the world. it didn't occur to her, not even for a second, that bucky might be nervous because to her, he was the bravest person alive.

as they walked in together, the class went silent except for some surprised gasp and quiet murmur. they both stood in the front of the classroom. your daughter's small hand still gripped his metal fingers. you watched them as bucky said good morning to the class and the kids responded with a chorus of greetings. you and bucky shared a quick look and you showed him a soft smile that you hoped it'd let him know how proud you were of him.

—thank you, mr. barnes, for being here with us today.

—thank you for having me.

the exchange was so formal it felt funny, like you were both playing roles. —okay, rebecca, —you said, the smile still on your lips. you had to remind professional but they were so cute together. your daughter looked at you and let go bucky's hand to approach her desk. she grabbed the piece of paper she'd been writing all week. she hurried back to bucky's side, —why don't you introduce your dad to us?

she nodded and looked up at bucky, her eyes sparkling with pride. then her eyes focused on her uneven handwriting on the paper. bucky watched her with a curious tilt of his head, eyebrows raised. he didn't know there would be a paper, something she'd made just for him. you didn't tell him about it, even though you'd watched her all week in class draft and redraft the paper, brows furrowed in that serious way she got that was just like his.

—this is my dad, —she started, voice weak at first thanks to the mix of nervous and excitement. —his name is james, but everyone calls him bucky, and he's a 108 years old.

a few of the kids exchanged wide-eyed glances, unsure if they'd heard that correctly. bucky gave a subtle glance in your direction and you couldn't help but let out a chuckle.

—he works in congress. he helps making laws and he has to wear a suit. this suit, —she pointed at bucky's clothes, making sure everyone saw him clearly. the suit was deep blue, the american flag pinned on the lapel. he was so handsome, especially today, with that sparkle in his eyes that only came when he looked at his little girl. —he's also a superhero like my uncle sam and he has fought a lot of bad people with him.

the kids recognized the name sam because if your daughter didn't brag about who his favorite uncle was at least twice a week, it meant she was probably home sick. bucky let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. he always felt like the word superhero was too big for him, like it belonged to the people who hadn't made the mistakes he had. but coming from her, it felt right-sized, even some quiet earned.

—but a long time ago he used to be a soldier and he had to wear this, —she reached under her t shirt, pulling out his dog tags. they dangled from the chain, too long for her tiny frame and almost reached her belly button as she held them up for everyone to see.

—my favorite memory with him is when this summer we traveled with mom to wakanda. i got to see shuri and she showed me a lot of cool things. wakanda is so beautiful, i like it there, —she cleared her throat. she sounded a little robotic reading, trying hard to read each word exactly as she wrote it, which only made her cuter. —i like when he's home. i like when he plays with me and alpine. i like when his hair is long because i can make him pigtails like mine, —she pointed at her own pigtails. the kids in the classroom giggled and so you did.

—i think he's the bravest dad and the funniest and the best one, and he's also my favorite superhero, —she put down the paper when she finished and everyone in the class started clapping for her, even bucky who was trying to hold it together and had to swallow the lump in his throat.

bucky knelt down and she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck. —you did amazing, bug, thank you, —he whispered. her arms tightened around him.

—it was great, rebecca, thank you, —you said, trying to hide that you've got a little emotional too. —so now, —you clapped, getting everyone's attention. —who has a question for rebecca's dad?

a dozen small hands raised, waving in the air with urgency. some kids even half-stood in their chairs, calling you ms. barnes! ms. barnes! bucky tried not to smile, it felt strange and right at the same time.

—is your dad a robot, 'becca?

your daughter blinked, caught of guard. —he's not a robot, he's my dad, —she looked at you confused. a robot? you smiled to ease her nerves. you knew why the kid was asking, kids notice everything.

—why do you think mr. barnes is a robot?

the kid pointed at bucky's left hand and your daughter's eyes followed his finger. —that's his arm, —she said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. it was so normal to her that she forgot to mention it on her paper, it was like saying he had brown hair.

—it's metal, —bucky finally spoke, his voice gentle, raising his left arm so the class could get a good look. he slowly opened and closed his fingers, the soft, mechanical sound leaving the kids speechless. —made by really smart people. they built it after i lost my real arm so i could still do everything i used to do.

—and it's so strong and cool, and he can still do everything, like throw me really high in the air and catch me, and also this! —rebecca looked at bucky and he extended his metal arm straight out in front of him, wrist locked. rebecca jumped and wrapped her hands around his forearm, legs swinging beneath her like a tiny acrobat.

a chorus of whoa and giggles filled the room. they asked him a lot of question about his arm: can it break a door? (only if the door really deserves it) can you use it to open pickle jars? (yes) does it hurt, mr. barnes? (not anymore) can it fall off?

—it's not like legos! it's part of him! can your arm fall off? —you daughter said, defensively.

—okay, you can sit now rebecca, thank you, —you jumped gently in before it turned into a debate. she looked at her dad one last time before moving to her desk, —next respectful question for mr. barnes? not about his arm, please, —some kids lowered their hands. —what about if we ask him about his job? —a hand in the back shot up. —yes?

—do you have to do homework in congress?

bucky chuckled, then gave a kid a serious nod. —oh yeah. lots of homework. i have to read really long reports, like this long, —he held his hands apart. —sometimes more. and then i have to write notes and be ready to talk about them in front of a bunch of people.

you bit your lip, fighting the urge to laugh. he did not read a single one of those reports. you shot him a quick, teasing look and he just smiled back at you, as if to say, don't spoil my fun.

—do you live in the white house?

rebecca looked from her sit right, then left, eyebrows raised like she was trying to figure out if the question was a joke. —no! he lives in our house. with me and mom and alpine.

bucky pressed his lips together and nodded, —she's right.

you watched as the questions kept coming, one after another, each more curious than the last. no other dad or mom who had attended to friday family had ever received so many questions. the kids were absolutely fascinated by bucky. and he was handling perfectly, laughing with them, answering to every question kindly, never rushing, making sure each child got their turn, even one of your shyest kids asked him if he could shook his metal hand. bucky looked at you for a quiet okay, then rolled up his sleeve just a little, offering his hand to the kid.

he was doing great and your daughter seemed to know it. she sat up a bit taller, legs still swinging from her chair. while bucky was talking, you caught her sneaking glances at her classmates like saying, see? that's my dad. and the look of pride in rebecca's face as she looked at him calmed every nerve in bucky's body. of course, rebecca didn't know about this but last night, after he tucked her in bed, bucky came into your room, worried about today. what if rebecca realized he wasn't as cool as the other dads? what if she ended up embarrassed by him?

you managed to reassure him enough to get him to sleep but nothing you said compared to the reassurance he felt now, because as he stood there in front of the classroom, surrounded by eager little faces, rebecca's blue eyes, like his, were shining. she wasn't just smiling. she was beaming, like bucky was the best part of her world.

and in the middle of this precious moment, you couldn't help but notice the couple of seats empty at the back of the class.

some parents decided not to bring theirs kids to school that day. when you sent that email to them, announcing that rebecca's dad was next in line for family friday, the last thing you expected was to called into the principal's office the next morning, where you found a handful of moms and dad already seated. are you sure that's appropiate? with his past? some of us are uncomfortable. we don't want our children near him.

you sat through the meeting, jaw tight. be careful, that's my husband you're talking about. you said to one of the moms who was getting to comfortable talking about bucky, tossing around words like unstable and dangerous. you explained that he was pardoned, publicly and legally, so there was no reason to question him. and you said enough, there was no reason you needed to list the therapy appointments, the years of community word, the fact that he woke up every morning wondering if today would be the day everyone finally saw him for who he is, not who he was, all of that for people like them.

and the principal had to side with you. there was no reason for him to stay out of family friday and even though bucky didn't know why those kids weren't here today, and if he asked you wouldn't tell him the truth, you couldn't help but feel bad for him. because he showed up here today just as a dad, doing what be knew best, being there for his daughter.

he stayed during the break and the kids wasted no time. a small group, leaded by rebecca, rushed to him. come on, mr. barnes, we'll show you the reading corner. bucky looked slightly overwhelmed but the smile never left his lips. you moved with them, pointing out little projects hanging on the wall and bucky nodding, paying attention. when the kids huddled up in a corner, discussing which drawings he absolutely had to see first, bucky reached out, his arm slid around your waist as he pulled you closed and you let yourself lean into him.

—you're doing great, —you whispered.

about the drawings, he had already found the one he was most interested in. stuck to the wall, it was almost everything green with colorful flowers and a big lake so he guessed it was meant to be wakanda. in the center were three figures one with your name, next to you it was written me ('becca) and dad (bucky). alpine was there too, a little white cat in the corner, she didn't travel to wakanda but that didn't matter to rebecca, she needed to be included in the drawing.

he pressed a kiss to your temple. you looked at the clock on the wall, —okay, guys, mr. barnes needs to leave now, —you could hear a collective complain, —let's give him a big thank you for coming today.

a chorus of thank you, mr. barnes rang out from the kids, some of them waving excitedly, others wanted one last fist bump from bucky as they called his name, even one, the quietest of your kids, moved toward him and he pressed a golden sticker star onto the vibranium of bucky's hand. —thank you, buddy, —the kid hurried to his place.

rebecca ran to his dad and bucky was quick to catch her in a hug.

—can you stay a bit longer?

—i wish i could, bug, —he pulled back enough to see her face, brushing some dark brown locks like his out of her eyes. —i have to go back to work, but thank you for sharing your class with me, i had so much fun, —rebecca's face scrunched in disappointment, only focusing on the fact that bucky needed to leave. —i'll see you later at home.

—before dinner?

he nodded and she threw her arms around his neck again, tighter this time, hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder. when she finally loosened her grip, bucky gently set her back down on the floor. you walked with him to the door, some kids calling his name one last time. he let out the biggest breath when the door of the class closed behind you, like he'd been holding it in the whole time.

—how was i? i think she was happy, wasn't she? she seemed happy.

you nodded, smiling. —you were amazing, buck, —you tucked in the lapels of his suit jacket, running your thumb over his u.s. flag pin.

—i kept thinking i'd say the wrong thing or that i'd embarrass her.

you shook your head as he spoke. —you didn't. you were patient and funny. she kept looking at you like you hung the moon, —bucky rubbed the back of his neck, you asked, —did you hear what she wrote about you?

bucky's heart shrunk remembering it, her daughter's tiny voice reading out, all proud, and let's said, a bit cocky, like she already knew her dad was the best one. —i want that paper. i'm gonna frame it and put it up in my office.

you laughed and tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him down to you and pressed a kiss to his lips. he hummed into it, like he'd been craving that exact moment since he slipped out of bed in the early morning. once you pulled back, he placed another quick kiss to your lips.

—i'll see you at home. i cannot wait, i want to hear everything she said about me again, every word.

you playfully slapped his chest, —do not let it get to your head, mr. barnes.

—too late for that, ms. barnes.

[luna-azzurra]

The Villain Checklist!

Creating a villain is a delicate art, much like crafting a masterpiece. To ensure your antagonist leaps off the page with depth, consider these essential elements for your villain checklist:

Motivation: Every great villain is driven by a potent motivation, one that fuels their actions and sets them on their dark path. Explore their backstory and unearth the core reason behind their villainy. Are they seeking power, revenge, redemption, or something more sinister?

Complexity: Gone are the days of one-dimensional villains twirling mustaches and cackling maniacally. Infuse your antagonist with layers of complexity and nuance. Perhaps they possess redeeming qualities or wrestle with inner conflicts that humanize their actions.

Flaws and Vulnerabilities: Despite their nefarious intentions, villains should be flawed beings with vulnerabilities. These weaknesses not only add depth to their character but also create opportunities for conflict and growth throughout your story.

Backstory: Delve into your villain's past to uncover formative experiences that shaped their present disposition. Trauma, betrayal, or societal pressures can all contribute to their descent into villainy, providing rich narrative fodder for exploration.

Goals and Ambitions: Just as heroes strive for noble objectives, villains pursue their own twisted goals with fervor and determination. Define what your antagonist hopes to achieve and the lengths they're willing to go to attain it, even if it means sacrificing everything in their path.

Antagonistic Traits: From cunning intellect to ruthless brutality, equip your villain with traits that make them a formidable adversary for your protagonist. Consider how their strengths and weaknesses complement each other, creating dynamic conflicts that propel your story forward.

Relationships and Alliances: Villains don't operate in isolation; they forge alliances, manipulate allies, and cultivate relationships to further their agendas. Develop the connections your antagonist shares with other characters, be they loyal minions or reluctant collaborators, to add depth to their character dynamics.

Moral Justification (from their perspective): While their actions may be abhorrent to society, villains often believe they're justified in their pursuits. Explore your antagonist's moral code and the twisted logic that rationalizes their behavior, offering readers insight into their twisted worldview.

Arc of Transformation: Just as protagonists undergo arcs of growth and change, villains should experience their own journey of transformation. Whether it's redemption, downfall, or something altogether unexpected, chart the evolution of your antagonist throughout the narrative.

Memorable Traits: Give your villain distinctive traits or quirks that leave a lasting impression on readers. Whether it's a chilling catchphrase, a distinctive appearance, or a haunting backstory, give your antagonist elements that linger in the minds of your audience long after they've closed the book.

[prncssguya]

on hwang in-ho/front man, seong gi-hun and their dynamic.

first, idk why people are getting so upset at other people calling gi-hun dumb, we were told that in the first season. lol being bright is not his strongest trait but he has a good heart and we love that about him. however, he is still an idealistic gullible idiot with a gambling problem. except this time his gambling addiction is backed by a sense of justice and righteousness and he no longer gambles with money, he’s gambling with people’s lives. front man asked a good question at the end of the season, “did you have fun playing the hero?” can we even call gi-hun the hero of the story anymore? he gambled with people’s lives and front man showed him the consequences of his moral heroics.

front man only agreed to help gi-hun with his revolution when he mentioned about "small sacrifices for the greater good". i think he reveled in the fact that the “good guy” was willing to allow a few innocent people to die for the greater good to stop the games, which is exactly what the entire VIP theory is to rid the world of 'trash' to improve the world. notice how gi-hun's moral code and belief also changed, from being "nobody should die" into "yeah small sacrifice is okay as long it's for the greater good" at this point, he just proved that front man's belief is actually valid. AND he gets more of his own people killed in the pointless battle with the soldiers that they had no chance of winning. now he gets to feel responsible for all those deaths and the death of his friend and for whatever additional torture they cook up in the next games (as punishment for the escape attempt).

now on hwang in-ho, i believe he was once a good man and the story he told gi-hun was the truth. but in the end he lost a kidney, lost a wife, a baby, lost his money, got fucked over by the wrong people and got into serious debt and had to play this game to help his wife and probably it was too late to save her. he might have played the games like gi-hun but saw how ruthless and greedy people are and resolved that they don't deserve help

i don’t think in-ho wants/will kill gi-hun, but he wants him to understand things from his perspective and show him that his compassion for the people in the games is foolish. you can tell the frontmen (the old man and in-ho) are extremely fond of gi hun. not only did he protect their original front man when nobody else did, he then won the games and thus their respect as he is now as rich as them. he's no longer "trash", he’s an elite like them. i think they both actually kept tabs on him after he won (i wonder if they do that for all winners? inserting them with gps chips?) because they knew he had not used his reward money and in-ho wanted gi-hun to get on the plane and be happy with his daughter

there’s one interesting aspect of the games that makes front man such a complex character. the fact that they’re operating a organ transplant trafficking network. in a way, he’s creating some good to come from a really fucked up situation. but is it really for the good of others who desperately need it, people like his wife, like his brother? or is it just a money making scheme?

either way, i don’t think there is going to be a redemption arc for in-ho, he’s too far gone. we may get to see more of his human side if he manages to see jun-ho again. the only time we’ve seen genuine emotions from him was when he shot his brother like he seemed distraught

the real cliffhanger for me, is will gi-hun stay true to his belief that people can be good, or will he be forever changed into a villain and become the next front man…? after the events of this season i don’t see how his will doesn’t shatter. he’s witnessed how humanity consistently chose money over survival, he’s lost two close friends, his mother, abandoned his daughter. he has gained nothing from wanting to stop the games and this clearly feels like an origin story for the next front man. it’s clear the front man has won this round and i think squid game will either die with 001 or continue with gi-hun as game master

another thing i find funny that i don’t see many mention is how gi-hun is like the luckiest guy in the fucking world. but i don’t think him being alive this long is plot armor, it makes sense. the games exist for the entertainment of rich sadists who have so much money they don't know what to do with it (remember what old 001 said in s1 about life being no fun for both people with no money and people with too much money). and i’d imagine killing hundreds of poor debt-ridden fools year after year gets boring. especially when said fools are desperate enough to gamble with their lives because they think they can beat the system by playing better than everyone else and surviving and getting the money.

gihun is different because he got the money, got out, and still came back. not because he's unfeeling or because he wants more money, but because he's still convinced he can beat the system.

if you're a rich bored gazillionaire, would you rather watch some randos die or would you rather watch this exceptional idiot fail again and again until he learns that his ideals are meaningless and people are inherently greedy and equality is a myth and people at the bottom of the barrel don't get to question the system?

if you're an asshole gazillionaire, you don't want someone to challenge you and just get away with it. you want to hand them 45.6 billion won and make them go away quietly, traumatized, after breaking them psychologically by making them do horrible things until they understand they're just powerless "horses". if they insist on challenging you and your system and your beliefs (money = boundless power), you teach them a lesson and show them their place in the most manipulative and cruel way possible. if gihun dies right away, that's boring. so he can't die, he needs to suffer. he needs to concede defeat.

also, i find it funny how people are comparing hwang inho and gihun dynamic to hannibal and will graham. makes sense, their whole cat and mouse game, front man hiding his true nature from gi-hun the same way hannibal does, trying to corrupt the righteous protagonist, sowing chaos, testing him and observing his behavior like a lab rat, the crazy tension and staring contests, the gaslighting and manipulation. and with the fact that they think lee byung-hun looks like mads mikkelsen. i never put the two of them together but now i can’t unsee it lol

[hobiologist]

busan blues | jeon jungkook

[part one]

summary: south korea's most notorious drug king pin lived life as a ghost; never seen, yet never to be crossed. never in your face, but never too far away. never in the room, but always listening.

by day, he lived life as a shadow with a reputation -- ruthless, unforgiving, impatient.

at night? well, at night he was something just a little bit softer.

pairing: jeon jungkook x (f) reader; jeon jungkook x (f) oc.

rating: mature, 18+; mdni.

word count: 5.2k

warnings: drugdealer!jungkook, drug references, violence, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), guns, pregnancy.

*part two *

available on ao3

—————————————————————————-

It was rare that there was anything Jeon Jungkook couldn’t obtain. Money, drugs, women, upper class luxuries. Ever since he had been introduced to the world that put the term ‘sin’ to shame, it had bowed down at the mention of his name. Never his actual name, of course. To the world of guilty pleasures and intoxicated misfortunes, he was simply known as The Ghost. Never seen, never heard; yet somehow possessing the ability to make moves no one saw coming from miles away. Tilt the world on its axis without leaving a trace.

He had acquired the business from his uncle who had been in his late 50s and looking to retire; put aside the life of living in the shadows and enjoy what he had left of it. Jungkook had been 22 and searching for his path in life — the timing was perfect, the moment inevitable.

He was now 27 and had mastered the business like an art form — at least mostly. He oversaw nearly every drug import and export that occurred in South Korea, with his base being in the heart of Busan. The city wasn’t nearly as busy as Seoul; less potential eyes on him and his operation. But he was close enough where he could catch an hour plane ride to the capital if he needed to.

“He knows the shipment is supposed to arrive an hour after the confirmation time. This is his last job, he was already on thin fucking ice.”

The words he muttered to himself had been nearly the first spoken by Jungkook in the past hour. Rarely ever out of his office, he now stood underneath the familiar pier, looking out into the clear sea before him. The night sky made it nearly impossible to see, illuminated only by the slivers of light from the moon. 

The businessman was accompanied by two muscular guards about 8 inches his stature, both sporting black hair with fitted black t-shirts and slacks. They stood silently and watchful, more silent than the gentle waves around them. Each sported simple pistols near their waist, unafraid to use them if necessary.

When the sun rose, Jungkook owned a security company. It was how he had become acquainted with the guards who followed him around most of the day. They were quiet and loyal men — had been since Jungkook started the business. 

Truthfully, his security business mostly ran itself. He had an old friend, Park Jimin, who had gone to college for accounting. He ran the books and formed schedules; he mostly worked remotely but he’d visit the office a couple days out of the week. It was fairly simple — clients who needed security paid in cash, Jungkook would supply the workers and Jimin handled anything inbetween. He was compensated well for it. 

Jungkook did his best to make sure the finances for both his endeavors never clashed. The last thing he desired was to put his classmate, who knew nothing of his second life, in harms way. His personal guards were on payroll like everyone else the company hired — however, any overtime they received was directly from Jungkook, off the books. He paid them handsomely for their silence and loyalty. 

Contemplating, Jungkook began to pace back and forth in the thinning sand, hands shoved deeply in the pockets of his dark grey, Giorgio Armani suit. His black tie was rather unruly—loosened thirty minutes prior when his patience had started to run dry. 

In his line of business, structure was vital — deadlines, organization, punctuality. All of which were currently being violated.

Twenty minutes passed before the sound of rougher waves drew his attention. An hour later than expected, the small boat could be seen off in the distance, closing in on the drop off location. They never traveled large or in anything flashy; never wanting to stick out, operating in the shadows. Fairly content now that he laid his eyes on the boat in the distance, Jungkook turned his feet in the sand, looking at the body guard that stood to his right. 

“When he drops off the load, please make sure all $50,000 is there and the inventory matches the order. Lock it all in the safe, then you’re free to go. I’ll handle distribution in the morning.”

The day had been much longer than expected. 

On average, Jungkook was home around 9pm. However, he was beginning to encounter the issue of delayed shipments and logistical errors he had to fix. He wasn’t a fan of having to come out of the shadows — it put everything he worked hard for at risk.

One of his oldest workers, Jihun, was a friend of his uncle’s who had originally stayed on to make sure Jungkook easily acclimated himself to the business. He was a major part of the operation — performing background checks to make sure sellers were credible, scheduling meetings to perform trades and drop offs . What was suppose to be a couple years turned into five years and he was finally ready to retire. Jungkook couldn’t help but oblige. However, finding a replacement for him proved to be difficult. Jungkook had been attempting to do it remotely with the help of a few workers who had only ever communicated with him over email and had never seen his face. It was sloppy, but he was working every day to tighten it up.

The hum of gentle music on the radio settled him in for the 45 minute drive home. He relaxed in the seat of his black Mercedes truck, reaching for his personal cellphone he rarely ever used unless the sun had set. A warm smile spread across his lips as he looked down at the phone, clicking on the message thread titled ‘babygirl 💗’.

jungkook:

missing you, thinking about you. home soon, baby. 00:13 

babygirl 💗:

missing you too, baby. 00:14

The message came with a photo attachment Jungkook immediately opened, halfway keeping his eyes on the highway as he drove through the night.

The attachment displayed a picture of a woman in a pink silk nightgown that hugged her curves, black lace v-line exposing the plump of her breasts just enough to leave something for the imagination. He muttered curses under his breath, quickly typing back a response while keeping his eyes ahead. He felt the zipper on his pants struggle to expand as he attempted (failed) to keep his wild thoughts at bay. 

jungkook:

you’re fucking beautiful. be at the door when i get there. 00:16

The 45 minute drive home was a breeze, city lights flashing in the distance, loafer clad shoe pressed hard to the gas. His eyes played over the photo what felt like a million times, desire running through his veins like a river. 

She had the garage door open for him when he arrived, liked clockwork. She made everything function and flow behind closed doors for him; where as he was in charge and structured in his daily life, she kept their home life in order. She always had a meal cooked, his clothes pressed, the house clean, their appointments in order, the groceries stocked. He cherished her; more than anything else in his life — in his world that was black and white during the day, she filled it with her radiant colors at night. 

He parked his car, fingers slipping into the glove compartment to grab the golden band that waited for him. A soft smile on his lips, he slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand. Unlocking the door of his home, Jungkook took in the smell of washing powder, accompanied by her sweet scent of vanilla and spring that filled the air, garage door closing behind him. His eyes immediately glared towards the dimly lit entry way, seeing the woman standing in the same pink silk nightgown she wore in the sultry picture.

A low groan emitted from his lips, dark brown eyes pooling with shades of lust that the woman found all too familiar. She gave him a teasing smile, softly curled hair pooling over her shoulders in a way that made her look angelic. He removed his suit jacket, laying it over the couch next to them.

“Strip.”

Keeping eye contact with Jungkook, the woman slowly began to shred her gown as she had been told. She was always a good listener when he spoke. 

His daze followed her fingers as she removed the straps of her nightgown one by one. The fabric slipped easily from her fingers, catching ever so slightly as it slipped past the plump of her breasts. Jungkook’s breath hitched, causing him to loosen his tie, followed by the belt. He stepped closer to her with calculated steps, almost as if he was scared to touch her — scared to ruin the perfect image that stood before him.

The cold air sent shivers down her spine as she gently teased her hair, watching him stare at her in amazement.

“….You’re a work of art. You know that?”

Stepping closer towards her, Jungkook gently cupped her face, thumbs rubbing her warm cheeks. She smelled of vanilla body wash and ecstasy, drawing every inch of sanity he had left to the brink. She shivered as she felt his clothed body press against her skin, the bulge in his pants growing larger as he held her.

Catching the glow of her eyes in the dim light, he smiled at her briefly before meeting her perfect lips with his own. Their lips danced in a familiar, yet electrifying rhythm that sent sparks through his body. In 5 years they had kissed what felt like a million times but kisses like this never got old. She nearly melted into his touch, feeling her knees begin to weaken. He was so warm, so handsome, so hers. He smelled of amber and sandalwood, skin of his hands as soft as it had been when he left that morning. Good, she thought. He was unharmed.

Her fingers entwined in his pristinely cut hair, four carat diamond ring never catching on the gentle strands. It had been three years since they had gotten married. As with most things in Jungkook’s world, the proposal had been in the dead of night.  He woke her up from her sleep, chanting about a surprise that couldn’t wait. With tired eyes she held out her arms as he slipped on her robe and carried her to his truck. She fell asleep nearly instantly in the Mercedes, the soft human of jazz music luring her to sleep once he hit the highway. When she woke up, Jungkook was kissing her cheek, luring her out of the vehicle and into a park that had the perfect view of the stars in the sky. He had walked her around the park for a little while, going over memories from their past and professing his love in a way only Jungkook could — calculated, perfect and with beautiful imagery. Once they had reached the end of the park, there was a picnic table next to the river in their sight. The table was covered in glowing candles, a small meal he prepared and 24 bouquets of the deepest red roses combined to make one large bouquet. One for every month they had been together. 

He got down on one knee in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, asking her to be his forever. And she couldn’t have said yes faster. It was the proposal she had asked him for, back when their one year anniversary came around and he asked her if she ever considered forever with him. She told him ‘of course’, thinking he couldn’t have asked a sillier question. But she requested that her proposal not be anything flashy; just simple, meaningful and when she least expected it. And he had delivered in every aspect.  

“So perfect like this. Look at you, baby.”

The wide palm of Jungkook’s hands groped the plush of her ass, kneading it ever so slightly as her eyes locked on his — sultry innocence and uncharted passion; he lived for it, breathed it even.

Locking in on her eyes, Jungkook slowly dropped to his knees, hands pressing into her hips and caressing her pelvic bone. She wore a small lace thong that kept nearly nothing to the imagination with its slit in the middle. He pressed a gentle kiss to her stomach, then to her clit. The moan she swore was gentle echoed through the walls of the mansion. It was way too big for just the two of them and their dog, Bam, asleep upstairs — but they called it home. 

“You’re so sensitive. Been waiting for me to come eat you all day, haven’t you?”

She moaned a hasty ‘yes’, fingers gripping his hair as his tongue began to gently lick her wet folds, slit in her thong providing him perfect access. The familiar taste of her arousal earned a moan of appreciation from him. He had thought it was insane to say she tasted like home but he knew no word greater to describe the taste of her on his lips. She tighten her grip in his hair as she held back her gentle cries, lost in the way his eyes lazily met hers as he took his time devouring her.

In this space, time stood still. In this home, they were in their own world. 

The cool touch of his wedding band against her pelvis made her smile, head dipping back in ecstasy as his lips began to softly suck her sensitive clit. As her orgasm neared, the touch of his ring brought back a distant memory. 

“I’m not a good person.”

It was their second month together, his eighth month in the business. They stood in the middle of a crowded club, neither of their style but they made an amusing commitment to start trying new things together. They had both been dancing, smiles on their faces as the music ran through their veins. The freedom he had felt as they danced, the way his heart pulled at him like he knew what this was becoming — or what it already was. He found himself no longer being able to looking into her eyes and promise her a world with no faults. As she stared back at him her eyes sparked of something Jungkook couldn’t quite place. She gave him a gentle smile, tightening her grip on his hand that rested in hers.

It wasn’t the smartest conversation to have in a room full of people, Jungkook knew better than that. He was a ghost in his work life and he never allowed himself to be seen out in public during working hours. 

“Good is subjective, Kook. Do you hurt people?”

There was a small furrow of his eyebrows that he prayed she didn’t see. He stared down at her eyes, looking back at him as if he controlled the stars. He’d never get over that, the way she looked at him. He was convinced he wanted to see that look for the rest of his life. Hold that trust close to his heart like a prayer.  

“Sometimes. Not unless I have to.” He firmly spoke, fingers never letting go of hers. By now the song had changed but the people around them continued to dance, paying them no mind.

“Do you actually own a security company?”

“I do.”

“Is that where you go when you tell me you’re going to work?” 

“That’s usually where my day starts.”

“If I ever ask you what you mean — all this saying you’re not a good person. Will you be honest with me?” 

Jungkook answered without hesitation, taking himself partly by surprise.

“I will. You have my word.”

“Then stop talking and keep dancing with me.” 

She gripped the couch behind her, feeble feeling arms being the only thing holding her up.  

“You’re so wet for me, baby. Been waiting all day to taste you.”

“God, Jungkook.” Whimpers escaped her lips as her fingers tightened in his hair in an effort to brace herself. He used one hand to hold her hip while the other began unbuttoning his dress shirt that had become far too hot. 

In the rush of feverish kisses and passionate touches, they found themselves moving from the living room to the california king with her cheek pressed to the mattress, his hips driving her to the brink of insanity and pleasure. He kissed the arch of her back as he thrusted his hips, the recoil of her ass making him feel dizzy. 

“Who do you belong to, baby.” His growled his words like less of a question, more of statement. Tears of pleasure welled in her eyes and she melted into his steady pace, lips parting as she struggled to breathe out an answer. She felt so full, so complete — mind so empty, bliss unmeasured.

“You, Kook. I belong to you.”

“And this pussy?” He kept a hand on her waist as the other wrapped her curly strands around his palm, pulling her hair ever so lightly to the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Yours, Kook. God, harder.” She gripped the sheets, fingertips shaking with impending arousal. He always did this. Fucked her to the point where she felt insatiable and nearly incoherent; craving him so much it made her entire soul shake. Like an addict breaking sobriety. 

“You’re going to cum again for me? So fucking greedy. Go ahead, cum.”

Her orgasm arrived shortly after, her fingers clutching the sheets as she cried out his name. The pump of his hips stilled abruptly as he pressed his head against her back, hands gripping her breasts as he released inside of her. He moaned in a way that rung in the woman’s ears, sex heavy in his tone and her name breathless on his tongue, heightening her climax beneath him. The ragged sounds of their breathing clung to walls of the bedroom. Jungkook pressed gentle kisses down the woman’s spine, savoring the feeling of being inside of her for just a little longer — safe, peaceful, perfect.

“Rough day at work?” She spoke after they had finished cleaning themselves briefly, lying in their afterglow and catching their breath. Her head rested on his chest, tracing his abs with gentle and familiar intrigue. 

“Frustrating to say the least.” 

“I could tell. You fucked a little harder than usual tonight.”

With her head against his chest, she listened as his heartbeat sped up. “Harder? Was I too rough today, baby?”

“No, never, Kook. I don’t think you could be rough with me if you tried.”

His finger pressed against her chin, tilting it just enough so that her lips met his in a warm kiss. It was lazy, thankful, still a little hungry — he always did a great job of that; expressing what he didn’t say with kisses. She relished at the taste of herself still left on his lips.

His fingers gentle brushed hair from her face, stroking the plump of her cheeks as he pulled her closer. 

The sound of the central air slowly pulled them towards sleep, dinner long forgotten at the table in exchange for serotonin and coitus. 

“I’ll be leaving early in the morning, around 6.” Jungkook lazily mumbled, arms around the woman’s body pulling her impossibly closer. She hummed in response, eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

“If I’m not up, wake me when you get up?”

“I promise, beautiful.”

When the sun set, Jungkook was a husband.

She had been his secret. In the life full of drugs, money and evil he lead, he had somehow managed to keep her hidden away. It started off when they met 5 years ago during a charity event. Ironic, probably. She was an advocate for the development of cancer research and therapy for patients and families affected by the disease. Jungkook was an anonymous donor. He sat in the crowd but donated virtually under a pseudo name, assuring that he was always one of the highest donors. 

They first locked eyes when she gave a speech at the end of the event. She had been wearing a light pink dress with bows that fell on her shoulders. She wore soft white heels and a smile that showed how passionate she was about the cause. Her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke, clearly having obtained training in engaging an audience. He sat in nearly the furthest row but their eyes still met. Immediately, there was something curious yet familiar that hung in the air between them — something they couldn’t quite place their hands on. Her eyes hovered over him a few seconds too long before finishing her speech, engaging the crowd and thanking everyone for their volunteer efforts.

He was a man of stealth but he was a man of opportunity.

So he waited until the crowd dwindled and the donors said their farewell before walking up to her, watching her begin to clear her speech material from the podium. He had suavely introduced himself — confident, with a sweet smile and eyes that hoped she’d give him a few minutes of her time. She shook his extended hand, introducing herself with a playful glimmer in her gaze that he longed to know more about. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jeon. Have we met before?”

Jungkook woke up around 5:30 am. The smell of eggs and toast was the first thing to fill his nostrils. She had gotten up before him after all. She always did. As he came to, he felt the gentle presence of warm lips pressed against his neck, smooth hands sliding across his bare chest in a way that made his soul smile. 

“Good morning to you too, baby.”

She echoed a hum of appreciation at his words as she continued to kiss his neck, hands sliding down until they reached the bulge in his boxers, caressing it softly.

“You drive me insane, do you know that?” Jungkook continued to keep his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of her touch all over his body. She kissed her way down to the hem of his boxers, toying with the fabric. She pulled them down ever so slowly, cock springing out to brush against the plump of her cheeks. She hummed in desire, beginning to press soft kisses to the head.

“If we had more time, I’d ride you.”

He twitched in her mouth, a groan for what could have been leaving his lips. A sleepy laugh slipped from both of their mouths. She gripped the girth in her hands as she began to alternate between slowly tracing her tongue over the head and taking what length she could into her mouth, eyes hypnotized in pleasure as she savored the weight of him on her tongue.

The guttural moan he released sounded throughout the bedroom, precum sucked from his head as soon as it appeared. 

“Tonight, then. For right now, keep sucking baby.”

When they finished, the couple showered together and both indulged in the breakfast she had prepared. She helped him get dressed in another dark suit that occupied his closet, pressed to perfection just the way he liked it. She prepared an iced coffee for him and a protein drink for the drive. 

She had mastered the art of Jeon Jungkook to a science. She knew his routine like the back of her hand; knew what he would say sometimes before he said it.

Soulmates.

Before she knew it, she was watching Jungkook seat himself in the drivers side seat, practically pulling her in the car as he covered her face with gentle kisses. If his crew could see him now — tucked into the shadows of his own home, bathed in the glow of the woman who made his heart sing — they’d never believe he was the same person they knew.

“Don’t worry your mind too much today, okay? I’m feeling a little tension in your shoulders.” Jungkook playfully massaged the woman’s shoulders, getting a lazy but fond smile from her in return. 

“Can I make a request for the masseuse to do a home visit for you? Or would you rather go in person?”

“A home appointment sounds great, Kook. Thank you for thinking of me.” She traced random lines on his chest as he held her close, eyes scanning her face in search of what she wasn’t saying.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She loved that about him; his ability to know something bothered her without the need to pry. 

“Nothing’s bothering me, I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.” She hated to lie to him. He always knew, without fail. But he never pressed. It wasn’t in his nature — with her, at least.

“I’ll make the call but if this massage doesn’t work, we’re seeing a doctor.” 

She loved the way he spoke. So sure, so steady. He never left room for confusion or uncertainty, but he always took her into consideration.

He wanted to tell her that when she was ready to really tell him what was plaguing her mind, he’d be there. But he let her have it for now, not wanting to push her before she was ready.

“That sounds fine baby.” She gave him a soft grin, kissing his lips and stroking his cheek. She took a few seconds to admire him — the rosy tone of his cheeks that spread just a little as she stared at him — his big brown eyes that she never regretted getting lost in. He was everything she ever needed, she had been thoroughly convinced a million and one times. 

“Be safe. Eyes on the road and head on a swivel.”

“I promise, my love.”

Soon she was waving goodbye to Jungkook as he pulled away from the home and onto the road. She waited until he was far in the distance to close the garage door. Once he did, she double checked that the doors in the house were locked and that the security system was armed. She closed all the curtains and headed to the kitchen, opening a bottom drawer she knew Jungkook would never check. Inside the drawer laid two pistols she quickly checked to make sure were still fully loaded with bullets. Seeing that they were, she closed the drawer contently, heading to her office. 

Her office was her personal sanctuary. Having one at his place of work, Jungkook understood how important it was to have your own space to relax and work on your ideas, so he never entered without her permission. That’s why she had been able to leave the positive pregnancy tests on her desk for the past few days without him finding out. 

She was only about a few weeks along, nowhere near close to showing. She figured she had a couple of months before she had to break the news. This had never exactly been in their plan. It was somewhat an unspoken assumption that they’d never have children — with the lifestyle that Jungkook lived and how busy he always was, it never seemed in the cards. They had used the family planning method for years without difficulty. She had recently recovered from being under the weather and she suspected that threw the cycle of things off somewhere along the lines. 

For now, she tucked the four tests in her top draw, lying next to yet another black pistol. Tears welled in her eyes and she held her cellphone in her hands, contemplating if she should just call him and tell him. 

Her excuse ended up being that he was likely driving and she didn’t want to distract him. 

When she thought it about later, her excuse was that he must be busy at work and she wanted him to focus.

Her excuse when he came home that night, earlier than expected and in a much better mood than the previous day, was that he deserved to relax and she didn’t want to ruin his good day with news she was sure would devastate him.

It hadn’t been something they talked about, even when they got married. He never brought it up, so neither did she. She just loved him almost blindly, a blessing and a curse she was aware of. 

As she held him that night, listening to his soft snores and stroking his hair as he slept, her mind raced and she contemplated what life could look like for them if she confessed and continued the pregnancy. Would he have to give up what made him Jungkook? Would she be stuck at home to care for the child while he continued to place himself in whatever situations he dealt with on a day-to-day basis? She couldn’t fathom that. 

Staring at his sleeping face, she sighed and put her thoughts to rest, enjoying the weight of his body in her arms and eventually drifting off to sleep. 

She wasn’t completely oblivious to everything.

She had long known that Jungkook only wore his wedding band at home. Through some snooping, she found out that he always kept it in the truck, safely tucked away as the only thing in his glove compartment. He thought she didn’t know that he took it off the second he got in the truck to leave for work. Or that he put it back on as soon as he parked in the garage every night. She found out after they had been married for about 3 months, noticing the lack of lines on his finger whenever he washed dishes.

She didn’t think he was throwing himself at women when she wasn’t around. But she did worry that they’d throw themselves at him. She did believe he portrayed himself as single once he left their home. What she didn’t believe was that he was doing it for some adulterous reason. At least that was her prayer. 

She knew more about him than he thought. But she’d never ask him about it.

In 5 years together she hadn’t figured out exactly what he did outside of his security job.

She knew it likely wasn’t legal and that his daily life was surely more dangerous than he let on. She held his promise close to her heart every day; the promise he made to tell her his true occupation — the one that paid for the house, the cars, the suits, the lifestyle — if she ever asked. Truth was, she found herself a little too scared to ask. It’s better to be unaware, she convinced herself. She somehow told herself that it was better to sit at home and be unaware of if her husband would come every night than deal with the fact that the man she loved could be the devil himself.

Ultimatums, definites — two widely different sides of the spectrum.

His love was all consuming like that; thoughtful, selfless, inciting, promising. She had never feared him, not for a single second. But what scared her the most was that she knew she could find out he was the reincarnation of sin himself and she’d still never turn away. He treated her too good, loved her too hard, fucked her too perfect, knew her too well. She’d make any excuse in the world for him and sometimes that terrified her.

So she let him keep his secrets for now. She had hers too. 

authors note: i haven’t written anything in years so any form of feedback is appreciated. thank you for reading! :)

[gravegoer]

i humbly suggest pirate sevika in small letters

thank you for your service

Sail the Seven Seas ☠︎︎

i had this in the works ! you read my mind, we have cowboy sevika, but we absolutely need pirate sevika, i did a little "how you met" before the hcs ! also ill greatfully take any other requests for pirate sevika i love her sm (i hope you appreciate the pirate hat i edited on her lol)

She found you when her crew was raiding a ship, you were kept prisoner in the dark dungeons below deck after the pirates robbed a bar.

Sevika was inclined to leave you there, as she was in a rush. But your pleading eyes convinced her.

She told you to back up and pulled the flimsy metal door right off the hinges. Your only experience with pirates was your former kidnappers.

They were ruthless and had not a care in the world. They were greedy enough to pat you down even though you cried and insisted you had no form of money on you other than the jewelry they had ripped from your limbs.

But after she ripped the door off, she simply walked away, not sparing you a second glance. She set you free, but now what? Were you supposed to swim to land?

You hesitated before running up the old wooden stairs, the faint moonlight beamed on your face. It smelled fresh on deck, no longer having the musky odor of mold and wood filling your nose.

You were also greeted with the sight of the woman that freed you, her back facing you and pointing to crew members, yelling orders. She must be the captain, signified by her detailed hat and especially the way the crew listened to her.

People scurried under her gaze almost cowardly. Boxes were being hauled onto a much bigger ship (which you assumed was hers) over a wooden plank.

She was tall and obviously built. You could tell even though she was adorned with many layers, straps, and belts accentuated her curves and edges. She had a metal prosthetic that looked dangerous. Not only that, but a gun and two swords hung from her waist.

You approached her timidly, the floorboards squeaking under your bare feet. When you sat a hand on her arm, urging her to turn around, she put a larger hand on the hilt of her sword defensively and spun to face you.

At just the force of it, you stumbled back. She was strong. Your eyes widened at her hands, hovering over the holster of her weapon. She spoke, "What are you trying to do?"

Her voice was gruff and demanding, leaving no room for questions. "I don't have anywhere to go," you stated honestly.

"And what do you expect me to do about that."

Although she put on the front of a rough demeanor, her eyes scanned your frame in curiosity. Worn clothes hung from your body, hair a mess, and despite it all, you were quite pretty.

She knew she couldn't take you on a ship with a bunch of men. In her eyes, it was almost as dangerous as leaving you on the ship to fend for yourself.

Almost.

She took you onto her ship with the promise that at the next stop they had, she would drop you off there. Whether or not you knew where you were.

Having no better option, you opted to go with her. She didn't shackle you up or restrain you, knowing you could do little to no harm to her or her crew.

She refused to put you in the berth with other pirates. It was stuffy and cramped, and all in all, no place for you.

So you had a room next to her (and an odd blue haired girl). She said it was fine because it's temporary anyway.

She gave you some clothes that fit, and a pair of shoes to put on your feet. And the room was more than you could ask for. It was spacious and contained a lavish bed.

You assumed it was someone else's room previously as it was already decorated. (Plus, she told you not to meddle in any of the stuff)

Sevika didnt expect you to do anything, thinking you werent fit to operate on a ship so, you were not asked to do any work. In all your boredom you found yourself roaming around the ship, looking at the stuff that was collected in each corner. Some trinkets, belts, broken weapons, etc.

Sevika watched you closely, making sure you didn't have any ulterior motives. Eventually, she realized that you were nothing but curious.

Then she watched you closely to make sure you didn't fall overboard.

At meals, you stuck close by her side, not really knowing anyone on board yet. She gave you things off her plate, saying you looked starved. And you didn't complain. You weren't really fed in the dungeons.

She started to show you around the deck, answering your questions about the sea and her ship. When you started to ask too many questions, she sighed and shook her head, wandering off to attend to her duties.

She was truly a mystery to you, not being able to read her gaze or body language. But what you did know is that she was a ruthless captian. Always having something for her crew to do and ordering them around with her loud, booming voice.

She was intimidating in theory, yes. But towards you, she seemed a bit more.. lenient?

Nontheless, in a few days, you finally arrived at their next destination, and you stepped off the ship with everyone. Taking in the way the ground felt against your feet, no longer swaying from side to side.

You had no idea where you were, and even though it didn't seem like a bad place, you couldn't just start anew again. I mean, how were you supposed to rebuild your whole life?

Sevika sensed your anxiety as you wandered through the streets with her crew. She saw your eyes flick side to side, looking at the buildings and people.

She might regret it, but she couldn't just leave you here.

You were growing more worried by the hour, and when night fell and everyone started back to the docks, you felt lost. You stayed behind, watching them load back onto the ship when you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. "You coming?"

Looking up, you locked eyes with Sevika, her brow was cocked and her lips slightly upturned. "You're letting me stay?" You questioned, in shock.

"Well, the ship is leaving soon, so only if you can make it." She teased.

You hugged her tight, wrapping your arms around her large frame. Her eyes widened in shock, not returning the hug before you ran off to the ship.

HC time !!

Now that you were deemed officially a part of the crew you had work to do, scrubbing the deck was a daily task. Even though other crew members seemed to dread it, you enjoyed smelling the fresh ocean air and feeling the wind on your back.

Sometimes you could feel Sevika's eyes on you as you cleaned, she sat at the helm, supposedly watching everyone. But when you turned around you would lock eyes with her and she would smirk.

When she sent the crew out on missions you grew to never be afraid, picking up on how to use weapons easily and fight alongside other people.

She almost admired this about you, it was like you were a natural. Like you belonged on her ship.

You didn't know what was on her mind most of the time. She was always closed off and didn't converse with anyone on ship except for Jinx, who was obviously closer to her than the rest of the crew.

But one fateful night you ran into her when you couldn't seem to get to sleep

You approached the bow of the ship, watching the moonlight reflect off the waves, and the clouds move with the wind. It was quite beautiful at night even though there wasn't much to look at other than water.

Hearing footsteps behind you, you put a hand to your holster but spun around to see Sevika. Seeing her in this light reminded you of the day you met her, but now you were in front of her, compared to the day she found you.

"Up so late?" She questioned, her voice indicated she had waken up recently.

"Yeah, I couldn't fall asleep," You let your guard down again and leaned against the wood, hand cradling your face as you stared back into the sea.

"Y'know.. I didn't think you had it in you." She commented.

"Had what in me?" You chuckled, "The guts to be a pirate?"

You talked for a long while after that, the sun hit the horizon by the time you said your goodbyes. You had a feeling that Sevika wouldn't be a mystery to you for much longer.

Eventually, she would come around to teach you how to fight properly, as you mostly fought based off of what you saw others do. She held your body close to hers, helping you mimic her movements. Feeling the buckles of her belts on your back, the coldness of her metal arm on your waist.

As a matter of fact she taught you a lot of things, like how to steer the ship: putting her hands over yours, pointing in the direction of where to go. Teasing you when your hands got tired, and taking over for you, letting you stand between her and the wheel.

She joined you in the crows nest, sitting beside you on the railing with a hand on your back, making sure you didn't fall. She would direct your telescope to look at nearby land or into the horizon.

You had a lot of talks up there.

Sometimes, the crew wondered what was going on between you two, as you were practically always together. (She denies all allegations.. for now)

She taught you how to wield a sword and fought with you for fun. Letting you win from time-to-time, you knew she let you. I mean, there's no way you'd be able to pin Sevika to the wooden deck without a struggle.

You would catch her sleeping on the helm, her feet kicked up on a chair and her hat on her face. As punishment, you would take her hat and keep it until morning. Then, prancing around the next day with it on, commanding the crew jokingly, pretending to be her.

When she finally caught you, she would sweep you up and take the hat right off your head, chuckling at your mischievousness. Sometimes, she would let you wear her hat, only if you promised not to lose it.

After particularly stressful missions, the crew would throw a small party for their winnings, needing time to wind down. You grew accustomed to the crew, even making a few friends with unlikely people.

You and Jinx drank a bit together and danced around on the table, singing sea shanties loudly. But eventually, Sevika would catch you all. And make you clean up. (But not before having a drink herself)

And it was almost a nightly routine to go up to the deck and talk once everyone was asleep, gazing into the moon with her. It felt natural. You felt like you belonged.

God i love her, i dream about her I swear. I love pirates... and I love sevika, pls send in more pirate sevika asks i wanna do a siren one too ngl maybe how Sevika isnt drawn in by your siren call because the captain is a woman AUGHHHHH

[saffusthings]

second chances — masterlist.

mob boss! lando norris x reader

summary: Lando Norris runs his empire with precision. As the head of The Reaper's Circle —the most influential mob in Monaco— he must be ruthless, untouchable, and always ten steps ahead.

But when a chance encounter at a quiet coffee shop leads to an unexpected connection, he finds himself treading dangerous ground. She’s ordinary and completely unaware of the world he operates in. Yet, he keeps going back. It starts as an indulgence, a curiosity—until suddenly, it’s not.

Because while Lando may be watching her, he’s not the only one.

status: ongoing

one: wrong place, wrong time ↘ trivia

two: hush, hush baby

three: clean up ↘ fun fact

four: a familiar stranger

five: devil's in the details

six: don't blink ↘ characters & cameos

seven: invisible string ↘ characters & cameos

eight: midnight meets ↘ trivia

nine: friendship is magic

ten: three's a crowd ↘ characters & cameos ↘ characters & cameos

eleven: somebody's watching me

twelve: the watcher ↘ fun fact

thirteen: passenger princess

fourteen: mask on, mask off ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

fifteen: creature of habit

sixteen: what could've been, and what will be ↘ fun fact

seventeen: dream a little dream of me ↘ trivia

eighteen: the things we don’t say ↘ fun fact

nineteen: the talk ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty: you've been made ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty one: hypothetically ↘ trivia ↘ trivia

twenty two: balancing act ↘ trivia ↘ characters & cameos

twenty three: all the stars ↘ trivia

twenty four: dinner, but like, in a friend way ↘ fun fact ↘ fun fact

twenty five: here in spirit ↘ characters & cameos ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty six: distance

twenty seven: margot ↘ fun fact ↘ trivia

twenty eight: that funny feeling

twenty nine: blind spot

thirty: daniel

thirty-one: what we (don't) say

thirty-two: getting familiar

thirty-three: in another life

thirty-four: so close, yet so far

thirty five: normal people

thirty-six: peek-a-boo

thirty-seven: this ends now

thirty-eight: trouble’s calling

thirty-nine: you’ve been made

forty: fallout

forty-one: lost

forty-two: hello? are you there?

forty-three: y/n new!

forty-four: a life for a life coming soon…

[kitty-pelosi]

it is cute to watch USAmericans celebrate Brian Thompson’s assassination (CEO of United Healthcare) but I think it also highlights a certain ignorance and false class consciousness among the country. I’m specifically referencing this smug fixation on the fact that the investors had their meeting without him anyway and that they posted his job online already, and how there is this sort of smug “hahaha they don’t care about you either!” ouroboros-esque consumed-by-your-own-labyrinth attitude of righteous self-satisfaction and I feel like the point is going over people’s head.

No CEO of a publicly traded company really thinks they are that important, and it is extremely obvious to them how replaceable and at the mercy of the shareholders and board of directors they are. actually, it is this structure and system that guarantees the most ruthless profiteers to become CEOs, because the owner class of the company has made being a ruthless profiteer part of the job description because CEOs have a fiduciary obligation to the owners to solely prioritize profit. it’s literally the law that the only thing they are to do is create profit for shareholders.

The CEO is a tool which the owner class uses to facilitate company operations, no more. Literally they are a mask to hold up in front of themselves. A prop.

Understand that the CEO dying is the point. He took the bullet, the blame, the conflagration. His purpose is fulfilled in the eyes of the faceless diffusions of power within the company. Now, get another. And seemingly the actual controllers - the owners - remain anonymous and safe.

These people are not the ruling class - they are the lowest possible rung of it. They are the vanguard for the ruling class. These are celebrities, CEOs, the public faces of the ruling class which direct resentment toward themselves and save their bosses from the fire. They exist to absorb the impact. And this is how nothing changes, because as people joke about Brian Thompson online they participate within the very safety-valve that the owner class has put in place to preserve itself. Yet seemingly it feels radical and fun and transgressive to make fun of it. Another example of how co-opting dissent is one of the primary and greatest tools the ruling class has to maintain itself.

[supportgaza]

Dear, free world: Apathy No More!

Note 1: Resharing my post from my terminated Tumblr account (@mahmoudkhalafff).

Note 2: Short-term goal of 30k for evacuation has been thankfully achieved. I am consulting with the Irish Refugee Council and Doras in Ireland regarding the procedures and requirements for issuing reunification visas once the crossing is operational and my family can evacuate for Egypt. We are a big family of many brothers and sisters who have so many children. They are scattered in different areas in the Gaza Strip including the North of Gaza where they can be very hard contact sometimes.

Many other Gazans in Limerick are working hard and reaching out to Irish politicians and MPs to facilitate a safe passage for their families out of Gaza to Ireland.

When piles and piles of people are apathetic when it comes to the genocide unfolding in Gaza, be the source of relief, hope, and support for the stranded helpless besieged people there. Astonishingly, our life in Gaza turned upside down in an instant?! We woke up one day to realize that a massive-scale war was to be launched against more than 2 million people in Gaza. My Facebook timeline was filled with countless posts in which Gazans publicly asked for forgiveness before their expected imminent mass murder. Can you imagine what it feels like reading all these scary posts and wondering if you should say a final 'Goodbye'?!

Then, Gazans ventured on their own version of Via Dolorosa (Way of Suffering) which included multiple forced displacements, acute life-threatening shortages of water and food, lost jobs, humiliation, mass destruction, injuries, and murder.

It is beyond shocking and sickening how desensitized our world has become to see all the horrifying images of children's body parts scattered everywhere and not lift a finger to stop this ruthless and inhumane genocide. I can say with all certitude on behalf of my people in Gaza that we have lost hope in all the vile desensitized regimes and politicians of the world.

However, we still have strong faith in the lovers and supporters of our just cause who never cease to shower us with their heartwarming words of support and uplifting wishes. Our belief in your humanity and support for our just cause drives us to ask you for help in this worst crisis in our history since the Nakba.

Please do consider donating, reblogging, and sharing.

Note: Vetted by:

1. @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi # 151 on the spreadsheet of Vetted Gaza Fundraisers List]

2. @riding-with-the-wild-hunt Here .

Tagging for reach <3

@riding-with-the-wild-hunt @ibtisams @vakarians-babe @90-ghost @sayruq @fairuzfan @sar-soor @fallahifag

@el-shab-hussein @taamarrud @humanvoicebox

@plomegranate @queerstudiesnatural @commissions4aid-international @nabulsi @stil-lindigo @soon-palestine @communistchilchuck @palestinegenocide @northgazaupdates2 @northgazaupdates @ghost-and-a-half @kyra45-helping-others @kyra45 @commissions4aid-international @feluka @appsa

@tortiefrancis @jinnazah @irhabiya @mazzikah

@stuckinapril @schoolhater @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @turian @ot3 @fromjannah

@neechees @brutalikhoa @khanger @malcriada

@determinate-negation @pcktknife @postanagramgenerator

@troythecatfish @commissions4aid-international 

[gutsby]

Benign

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying a former Soviet sleeper agent was your first mistake. Letting curiosity get the better of you and saying his trigger words before sex was your second.

Warnings: 18+. DUBCON - Bucky is partly brainwashed; R is reluctant at first. Reliving past trauma (i.e., grief, prior HYDRA captivity). Rough, unprotected p-in-v.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Marrying into the mob meant one of two things: turning a blind eye to your husband’s crimes or taking them up as your own. Most of the women who had gone before you chose the former, leading lives of willful ignorance while their spouses cut deals, shed blood, stole guns, and submitted only to the laws of secrecy and discretion.

You, unlike those wives, hadn’t had the luxury of choice.

Your life, unlike theirs, had been sold to a man you didn’t know, by a father you couldn’t stand, and now your dad was dead, and this man—your husband—was to blame.

The least Bucky could do was fuck you hard to say sorry.

But no, ever since the Winter Soldier had reared its ugly head that dreadful night in Madripoor two weeks prior, your husband hadn’t laid one finger on your body that was not soft, sweet, and sickeningly apologetic to you. He seemed almost scared to initiate sex, and when he did, couldn’t help but act like a touch might break you.

After all, one almost had. Those hands he’d hear you beg and plead to put on you now were the very same ones he’d used to kill dozens, if not hundreds, including blood of your own blood. To the world, Bucky’s reputation commanded fear. To his wife, now, he felt duly obliged to prove he was more—that you were safe with him, not from him. He’d carted you off to every GP, hematologist, nutritionist, and grief specialist lauded among Brooklyn’s elite to make that happen. Fast. Frankly, these days, the thought of fucking was the furthest thing from his mind.

Unbeknownst to Bucky, somewhere along the spectrum of grief, you’d already come to settle comfortably at the ‘Need-to-be-fucked-until-I-can-no-longer-think-or-feel’ phase, and every bone in your body was crying out for respite in the form of ruthless, mind-numbing sex. It didn’t make sense. You hardly knew what to do with it. You should have lashed out, shut down, cried rivers and lakes of tears for that integral part of family that had been lost, but for whatever reason, you had to go numb.

You wanted to do something really, really fucking dumb.

Remorseful as he was, Bucky and his explanations for who or what the Winter Soldier was had been sparse. He’d told you that he had once been held in captivity by HYDRA, had his brain re-wired some way to make him a merciless Soviet sleeper agent, and that the night in Madripoor was the first in ages he had been ‘activated.’ How did activation happen? Of course, he wouldn’t tell.

But Steve would.

Steve had told you everything you wanted to know about your soldat, describing in painstaking detail how he worked, trained, operated, and could be called to action. You were almost certain Rogers had said it all as a way to assure you that it wasn’t Bucky who’d killed your father—it was someone inside him. You were more than positive Steve had never intended for you to use his intel like this.

You hadn’t believed him. Couldn’t believe him. How the fuck could someone sever all ties to their conscious mind and just transform anew into a killer? You got to be hell-bent on knowing for certain whether it’d been Bucky or him, it, whatever the hell the Winter Solider was, and on knowing it now. If your husband was faking it all and simply using this persona to justify the killing, that would be it. Trust gone, marriage over. If he wasn’t, well…you hadn’t gotten that far into your own line of thinking.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky said, pulling you back to the present.

He shifted gently against you, cotton trousers raising the friction a little as he slotted between your legs. He was still dressed head-to-toe from his meeting that morning.

“I want you to fuck me. Make me cum. Please.”

You were bare, save for one small scrap of linen and lace that somehow passed as a nightie. Your gaze was soft.

Bucky didn’t want to say no, but he also felt too guilty to say yes. The way you were watching him now, eyes so helpless and pleading, body writhing for contact, he knew you didn’t want his touch so much as needed it. Desperately. Couldn’t bear to be burdened with grief so you brushed it aside, to the furthest recesses of your mind until all that was left was desire. Starvation, really.

He could satiate you for now, but that hunger might not ever leave. The corners of his lips twitched into a frown.

“Gentle?” he mumbled.

“Rough,” you countered.

“Baby—”

“I really don’t need another fucking lecture on death, Bucky. I know I’m not myself right now, but I can still make these decisions, okay? Don’t talk to me like I can’t.”

Anger flashed in your eyes for a second, then indignation, then nothing. Without much energy left, you pushed him away. Flopped back on the bed and, seeming to sink into yourself, heaved a low, feeble sigh.

“I know. Hey,” Bucky leaned over to press a touch to your tummy, and it made you want to hurl, “I’m sorry.”

You turned onto your side.

“You still don’t remember what happened?”

The question came suddenly, almost from somewhere outside your body, it seemed. For the hundredth time.

“No,” Bucky answered, for what felt like the thousandth.

“This Winter Soldier—”

“He isn’t me.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Couldn’t know. Wasn’t…programmed for it.”

Bucky was watching you now, eyes as contrite as they’d ever been while you rehashed this subject to the brink of tears. He never could stay composed when he saw you cry.

“Baby…” he started, arms reaching out for you.

Eyes still filling with tears, you shook your head and swatted him off. You sat up, and your brows pinched together in a look he couldn’t read. Contemplating.

At last, you made up your mind.

You would try something new—and really, really stupid:

“Zhelaniye.”

“What?”

Bucky’s own expression contorted with uncertainty.

“—semnadtsat, rzhaviy, rasvet—”

He heard that. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

You were curious. You had no idea what you were doing.

“Baby, baby, stop—”

“—pech, devyat—”

You were speaking so fast, surely it wouldn’t work like that. Either way, he had to stop you. He seized your arms, giving a sharp, deliberate shake, pupils blown to the size of saucers in his eyes. There wasn’t much time.

“Don’t—”

“—adin—”

No time at all.

“—dothisdon’tfuckingdothishoneyplease.”

Losing himself already. Feeling it stir inside his mind.

“—dobroserdechniy—”

‘Kind-hearted.’ ‘Benign’. You truly had no clue what these words were liable to do, much less what they meant.

Having enunciated this last part, you swallowed. Took the tip of your tongue and rolled it left-to-right across the backs of your teeth, waiting for your speech to take effect like some magical performance before your eyes.

It hadn’t, it seemed. You blinked. He blinked. You sat in a protracted silence for what seemed like seventeen years, and presently, your stomach began to churn. Nothing happened—you’d been right about this fuckery all along.

Then you remembered one last word of the sequence.

Faintly, you said:

“Soldat.”

The man above you straightened. Sitting. Stiff. Still perched by your legs at a comfortable distance but regarding you now with a pointed stare. Expectancy made manifest in a simple, sharp glare from his eyes to yours.

“...Bucky?”

The look on his face grew even harder. For a time, he persisted in that strange and silent grimace, and just when you started to suspect he was faking this whole demeanor of deadened stoicism, you heard a voice. Clawing out of his throat but sounding nothing like him:

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The words drove a fear to the greatest depths of your bones, and you hardly knew why. You stared back at the handsome, barren man still watching you with severity, and you couldn’t seem to find your husband anywhere.

“James?” You weren’t sure why you tried his name again. You just didn’t know what else to say.

The scowl seeped into his mouth, and he frowned.

“James,” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him.

You found yourself shuffling back on the bed just then—to what, you didn’t know. You just felt a gnawing need to put some space between you and this person, this glowering face, however you could. When he grabbed your ankle, you let out a startled sound, and when he followed you up on the bed, you did more than just whimper; you lifted your leg to knee him directly in the stomach. He caught it.

Then he stared again, expression bloodless and wan.

“You’re scaring me, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you tried to free your leg from his fist—grip unusually strong.

The man paused another moment, if only to soak in your words and let his gaze trail over your face. Your exertions did not register. And, for the very first time, you felt as though you were something more like a plaything in your husband’s eyes—not a full-fledged human being but a system to be gamed. The feeling was so unsettling that you had to turn away.

Or try to, anyway.

Craning your neck just far enough to spy your phone on the nightstand, your first thought was Steve; he would know what to do. But before you could even think to twist and lift your body in that direction, you felt a hand yank you to the bed, flat on your back. You looked up at Bucky and found yourself caged between two arms. He lowered himself to his elbows, shifted his weight to one side, and seemed not to notice your movements at all when you tried to slide away. The man just splayed his hand across your stomach and pressed it firmly. Stay.

You weren’t one to shy away from a challenge—or keep hope alive against the odds. You put your hand over his.

“James—”

“Zhena.”

The abruptness of Bucky’s word stole the rest of yours. You cocked a brow and followed his gaze to your hand.

To the gaps between your fingers, then the touch that fanned across them to settle on one digit in particular.

Bucky thumbed at the diamond and smiled. He smiled.

“Zhena,” he repeated.

You blinked.

“I— you...gave me that, Bucky. You did.”

He hummed in acknowledgment.

Bucky stared at the ring for what could’ve been five seconds or several years, and then he did something unexpected. He shifted his touch to the bodice of your dress—again, if you could even call it that—and he began to tug at the satin bow situated between your breasts.

Of course, this nightie being designed for honeymoons and supremely easy access, it didn’t take much effort at all for the folds of your dress to come apart. Your breasts spilled out of the fabric without so much as a hint of protest, your torso was quick to become fully exposed, and suddenly, shortly, your hands were fumbling at your chest in an effort to regain some smidgen of modesty. Your husband just shook his head, following your hands.

“Moya zhena,” he said, a touch more emphasis and fervor to the first of the two words.

Now it was you who was shaking your head. Trying to pry his touch away as you slid up the bed. When he followed, you saw the icy expression had been supplanted by intrigue and, though you still felt ill at ease, you couldn’t deny you were curious to know what he was thinking. Who was thinking it? Soft, plush lips swiftly replaced his hands, and before you even knew what he was doing, Bucky, or someone, was latching onto your left breast. Using teeth to graze the hardened nub and send a ripple of thick, guilty pleasure coursing through you.

You whimpered. Bucky groaned.

Your fingers slotted through his hair with every intention of pushing him away, but when you tried, he just flicked his tongue and made another delicious sound against you.

You pushed with even more force, and he groaned again.

Not Bucky, not Bucky, not him, you have to—

“Stop!” you cried.

A set of soft, warm baby blues darted up to meet you.

Some flicker of recognition seemed to cross them, too.

“Honey?”

You almost lurched toward the sound. It was Bucky.

Suddenly, your hands were making fists in the collar of his crisp white button-up, and you were trying to yank him up. You murmured his name in disbelief, relief, and gathered him up in your arms to pull him in for a kiss.

The lips that met you were soft for a moment—just one.

Then the teeth reappeared. Harsh, jarring, biting. You jerked back at the sensation, and when you found his face again, it seemed your husband was lost to you all over. The eyes were attentive still—nowhere near as cold and aloof as they had been before—but they did not radiate the same warmth and admiration that Bucky’s always did. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.

A broad palm cupped your cheek to bring you in for another kiss, and you weren’t sure if you should indulge. It didn’t seem you had much choice anyway, because the lips that were seeking yours were hungry. Starved. Searing into your mouth with a force you couldn’t refuse.

But something inside you wanted to find Bucky again.

Somewhere inside this stranger was lying dormant a trace of your husband; you’d seen it yourself, if only for a second. It made you curious. Where had he gone? What did he do when forced to retreat into this strange, preprogrammed being, and how could you get him back?

“Bucky,” you mumbled, more of a plea than a moan.

You were kissed harder than you had been in a long time. You didn’t have to think, or do, or breathe one puff of air that this man didn’t account for. His tongue wedged a gaping space in your wet, welcoming mouth for him to fill, and somehow, you didn’t feel the urge to protest. A familiarity in the way he kissed almost put you at ease, and when his body lifted slightly, yours lifted with it.

Before long, Bucky was sitting. Kneeling between your legs with an eye to your soft, shaking torso. You’d barely even come to notice just how hard you were breathing until you felt a palm on your stomach again. There was an oddly calming insinuation in that one simple touch.

And again, he smiled. Brighter than before.

“Nashe?” He sounded eager as he said it.

You peered up at him and raised an eyebrow in question. Perhaps you should’ve felt more exposed; after all, you were sitting half-naked with your husband’s assassin alter ego stroking your stomach and beaming over you, eyeing you expectantly, and you didn’t know what to say. Apart from the short set of words Steve had taught you, you were totally clueless to Russian, and you weren’t quite sure you were in a place to ask Bucky to translate.

When it seemed words might never come, the gleaming teeth above you were shrouded in a tighter, close-lipped smile, and Bucky nodded. Appearing to understand. Instead of forcing a response from you, he just let his hand migrate down your belly, fingers tracing the skin, then settle comfortably—momentarily—at the crest of your pubic bone. Then he pressed the heel of his palm into the place residing right below it, and without really meaning to, you moaned. A quiet maelstrom of pleasure circled low in your abdomen, threatening to draw noises from your throat you weren’t planning to make with every gentle gyration of Bucky’s lower hand.

You had to purse your lips to contain the sounds.

Again, he nodded.

“It’s okay,” he said, so quiet he almost couldn’t be heard.

He let the friction continue for a while like that: just palming you, watching you react to the simplest of motions against your swollen, aching clit and try not to writhe. At length, you squirmed a little bit. Bucky seemed to want to wait for something to happen, and when you bucked your hips, a look in his eye said that was enough.

He lowered himself between your legs. Shoulders bumping your thighs as he spread them apart, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, and lips smiling all the while. You sucked in a breath when his face came to rest just a few inches shy of your bare, aching warmth.

“Bucky?”

The man looked up at you and blinked.

“Yeah, honey?”

One thumb traced over the seam of your cunt, and your back nearly arched off the bed. There he was, again, gaze safe and secure to yours and hands moving in tandem as they always would. His tongue calmly followed suit. When you fisted his hair, he blinked once more and then directed his attention back to your wet, warm, velvety folds with a pointed look and a purpose.

The sound that escaped you next could hardly be classed as anything less than a scream, but the soft and unperturbed demeanor of the man between your legs showed he hadn’t noticed at all. He just sucked diligently—damn near dutifully—on your clit with a vigor you’d never felt, and when you yanked at his hair, he hummed.

It was like his lips had been trained for perfect suction; that was how well and thoroughly he descended upon your swollen little bud. An airtight kiss and a quick flick of his tongue, paired with his hot and heavy breaths fanning over your cunt, sent your senses into overdrive. Your toes curled inward, your throat let loose a gasp, and without fully realizing it, your walls were clamping down, pulsing and leaking out desire for more of this touch.

Then, without warning, Bucky brought a hand to the throbbing and slick cunt that was presently clenching around nothing, and he fed it two fingers. So forceful and deep he nearly buried his knuckles right along with them. Then he started scissoring those two fingers, sharply.

“Open, milaya,” he said. Again, it wasn’t entirely Bucky.

But you felt a faint remembrance there. You didn’t want him to stop. Maybe you were led astray by the gentle laps of his tongue or the prodding of his fingertips, or perhaps there was something stubbornly familiar about the way he was touching you now. You couldn’t tell.

All you knew was that both of your hands were holding tight to his head and begging him, wordlessly, for more.

Your moans rang all the way through the bedroom in your new, far-too-big penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, down the hall, reverberating through every inch of the space until all that could be heard were your sounds and his and the delectable little noises of your bodies working together. Bucky hadn’t even stirred to pleasure himself.

You wanted that part to change.

With your hip pinned to the mattress and Bucky’s tongue laving over your clit in ruthlessly quick movements, you probably would’ve liked to cum all over his mouth and fingers, but you wanted to see him pleased even more.

Just when he’d worked a third finger inside you and was driving you close to your peak, you pushed him away.

Bucky parted from your folds with a glistening chin and two furrowed eyebrows, clearly frustrated to have been torn from his mission before you reached completion, but you wouldn’t let that look linger for long. You used your leverage in his hair—however slight, comparatively, that grip might have been—to pull him up on the bed.

Bucky surprised you with just how swiftly he moved.

His steel-blue gaze was on yours in a second, equally penetrating and soft.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing—”

“My baby okay?”

He surprised you again; this time by how quick his demeanor was to shift the second he sensed something was wrong. Just like Bucky. It had to be him in there.

You nodded, still out of breath from the wonders he’d been working with his tongue. You squeezed his arm and tried to coax him toward you, to help him lower his body some, and when he seemed uncertain, you offered a smile. It’s okay to touch, you won’t break anything.

Bucky eyed you skeptically, but it was clear he was more wary of himself than of you. He glanced over your body, briefly to his, then slowly, apprehensively, sank down.

“Just fine,” you mumbled, hooking your legs around his back the second his chest was close enough to yours.

You felt an uptick in his heartbeat when your heels dug a little more firmly into the waistband of his pants. While your hands started working their way toward the front of that fabric, wedging clumsily between your bodies, his gaze flitted to yours, and his brows drew even tighter together. He didn’t try to stop you, but he certainly seemed confused as to why you wanted to include him so soon. Why you cared to show concern for him at all.

You noticed that then, and in just about every moment preceding, the man was taken aback by kindness.

Whether it was pulling him closer to you, tugging his pants down with a tender touch, running your fingers across the bulge in his boxers, or simply nodding your head and letting him know it was okay to touch you back, Bucky seemed unaccustomed to any care in this area.

When your fingers made it around his cock and started stroking him, gently, he just might’ve come apart.

His chest shuddered with the inhale of a short, strained breath, and his eyelids fluttered, as if meaning to close.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he started to shake his head.

“No, let me—”

“Let me,” you finished for him, wrist flicking back and forth quietly. You paused just to rub a quick touch between your folds, collect some arousal, then return to touching him when he met your eyes again and allowed you to continue. You skimmed his sensitive underside with your palm and let the warmth of him bleed into your fingertips as you worked him up to a comfortable pace.

Bucky rutted into your touch, probably harder than he meant to. Then he planted a hand beside your head and anchored his weight above you so that he was close enough to reach your lips—but he didn’t kiss you.

His expression hardened again, and he forcibly removed himself from the pulse of your fingers. He frowned.

“You want me to fuck you, no? Make you cum?”

He sounded irritated again.

Briefly, you recalled your words from earlier and nodded. It was true, you’d said it to him like that, and you’d meant it. You just couldn’t make sense of what he wanted now.

It seemed Bucky couldn’t wait to indulge you any longer. He fisted his cock in one hand, angled the head just outside of your cunt, and burst in with one thrust.

“Then let me,” he muttered, plunging down to the hilt.

The first go was rough, and the second was no kinder. Bucky’s face screwed up with indifference again, like he wanted to get something out of his brain and just do.

Like there was a task at hand that needed to be finished.

You couldn’t deny it felt fine at first. Fucking edifying after all those horrific thoughts had been eating away at your mind and rousing your own hunger for numbness. The drive of Bucky’s thick girth in and out, in and out repeatedly was no doubt capable of rendering you dumb. But being slammed into and taken so roughly was only good for you when you knew he was feeling good too.

This Bucky was back to being entirely flinty and lifeless—practically devoid of all emotion as he railed into you.

The back of your head was forced into the pillow with the weight of each thrust and Bucky’s thumb pushing into your chin—‘Better, milaya? Is this better for you?’—and frankly, you wanted to push him back and ask the same.

But you couldn’t. The pace he’d set was suffocating, and the stretch of his cock inside you was unusually tough.

Instead, you sank your nails into his arm and mumbled:

“Bucky.”

The man’s thrusts were both stabbing and rhythmic, sending a welt of pleasure blossoming up in your chest. You tried again:

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

And slowed.

“Bucky,” he mumbled back.

Seemingly mindless and mechanical, he snaked a hand behind your head to lift your face and tilt it toward the sight below: his cock splitting you open before him, parting your insides with an easy, welcome glide through the slick of your folds. You watched as your arousal enveloped him fully. Not a single inch of his rock-hard, throbbing shaft was spared; even his balls were soaked. They felt even heavier slapping your ass with each thrust.

“You remember?” you asked, hating how small you sounded.

The man’s nostrils flared, but he gave a curt nod. Expression taut and vigilant, as though anticipating something going wrong at any second. Still, he nodded.

“Years,” he answered.

“Years?”

Since he’d done this? Felt good? Become this way?

No, Bucky was activated in Madripoor just weeks ago. He didn’t look like he was ready to indulge in any ‘feel-good’ pleasure, and you weren’t sure when he’d last been with anyone else before you. Years could mean anything.

You chanced a few soft fingertips up to his cheeks, cupping either side of his clean-shaven face in an effort to anchor you both to one place. The pit of your stomach was reeling with warmth, and friction, and fullness. It took everything in you just to pull him in for a quick, grounding kiss before the feeling gave way to even more.

Bucky’s teeth nicked your bottom lip. He flinched back.

You ignored the sting and repeated his name, murmuring it carefully up to the seal of his mouth as if requesting entry with that word alone.

It seemed to work. Bucky kissed you back with a gentle, albeit guarded, sort of tenderness that made him soften. His thrusts weren’t as rough and punishing as they were before. The dull, throbbing ache between your legs transformed into something sweeter, and your body no longer had to brace itself against strokes that, to you, were nearly bruising and, to Bucky, were just necessary.

For once, your husband let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

“They never let us,” Bucky said as his teeth grit together, “It’s been years.”

“Since what?”

The face above you tempered more—this time with a trace of sadness behind it. He continued to rut into you, but now his thrusts were sloppy, and it seemed as though he were battling against his own pleasure with every motion. He lowered one hand between your legs and began to thumb at your clit, gaze torn from yours.

“Close now?” he muttered.

Ignoring the question you’d asked.

“Years since what?” you pressed anyway. The tiny ripples preceding bliss had already begun to stir inside you, maddeningly, with every flick of his thumb, but your curiosity to know the whole truth was stronger still.

Bucky’s hips were moving at a feverish pace now; his free hand made a fist in the sheets beside your head, and his chest heaved with a series of short, ragged breaths that were no doubt meant to mask his moans as well. Notwithstanding the burn you felt between your legs—he really was much rougher and stronger now, you saw—you cupped his cheek again to tilt his face toward yours.

What you saw made your stomach drop.

Your heart clenched like a fist within the confines of your ribcage, and there it was—that terrible ache you felt each time you saw something awful materialize before you.

Bucky’s eyes were wet with tears. He wouldn’t blink.

He tilted his head into your touch, as if for support, but really, the weight of it signaled to you that he just wanted to feel you. Be assured that you were there. His big, broad arms seemed suddenly unable to hold his weight, and then he sank into your frame with a grunt and another stuttered breath. Like he was ready to collapse.

“Don’t leave again,” he said quietly.

The pain in your chest elevated, in bloom.

“Bucky I didn’t— wasn’t—” you started to say.

The friction between your bodies was almost too much to bear. You couldn’t be sure if you were talking to your husband, soldat, or some strange, inconceivable mixture of the two, but you could tell that this one was desperate.

Pleading.

“I can’t lose you again.”

The head of his cock grazed your most sensitive spot inside, and a whine seeped out through your teeth. Bucky’s whole body was blanketing yours, torso flush with your front and hips working an erratic cadence as he got a glimpse of release himself. He groaned out in pleasure and begged you to stay. You promised that you would. Your legs were still wound around his sides, but both of your bodies were slick with a sheen of sweat; it was hard to hang on. Bucky’s hair was wild and pushed back from his face, but his eyes were clear when they finally met yours, and you heard him mumble again, ‘Please stay.’

You didn’t know what else to say but okay, baby, I will.

You swore you would stay, and in between oaths, your mouth was consumed by a barrage of kisses—Bucky got to feast with a full set of teeth again, primal as ever—and then your climax hit. Euphoria washed over you whole with a force you weren’t expecting to feel, and you couldn’t help but cry out and whine as waves of pleasure coursed straight from the innermost depths of your core.

Bucky’s hips collided with yours in two more stuttered thrusts, and when he bottomed out at the last, you felt a heavy spurt of warmth. A groan coiling out of his chest. Muscles growing lax and two sturdy arms coming to bracket your head as your husband’s whole body weight went folding into yours. You kissed some more, in between frenzied intakes of breaths and steadying moments where you were simply trying to ground your body and get your heart to slow down to a normal rate.

You held each other in silence for a while. Bucky’s head fell next to yours on the pillow when the last of his spend had been emptied, but otherwise, he didn’t stir. At some point, his hands slid behind your back, and the second he hugged you to him, you felt secure in that embrace.

You were probably as far as you’d ever been from understanding who the fuck your husband was, but all it seemed you were capable of feeling for now was pity.

Pity for the years he’d lost to captivity; pity for what was little more than mere existence under HYDRA’s thumb; pity for all the things you still didn’t know about his past.

You held Bucky tighter, and, flooded with this strange, grating emotion and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, you wished you could protect him, too.

“James?” you mumbled into his hair.

Bucky didn’t respond.

You squeezed his shoulder. Still nothing.

Against your better judgment, you tried to shift yourself underneath his body. You figured you wouldn’t make it far at all, but at least he would be aware that you were trying to get up. Maybe even start to move with you.

He didn’t.

It took everything in you just to wedge an elbow back, struggle to prop yourself up against his weight, and when you were about to let out a huff of an exasperated laugh and tell him, Bucky, you’re crushing me, honey, could you please ease up a little, your request was answered before the words could even leave your mouth.

At the sound of two new muffled voices carrying up from the living room and what appeared to be noises from shuffling feet, Bucky rose straight from the bed, off you.

Your gaze trailed his to the door, and you reached for him.

“Baby, it’s just—”

Bucky was back on his feet. Yanking his boxers and pants up his legs and buckling his belt in no time at all.

The movers. It’s just the movers bringing in furniture—

You moved your hand closer to your husband in the hopes of stalling his movements for half a second, but then a set of ruthless blue eyes had you pinned, quick:

“Stay.”

Your outstretched arm was taken up in a much stronger, stiffer one, and you were suddenly pulled over to Bucky.

But you knew from the eyes it wasn’t him at all.

And you weren’t so much being tugged toward him as you were being hauled to the floor. Thrown on your knees beside the bed, next to Bucky. He was about to leave.

Without thinking, you reached for one of the legs of his trousers and sank your nails into the fabric to hold him in place, to tell him again that there was nothing to see out there but the people you knew, no threat outside at all. But Bucky was deaf to your pleas, it seemed. He shrugged you off easily and made a move for his gun, expression blank, stolid, calm, hardened. Decided.

You tried to rise to your feet but were stopped.

“STAY,” Bucky boomed again, this time an order that he didn’t even deign to complete with a look your way.

If he had—if he even possessed the ability to consider anything but the immediate task at hand—he would’ve seen his own hand knock you to the floor to keep you from standing. Might’ve caught a glimpse of the instant your head struck the edge of the nightstand before you hit the ground. Could’ve even made out the first traces of blood that came trickling out from above your temple. Would’ve seen you cower back, viscerally, out of fear.

But holding the side of your head and watching him leave, grim realization twisted at the pit of your stomach, and you knew the man wouldn’t have stopped if he had.

If your soldat’s objective was to protect you from any harm lurking outside that door, real or illusory, nothing you were capable of doing now could stop that. At expense to yourself, at expense to him, at expense to whatever lives stood between the Winter Soldier and that unwavering, hardwired goal, he still would not ever stop.

Thinking of new, innocent lives in the balance, now, you scrambled for your phone the next second to call Steve.

You tried him once. Twice. A third time crawling on your knees, then standing, then staggering over to the door and pulling the phone from your ear just to send a string of texts to your friend while the thing continued to ring.

SOS

Need help

Pick up please

Bucky’s stuck and he’s

About to hurt people here

A crash sounded outside. You hurried to the door. Your hand closed around the knob and tried to turn it. The handle turned freely, but something behind it was refusing to let you leave the room. You pressed again.

“Bucky!”

Your cry was useless in the face of the barricade outside.

You pushed your shoulder and, behind it, the whole force of your weight against it anyway, trying to get out.

The line went dead. You tried again.

Now with your phone to one ear and the bedroom door taking the brunt of your hits from the other, bleeding side of your body, you scarcely heard much of anything else. The ring started. Stopped. Began again when you pressed a shaky finger to Steve’s contact name, and continued in a cycle for some time while you tried to force whatever was on the other side of the door away.

The second a voice broke through the haze of your frantic, half-crazed state of consciousness, you cried:

“STEVE!”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

You were shocked to hear a woman on the other end. Your pulse was still racing, shoulder aching from the impact of each desperate push you’d been forcing against the door, and then you stopped. Another loud something sounded down the hallway, further away, but you were too startled and unnerved to take any note of it.

You started to ask, ‘Where’s Steve?’ when the voice continued:

“This is Mrs. Barnes?”

“Yes,” you answered woodenly.

You held the phone as close to your ear as you could, but still, the woman’s words were coming in and out in bursts. You must’ve mistakenly accepted the call when trying to reach Steve—you couldn’t think right now; could barely retract the phone far enough to see a strange number displayed on the screen. You swallowed.

“—from Lenox Hill Hospital at Northwell Health—”

The high-rise medical center on the Upper East Side you’d visited that week. Bucky had wanted you tested for nutritional deficiencies and anemia, of all fucking things.

“—if you had a moment or two to chat and maybe—”

No, you needed Steve, not this outpatient courtesy call.

You would’ve liked to hang up. Should’ve hung up. In fact, your fingers were practically itching to hit the button the whole time the nurse was speaking to you, but something in you just couldn’t be persuaded to do it. It took several more seconds before your senses began to creep back, and by then, when you were about to drop the call, you heard a phrase that stopped you on a dime.

“—but the doctor advises prenatal vitamins—”

“What?” you snapped, far more harshly than you meant.

The nurse paused a beat, whether from incredulity at how rude you’d just sounded or to consider something. When she resumed, she sounded a little more guarded.

“Yes…Dr. Watkins did reach out to you about your bloodwork from your last visit, didn’t she? I thought—”

“No,” you said, rushed and painfully brusque, again. You tried to rein in your tone some before continuing, “She didn’t—didn’t reach out about anything. What vitamins?”

Another pause.

“Prenatals.”

You hated that she gave you another second to chew on that word before taking a breath and pressing on.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be the one to spring that on you, Mrs. Barnes—I thought you knew…um—” The nurse was sheepish now, almost embarrassed to be speaking, “—you’re about…three weeks along in your pregnancy.”

Three weeks along.

Advised prenatal vitamins.

For the child growing inside of you.

A rivulet of blood trickled into your left eye.

Your whole body was apt to convulse, but it didn’t.

You hung up.

—

Taglist: (please lmk if I missed anyone! I can only tag 50 at a time so will continue in a separate post) @vicmc624 @she-could-never @mcira @kentokaze @identity2212 @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007 @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx @pono-pura-vida @geminiflanagansblog @buggy14 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @minimarvelingmarvel @kunakizen @ghostiebby06 @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grantspector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs

[kenntoria]

he watches you wipe blood off your cheek with the back of your gloved hand, breath steady, eyes still narrowed like you’re waiting for someone else to pop out of the smoke. your rifle hangs off your shoulder, your posture loose now, almost careless—but simon knows better. knows that behind that relaxed stance is a killer with the sharpest aim he’s ever seen.

“clear,” you say flatly, and when you turn to look at him, there’s a smear of dirt on your forehead and something childish in your grin.

“you’ve got something on your face,” he mutters, voice muffled behind his mask. he steps closer, dragging his thumb across your temple to wipe it away. “don’t think that’s part of the camo.”

you blink up at him, not moving. “…was it bad?”

“nah,” he says. “you look cute.”

your face scrunches. “gross, lieutenant.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. ruthless, cold, efficient—you can dismantle a squad in under five minutes and make it look like ballet. but then he sees you in the debrief room, chewing your pen like it’s edible, spacing out halfway through price’s briefing because you’re trying to remember if you left your socks in his room.

you’re a contradiction. brutal out there—so precise it scares even the most seasoned operators. but in here, in this soft space where the danger is gone, you become this… daydreamy little thing. simon doesn’t get it. doesn’t get how your mind switches off like a light once the mission’s over. doesn’t get how you can be the most terrifying person he knows, and also the one who needs help opening a packet of instant noodles.

but he loves it. adores it, actually.

he finds you on the bunk that night, staring at the ceiling with furrowed brows.

“you alright?” he asks, stripping off his tac vest.

“yeah. just thinkin’. if frogs had wings, would they be birds or bugs?”

he pauses, half bent over his boots. “…what?”

“well they jump, right? and bugs jump. but birds fly and bugs fly. so frogs with wings. birds or bugs?”

he stares at you for a second. then two. then he exhales a slow breath through his nose and sits down beside you, pressing a hand over your eyes.

“go to sleep.”

you laugh, soft and sweet and easy, and he feels it in his ribs.

you’re a weapon. a ghost of your own kind. terrifying, unflinching. but when you’re with him, you’re just… you. soft, strange, a little offbeat. he never thought he’d care for anything delicate—but you aren’t delicate in the way that breaks. you’re delicate in the way that makes him want to keep you close. keep you safe. hold all your ridiculous little thoughts in the palm of his hand and tuck them away for later.

you shift under the blanket, curling closer to him, mumbling, “frogs with wings would be birds. i think.”

he doesn’t answer. just pulls you in tighter, nose buried in your hair.

“whatever you say, sweetheart.”