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i’m actually fucking obsessed with this

match made [one-shot]

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: as a politician, bucky can no longer be caught swiping around on dating apps. sam decides to sign up his romantically stunted friend for a more sophisticated service instead.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), you get backshots B), soft dom (?) bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky doesn't understand how dating works in the 21st century, you get jealoussss and end up pissing bucky off momentarily

word count: 12.7k

a/n: so this is obviously inspired by the movie materialists LOL but there aren't any spoilers for the movie in here... i just have been thinking about the movie nonstop since i saw it and i will actually be rewatching it with my mother soon a/n pt2: due to popular demand there's a sequel to this fic!

masterlist | locked in (sequel)

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. “I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal hand down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softened, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um�� Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. There’s a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. “We can take this slow. At your own pace.”

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

part two (sequel): locked in

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

let me know if you would like to be added/removed to a general bucky fanfic taglist :)

[insertsparkleshere]

pride & prejudice

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 11.3k warnings: ANGST, pining, enemies to lovers, violence, violence against reader, arguments/fighting, alcohol, murder

When you first meet Jason Todd he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him. (Loosely inspired by the book/film Pride & Prejudice)

Winter

“Honestly, I can’t wait for you to meet him, I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

More often than not, it was endearing to hear Babs talk about her boyfriend. You would think that Dick Grayson had hung the stars in the sky the way she sang his praises. It almost made you sick, the way her eyes would get moony as she practically recited poetry about his charms, his kindness, and occasionally, his body.

She was right though; you and Babs had been friends for as long as you could remember, it was absurd that you were yet to meet her long-term boyfriend. Phone calls and photos hadn’t really been enough to capture a true image of him, who he was and what he stood for. Babs meant the world to you, however, and you were determined to meet the man who had crashed into it so suddenly.

‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch. 

It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.

Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.

This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.

“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.

“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”

So much for a good first impression.

You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.

Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.

Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”

In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”

Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.

Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.

“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”

Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.

“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”

As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.

Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.

Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.

“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.

“Fine.”

“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”

“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”

You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.

“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”

“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.

“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”

Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”

“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”

“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”

“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”

“I said I don’t want a fucking –”

Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”

“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.

“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”

“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”

You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.

When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.

It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason’s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.

The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.

The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.

Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”

“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”

“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.

It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.

The only word to describe the walk back is painful.

It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.

Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.

“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”

Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.

Then he turns and walks away.

You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.

Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.

As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.

To never see Jason again.

Spring

It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.

Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.

The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.

Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.

Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.

You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.

“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.

Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.

“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.

“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.

“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.

“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Is that so?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.

Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”

“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.

It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”

You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.

“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”

He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.

“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”

He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”

“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.

“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”

You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.

“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.

“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”

The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.

“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.

The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.

“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”

He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.

“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.

“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”

“I would like that.”

And with that he’s gone.

You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.

You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.

“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.

“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”

You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”

“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.

You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.

“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”

“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”

“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”

There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.

“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”

“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”

The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.

“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”

It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.

You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.

“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”

Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.

“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”

The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.

“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”

The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.

You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”

“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”

“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”

“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”

You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.

Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.

Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.

“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.

You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.

“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.

It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.

You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.

Summer

If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.

It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.

You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.

You’d run into Jason a few times.

It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.

Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.

Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.

You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.

It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.

To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.

Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.

Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.

It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”

“What?”

“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.

“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.

Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.

“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”

“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”

“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”

“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”

“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.

“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”

“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”

The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.

“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”

“Well, Dick, for starters –”

“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”

“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.

“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”

The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.

Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.

He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.

“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”

And then he disappears inside.

Autumn

All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.

You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.

It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.

Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.

“What did you want to –”

“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.

“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.

Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”

Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”

You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”

“How come you’re asking me and not him?”

“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.

Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”

“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”

“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”

You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.

“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”

“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.

“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.

“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”

“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”

It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”

Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”

“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”

Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.

It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.

You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.

Winter

Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.

Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.

Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.

Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.

Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.

Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”

As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.

“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”

From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.

“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”

Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.

You grimace at the thought.

All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.

Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.

You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.

It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.

If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.

“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.

“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”

It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.

“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.

It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.

It’s Jason.

Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.

You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.

It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.

Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.

“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”

The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”

If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”

You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”

“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.

You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”

Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Spring

You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.

You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.

“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.

“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”

You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”

“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”

“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.

“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”

“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”

“I know you do, baby, I know.”

This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷‍♀️

also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

[insertsparkleshere]

Hint: We're Together, Genius (Daisy Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Daisy Johnson Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Anonymous asked: hi! i saw your requests are open and you also write for daisy. could you possibly write a daisy johnson x fem!reader based on the scene in agents of shield season 5 when deke was going to tell daisy about his crush on her? basically daisy and R (who's also part of coulson's team) have been dating for a while but the team doesn't know yet, and then when deke is about to confess his crush on daisy, she just casually mentions that she has a gf. just something fluffy with a little bit of humour. you can decide what happens next :)

Deke finds Daisy alone, leaning against the railing overlooking the lower levels of the Lighthouse, arms crossed, brow furrowed like she’s trying to wrestle the mission debrief into submission with sheer willpower. He fidgets, rehearsing the words in his head one more time before stepping forward.

“Hey,” he starts, trying to be casual. It comes out slightly too loud.

Daisy turns, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Hey. What’s up?” She’s calm. Friendly. Which somehow makes it worse.

Deke shifts on his feet. “Nothing, I just—uh, wanted to talk. About something. You got a sec?”

Daisy raises a brow. “Sure.” She turns fully to face him, arms resting loosely on the railing now. “You okay?”

He laughs—nervous, high-pitched. “Yeah, yeah, just, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “So, I’ve been thinking. And I know we’ve had some weird moments—”

“Wow, really starting strong,” Daisy mutters, but she’s smiling. Sort of.

“—and I just thought, maybe, I don’t know, we’ve got this vibe, right? And it’s been a long few weeks and I think you’re awesome and badass and scary in a good way—”

“Deke,” Daisy says, a warning tone sliding into her voice like she already knows where this is going.

He powers through anyway. “—so what I’m trying to say is, I think I have a crush on you. Like, real feelings. And I was wondering if maybe you wanted to, you know . . . go out sometime. With me.”

Silence. For one glorious second, he thinks maybe it didn’t come out like a train wreck.

Then Daisy exhales slowly. “Deke . . .”

“Oh god,” he blurts, eyes widening. “You’re going to say no.”

“I am,” she says gently. “I like you, Deke, I do. Just . . . not that way.”

He freezes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Makes sense.”

“I’m flattered,” she continues, voice soft and sincere. “But I have a girlfriend.”

Deke blinks. “Wait—you what?”

“I’m dating someone,” Daisy says, a faint grin pulling at the corners of her mouth like this whole conversation is a ticking bomb she just disarmed.

“A girlfriend?” he echoes, completely stunned.

She nods.

“Since when?!”

Daisy shrugs. “A while.”

He looks like his brain is rebooting in real time. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t feel like broadcasting it. And it’s been . . . complicated. End-of-the-world, post-apocalyptic kind of complicated.”

Deke raises both eyebrows. “Okay, yeah, fair.”

She pats his arm. “You’re sweet, Deke. And weird. But not my type.”

He smiles, but it’s more of a grimace. “Cool. Coolcoolcool. I’m gonna . . . go drink something. Or run into a wall. Something manly.”

She chuckles. “Try not to walk into any explosive hallways on the way.”

As he turns to leave, thoroughly crushed but trying not to show it, he throws a look over his shoulder. “I’m happy for you, though. Whoever she is.”

Daisy leans back against the railing, her smirk returning. “Thanks. She’s a handful.”

Off in the shadows above, perched casually on the metal catwalk, (Y/n) grins like a shark and whispers under her breath, “Damn right I am.”

. . .

Phil Coulson prides himself on timing.

Not just in the director sense—missions, deployment, backup, all that jazz—but in life. In entering a room at the exact right moment to defuse tension, deliver a quip, or drop just enough mystery to make people rethink their life choices.

Today, however, his timing is shit.

The door to the analysis room hisses open with a soft pneumatic sigh. Coulson strides in, datapad in one hand, coffee in the other, already mid-sentence to no one. “Hey, have either of you seen the new data pull from—”

He stops.

Dead.

Because Daisy Johnson—his field commander, SHIELD’s top Inhuman asset, queen of sass and bad ideas—and (Y/n) (L/n), resident genius and part-time menace, are very much not reviewing seismic data.

They’re in the corner, tangled up like horny teenagers behind a bleachers rack, Daisy pinned halfway to the wall, and (Y/n)’s hand suspiciously low on her thigh.

For half a second, no one moves.

Then (Y/n) turns, sees him, and—of course—grins.

“Well, hey Coulson,” she drawls, not even flinching. “Come to supervise our team-building exercise?”

Coulson blinks. “I—was—just—"

Daisy makes a noise that could either be a groan or a death threat. Her face is redder than a mission-critical alert.

(Y/n) reaches casually behind her, presses a button on the console, and flips the screen from the paused video feed of a simulation to a very convincing static-filled diagnostic screen. “See? Training.”

“You were kissing her neck,” Coulson points out, voice high and tight like a man who has walked in on just enough of this.

“Neck targeting,” (Y/n) says seriously. “Vital vulnerability. I’m thorough.”

Daisy finally buries her face in her hands. “I told you we shouldn’t have stayed in here . . .”

“Correction,” (Y/n) says, smug as ever. “You said that before you climbed me like a rock wall. I’d call that implied consent.”

“I hate everything,” Daisy mutters.

Coulson clears his throat, then clears it again louder, like that will unburn the image from his retinas. “Okay. I’m going to rewind ten seconds and pretend I walked in before this started.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay for the bonus round?” (Y/n) teases, hooking a thumb toward Daisy. “She was just about to interrogate me with her tongue.”

“(Y/n), I swear to god,” Daisy growls.

“I’m good!” Coulson calls over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Yep! Leaving now! Not writing this in the log!”

The door hisses closed behind him.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Daisy turns to (Y/n), scowling.

“You said this room was clear.”

“It was!” (Y/n) protests, though not very convincingly. “Until Old Man Stealth decided to check in early.”

Daisy sighs and rests her forehead against (Y/n)’s chest. “We’re so getting a lecture about professionalism.”

(Y/n) chuckles and wraps her arms around her again. “If it helps, I was gonna try and bribe him with coffee.”

“Pretty sure you traumatized him past the point of caffeine.”

They stand there for another minute, tangled up in each other, waiting for the humiliation to fade. It doesn’t. But Daisy’s heartbeat slows back to something steady, and (Y/n)’s fingertips draw soothing circles into her back.

Daisy sighs again, quieter this time. “You’re lucky I like you.”

(Y/n) grins into her hair. “I know. I’d date me, too.”

. . .

Melinda May doesn’t eavesdrop. She just happens to have exceptionally good hearing and little tolerance for whispers in the hallway during weapons maintenance hours.

Daisy’s voice floats down from the upper level of the Lighthouse’s training deck—light, teasing, followed by the low murmur of someone else responding.

Then a laugh. Not a casual chuckle, but that specific laugh—the one Daisy had only ever used around Lincoln.

May pauses mid-disassembly of her sidearm.

She listens for a moment longer. Hushed tones, quiet giggles, a faint, metallic thump like someone being gently shoved against the wall.

Her eyes narrow.

She reassembles the pistol, loads it in record time, and heads toward the stairs.

By the time she makes it to the observation deck overlooking the gym, Daisy is alone, pretending to stretch like she’s ever cared about warm-ups. Her jacket is on inside out, and her hair is just the wrong kind of tousled to be natural.

May stops at the top of the stairs and stares down at her.

Daisy freezes mid-stretch like she’s just been spotted stealing nuclear codes.

“ . . . Hey,” she offers.

May folds her arms. “You’re late for combat review.”

“Right! Yeah, sorry—I got, uh, distracted. Was helping Simmons—”

“You’re lying.”

Daisy winces. “Okay, not Simmons.”

May walks down one step. “You’re smiling.”

Daisy blinks. “So?”

“You don’t smile during warm-ups. You glare. You scowl. Once, you bit a punching bag.”

“It was a bad day,” Daisy mutters.

“You’re seeing someone,” May says flatly.

Daisy stiffens. “What? No. That’s—why would you even—”

“Your hair’s messed up, your shirt’s wrinkled, and you’re glowing. It’s either love or radiation poisoning.”

Daisy sighs in defeat and drops onto the nearest bench. “Please don’t kill me.”

May blinks slowly. “That depends. Who is it?”

Daisy mumbles something.

“Speak up.”

“. . . It’s (Y/n).”

May stares. Then: “I see.”

“You’re not mad?” Daisy asks, a little surprised.

“I didn’t say that.”

Daisy sits straighter. “It’s not a thing, okay? We’ve been careful. Mostly. Very careful. Except that one time with the coffee table, but that was—”

May holds up a hand. “I don’t need details.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They sit in silence for a beat.

May studies her. “Does she make you lose focus?”

Daisy shakes her head immediately. “No. Well. Sometimes. But not in the field.”

May raises one eyebrow. “You sure? Because if you freeze mid-firefight to make out with your girlfriend, I will personally break every bone in your body and hers.”

“Understood.”

May’s expression softens by an almost imperceptible margin. “Is she good to you?”

Daisy looks away, biting back a smile. “Yeah. She really is.”

“She’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says, smiling now. “I like that about her.”

May turns to leave, boots echoing softly down the metal stairs. At the bottom, she glances over her shoulder.

“Tell (Y/n) to wear less lipstick when she’s sneaking out of training rooms.”

Daisy goes crimson. “Oh my god.”

May’s already gone.

. . .

Fitz is balancing two mugs of tea, his datapad, and exactly zero patience when he steps into the lab.

It’s been a long morning already. Something about a rift in the graviton field, Simmons disappearing for three hours to “borrow” equipment, and Deke getting his fingers stuck in the food replicator again. All Fitz wants now is ten minutes of peace in the lab before anyone breaks time and space again.

He pushes the door open with his elbow.

“Okay,” he mutters, “no fires, no broken tech, no—”

Then he sees them.

Daisy’s perched on the edge of the central worktable, and (Y/n) is standing between her legs, both of them in a bubble of laughter and . . . kissing.

Very distracted, not-at-all-lab-appropriate kissing.

Fitz freezes like he’s walked into Medusa’s closet.

“OH—OH NO—bloody hell!”

The mugs crash to the floor.

Daisy jumps three feet. (Y/n), to her credit (or lack thereof), simply turns and raises one eyebrow like this is his fault.

“Fitz!” Daisy blurts. “Wha—what are you doing?!”

“This is my lab!” he shrieks, eyes shut tight. “I came in for tea and science, not romantic entanglement contamination!”

(Y/n) sighs and pats Daisy’s shoulder. “I told you locking the door was an option. And hey, this is my lab too.”

Daisy is bright red. “We weren’t—we weren’t doing anything weird!”

“You were practically on top of the particle scanner!” Fitz says, still shielding his eyes like a kid watching a horror movie. “People touch that!”

“It’s not like we were—you know—rolling around on it,” Daisy mutters, adjusting her jacket.

“That’s not comforting!”

(Y/n) picks up one of the fallen mugs and dusts it off casually. “Honestly, this is probably the least chaotic thing that’s happened in this lab all week.”

“Not the point!”

Daisy steps between them, trying to play diplomat. “Okay, okay, let’s all take a deep breath. Nobody’s dying. Fitz just… found out a little early.”

“A little early?!” he squawks. “This is something you tell people! In a controlled setting! Preferably with a slideshow and non-touching examples!”

(Y/n) crosses her arms. “If it helps, we were going to tell everyone eventually.”

“Before or after I had to call in trauma counseling?!”

“Before,” she says smoothly. “Probably.”

Daisy sighs and elbows (Y/n). “Okay, enough. Fitz? I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Fitz lowers his hand and finally opens one eye. They’re standing apart now, at least. He’s still pink in the face, but no longer vibrating.

“. . . So you two are . . . a thing?”

“Yes,” Daisy says.

“Unfortunately for her,” (Y/n) adds teasingly.

“She’s not kidding,” Daisy mutters.

Fitz groans and sinks into a chair. “You realize this means Simmons is going to lose her mind.”

“Oh yeah,” (Y/n) says, grinning. “She’s going to Pinterest an entire dossier about it.”

Daisy covers her face with her hands. “We’re doomed.”

“Emotionally and professionally,” Fitz agrees. “Now please—go be gross somewhere else. This is a sacred scientific space.”

(Y/n) shoots him finger guns. “You got it, Dr. Romance.”

They leave the lab—Daisy shuffling with embarrassment, (Y/n) whistling cheerfully. Fitz stares at the tea puddle on the floor and sighs deeply.

. . . 

Simmons isn’t trying to eavesdrop. Really.

She’s just walking past the auxiliary comms room when she hears Daisy laughing. Not the dry, sarcastic laugh she gives Deke when he misuses a touchscreen, or the clipped, tired one she saves for post-mission debriefs.

No—this is soft. Giddy. Practically glowing.

Simmons freezes just outside the doorway.

The door’s mostly closed, but not fully latched. And through the small crack, she hears it:

“Your hair’s a mess, babydoll,” (Y/n) says, and her voice is gentle, teasing.

Daisy snorts. “You’re the one who tackled me during training. Pretty sure I have a bruise shaped like your ego.”

“Impossible,” (Y/n) replies with a laugh. “My ego’s much too large to leave just one bruise.”

There’s a pause. The kind filled with that invisible electricity people only emit when they’re looking at each other like the rest of the world has faded away.

Then Daisy, quietly: “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet strangely irresistible,” (Y/n) murmurs. “It’s a problem. For you.”

There’s a soft rustling sound—Simmons recognizes it instantly as someone brushing fingers through hair, a touch so casual and intimate she almost forgets how to breathe.

“I still can’t believe this is real sometimes,” Daisy admits, voice hushed.

(Y/n) answers without hesitation. “It’s real. You’re real. And I’m going to keep reminding you until you get sick of me.”

“Never gonna happen.”

Simmons slaps a hand over her mouth before a squeal escapes.

She backs up half a step—only to trip over a utility case and go sprawling into the hallway.

The crash is loud. Unmistakable.

Inside, a pair of voices shout in sync: “What was that?!”

“False alarm!” Simmons blurts, scrambling to her feet like a toddler caught stealing cookies. “Totally fine! Just—dropped a—thing! Not spying!”

The door swings open.

(Y/n) appears, arms crossed, brow raised. “Jemma.”

“Yes?”

“Enjoy the show?”

“No! No! I mean—I didn’t see anything! I just—heard . . . everything,” she admits, redder than a Level 10 alert.

Daisy appears behind her, face a mix of panic and resignation. “So . . . you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Simmons says, hands clasped to her chest. “You two are—adorable.”

Daisy groans. “Please don’t start.”

“I mean it!” Simmons insists, beaming. “I’ve been rooting for you both for months.”

(Y/n) tilts her head. “You knew?”

“I had my suspicions,” Simmons says, eyes practically sparkling. “The extra coffee mugs. The matching bruises. Daisy humming love songs while inventorying explosive devices—”

“I did not,” Daisy hisses.

“You did,” Simmons says brightly. “It was One Direction.”

Daisy slaps her forehead.

Simmons continues, dreamy. “I just love love. And after everything you’ve been through? It’s just so . . . soft. And healing. And romantic! Like a secret base rom-com.”

“We’re not a rom-com,” Daisy mutters.

“Speak for yourself,” (Y/n) says, tossing an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders. “I’ve been workshopping our tagline: ‘Two Agents, One Heartbeat. Also Several Guns.’”

Simmons gasps. “I would watch that.”

“You’re dangerously supportive,” Daisy tells her.

“Of course I am!” Simmons says, glowing. “But I’ll keep your secret, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks,” Daisy says, clearly touched. “We’re just . . . not ready for the whole team to know.”

“Don’t worry,” Simmons says with a wink. “Your romance is safe with me.”

She turns to go—then pauses, pointing a finger at (Y/n).

“But if I ever hear you call her babydoll again, I’m going to implode from secondhand embarrassment.”

(Y/n) shrugs. “Then maybe don’t linger outside the comms rooms next time.”

Simmons squeaks and flees down the hallway.

(Y/n) shuts the door behind her, laughing. Daisy groans and hides her face in (Y/n)’s shoulder.

“She’s going to write fanfiction about us, isn’t she?”

(Y/n) grins. “Bet it’s already drafted.”

. . .

Elena grips the small package in her hand, mentally rehearsing her quick in-and-out plan. She just needs to drop off the new comms module to Daisy and be on her way — no fuss, no drama.

The door to Daisy’s room stands slightly ajar.

Elena sighs. It’s late, she’s tired, and the door’s open. She’ll just—

She pushes the door open without knocking.

What greets her is the exact opposite of ‘no fuss.’

(Y/n) lies curled up on the couch, asleep like a cat on Daisy’s chest. Daisy’s fingers are lazily stroking (Y/n)’s hair, and her eyes are closed too, but there’s a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Elena freezes mid-step, the package halfway raised.

“Oh.”

She clears her throat.

Daisy’s eyes snap open. “Elena. You forgot to knock.”

(Y/n) stirs, blinking up at Elena with heavy-lidded confusion, then burrows closer into Daisy.

“Yeah,” Elena says, voice carefully neutral, though her eyes are sparkling with something dangerous. “You two . . . are just . . . wow.”

Daisy flushes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

(Y/n) mumbles sleepily. “Unless you think this looks like an elaborate hostage situation, we’re good.”

Elena steps fully inside, lowering the package onto the desk with exaggerated care. “I’m not sure what I’m more impressed by—your ability to nap anywhere or the sheer audacity of being this cute when you’re supposed to be prepping for the mission tomorrow.”

(Y/n) looks up, stretching like a contented cat, and shoots Elena a mock glare. “We’re professionals. We rest efficiently.”

“Sure you do,” Elena says, crossing her arms.

Daisy groans, rubbing the back of her neck. “Elena, please don’t pretend you’re not secretly thrilled we’re dating.”

Elena arches one eyebrow. “Me? Thrilled? I’m the last person who’d give you two a free pass.”

(Y/n) chuckles. “Yeah, but you’re also the person who threatens to throw a grenade at anyone who breaks our hearts.”

Elena’s eyes soften just a fraction. “I’m just protective.”

“Because you care,” Daisy says softly.

Elena clears her throat again. “Alright, alright, fine. You two are officially allowed to be this adorable. But only if you keep it off the mission floor.”

“Deal,” (Y/n) says, leaning in to kiss Daisy’s temple.

Elena grins. “Now, can I get my comms module back? I’ve got about five minutes before I have to pretend I’m not daydreaming about how cute you two are.”

Daisy laughs. “Coming right up.”

Elena winks at (Y/n) on the way out. “And you? Try not to steal the captain’s heart too much.”

(Y/n) grins. “No promises.”

The door clicks shut behind Elena, leaving a trail of affectionate teasing and something warmer hanging in the air.

Daisy shakes her head with a smile. “You realize that’s a ‘you’re going to get punched’ warning, right?”

(Y/n) shrugs. “Bring it.”

. . .

The hum of the base fades into the background as Daisy pulls (Y/n) close in the dim light of her room.

(Y/n) smirks, head resting against Daisy’s chest. “You’re going to regret bringing me here when I start making bad jokes.”

Daisy chuckles softly, fingers tracing lazy circles on (Y/n)’s back. “You say that like it’s not my favorite part.”

(Y/n) tilts her head up to catch Daisy’s eyes. “You really have a thing for sarcasm wrapped in a snarky grin, huh?”

Daisy grins. “Well, it’s better than the brooding lone wolf act. Though you do that pretty well too.”

(Y/n) nudges her playfully. “Lone wolf? Please. I’m more like a sarcastic poodle with a bad attitude.”

Daisy laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “That’s . . . oddly accurate.”

They fall into comfortable silence, just the two of them. Daisy’s hand finds (Y/n)’s, fingers intertwining naturally.

“You know,” Daisy says quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. That you’re this — smart, sarcastic, impossible—”

(Y/n) cuts her off with a grin. “Impossibly amazing? I like where this is going.”

Daisy laughs and squeezes her hand. “Exactly.”

(Y/n) leans in, voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. “I was worried for a second. About telling people. About how this would change things.”

Daisy presses a kiss to her forehead. “I get it. But you’re not just my girlfriend. You’re my partner. No matter what.”

(Y/n) closes her eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Let’s make a deal.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow.

“No matter what happens. No matter who finds out first, or how messy it gets . . . we’re in this together.”

Daisy smiles, nodding. “Together.”

(Y/n) snorts. “And if anyone messes with that . . . well, they’ll have me to deal with.”

Daisy smirks. “I’m counting on it.”

They share a soft laugh before settling back into the couch, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

For a little while, it’s just them — no secrets, no confusion, just quiet and the steady beat of two hearts syncing perfectly.

. . . 

Mack rounds the corner into the common area, where the familiar figure of (Y/n) lounges comfortably on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, scrolling through her datapad. Daisy sits next to her, close enough that their shoulders brush, fingers lightly intertwined.

Mack freezes mid-step.

He blinks, then clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp. “I knew you two were close. But I didn’t realize ‘close’ meant this close.”

(Y/n) glances up, smirking. “You’re slow on the uptake, Mack.”

Daisy smiles softly, squeezing (Y/n)’s hand. “We’re . . . dating.”

Mack raises his eyebrows, a grin slowly spreading. “You could’ve said so.”

(Y/n) shrugs. “We wanted to tell you all at the right time. Guess that time’s now.”

Mack shakes his head, chuckling. “Alright, I’m happy for you both. But you do realize this changes the team dynamic, right?”

Daisy laughs. “How so?”

“Well,” Mack says, leaning against the table, “you’re officially ‘that couple.’ Which means I get to be the overprotective big brother and call out anyone who steps out of line.”

(Y/n) grins wickedly. “Sounds like a plan.”

Mack nods, eyes twinkling. “Good. Because if anyone messes with you two, they’ve got me to answer to.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Mack claps his hands together. “Alright then, consider me fully on board. Just promise me you’ll keep the PDA to a minimum on mission days.”

(Y/n) winks. “No guarantees.”

They all laugh, the easy rhythm of the team settling comfortably around them.

Mack glances at Daisy and (Y/n) again, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Seriously though,” he says, “you two make a good team — on and off the field.”

(Y/n) leans back with a satisfied smirk. “Told you I’m good at multitasking.”

. . . 

Deke shifts nervously on his feet, eyes flicking between Daisy and (Y/n) like he’s trying to decode some secret message only they know.

“Look, Deke,” Daisy says, voice calm but firm. “I told you I have a girlfriend, right?”

Deke nods quickly, a little too eagerly. “Yeah! You said that. But, uh . . . you didn’t say who.”

(Y/n) smirks, arms crossed, clearly amused. “Yeah, Deke. It’s me. We’re dating.”

Deke blinks. Then blinks again.

“You and you?” he asks, clearly confused.

Daisy laughs softly. “No, no. Me and (Y/n).”

Deke looks from Daisy to (Y/n), then back again, eyebrows furrowed. “You mean, like, both of you?” he asks, voice hopeful.

(Y/n) raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no, just the two of us.”

Deke’s eyes widen.

“So, wait . . .” he starts slowly, “you’re like . . . best friends or something?”

Daisy groans, running a hand through her hair.

“No, Deke. Wait, well, yeah. Kinda,” Daisy says, trying to keep her patience. “We’re dating. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend, except I guess . . . girlfriend-girlfriend.”

Deke blinks. “Girlfriend-girlfriend? Like a superhero team-up?”

(Y/n) bursts out laughing. “Sure, Deke. Superhero team-up. That’s one way to put it.”

Deke grins, oblivious. “Cool! So, I can be your sidekick, right?”

Daisy and (Y/n) exchange a look and shake their heads.

“Deke,” Daisy says, voice gentle now, “you are part of the team. But this? This is something special between me and (Y/n).”

Deke’s grin falters, but then he brightens again.

“Okay! Got it. You two are super close, like a secret mission squad. I’m honored to be your sidekick.”

(Y/n) chuckles. “You’re something else, Deke.”

Daisy pulls (Y/n) close, and they share a quiet smile.

“Well, Deke,” Daisy says, “thanks for being so awesome. And for finally hearing us out.”

Deke salutes with a goofy grin.

“Always, boss.”

. . .

The soft glow of the evening lights casts a warm haze over Daisy’s room. (Y/n) sits curled up on the couch, fingers tangled in Daisy’s hair, eyes half-closed. Daisy’s arms are wrapped securely around her, the steady beat of her heart a comforting rhythm against (Y/n)’s temple.

“You know,” (Y/n) murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “for someone who saves the world on a daily basis, you sure get flustered when it comes to telling people you’re dating me.”

Daisy smiles, brushing a stray curl from (Y/n)’s forehead. “Well, it’s different. It’s personal. And, honestly? I didn’t want to make it weird with Deke.”

(Y/n) snorts softly. “Weird? Daisy, you’ve known Deke what, like a month? He’s so oblivious he thinks ‘dating’ is a secret code word for ‘partner-in-crime.’”

Daisy laughs, a sound that always makes (Y/n)’s heart skip. “Yeah. That. I just want him to understand without feeling like we’re pulling the rug out from under him.”

(Y/n) shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look Daisy in the eye. “He’ll get it. Eventually. And if he doesn’t, well . . . we’ll just have to keep annoying him until he does.”

Daisy smirks. “Good plan. You’re the expert in annoying.”

(Y/n) grins, nudging Daisy’s side. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

They lapse into comfortable silence, hands still intertwined.

“You ready?” Daisy asks after a moment, voice soft but determined.

(Y/n) nods, resting her forehead against Daisy’s. “Yeah. Together.”

Daisy presses a gentle kiss to (Y/n)’s lips, slow and reassuring.

“Together,” she echoes.

. . . 

Deke slumps into the common room couch, looking both hopeful and utterly confused. Around him, the whole team is gathered: Coulson, May, Fitz, Simmons, Elena, Mack, and of course Daisy and (Y/n). 

“So,” Coulson begins, folding his hands on the table. “We’re here because it seems like you’re still a bit . . . unclear about something.”

Deke shrugs, eyes darting nervously. “Hey, I’m trying, okay?”

May raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Trying isn’t quite cutting it.”

(Y/n) smirks from her seat next to Daisy. “Deke, we’ve been dropping hints like we’re in a bomb range, and you’re still missing them.”

Deke rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not the best at . . . subtext.”

Elena leans forward, voice gentle. “We just want to make sure you know that Daisy and (Y/n) are dating. Like, officially.”

Fitz holds up a whiteboard with a diagram titled “How Relationships Work,” complete with stick figures, arrows, and hearts. “We thought a visual aid might help.”

Deke blinks at the complicated doodles. “Uh . . . that helps? Sort of?”

Simmons adds, “It’s okay, Deke.”

Mack grins. “And you’re stuck with us all, so you might as well get used to it.”

Deke finally chuckles. “Okay, so… you’re serious. Like, in love?”

Daisy nods, reaching over to squeeze (Y/n)’s hand. “Yeah. And we want you to be part of it — just not the . . .  you know, third wheel part.”

(Y/n) smirks. “Unless you want to be. I mean, we could use a good sidekick.” Daisy kicks her under the table—though not hard enough to do any real damage. 

Deke throws his hands up. “I’m trying to keep up here!”

Everyone laughs, the tension breaking like a wave.

After another hour of questions, clarifications, and more bad jokes from (Y/n), Deke finally leans back, a wide smile on his face.

“I get it. You two are . . . amazing. And I’m happy for you.”

Coulson claps him on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it, Deke.”

May smirks. “See? Not so hard.”

Deke grins. “Now, how do I get one of those cool ‘team’ T-shirts?”

(Y/n) raises an eyebrow. “Only if you promise to keep up next time.”

“Deal,” he says, laughing.

Daisy leans into (Y/n), and they share a quiet smile, surrounded by their team — their family.

Because sometimes, even when it takes a little longer, the people who matter most come through.

Word Count: 4794 words

Skye / Daisy Johnson x Fem!Reader:

@imapotato

@confusinggemini612

@marie45019

[insertsparkleshere]

pr team needs to leak those security tapes NEOW

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

[insertsparkleshere]

HAII could i request a blurb abt reader gifting jason todd a guardian angel bell for his motorcycle!? ❤️ thank you!!

Guardian Angel

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

Warnings: Fluff

Prompt: above ^^^^

Notes: female reader, italics are actions and thoughts. (SORRY IT'S NOT A BLUB but I felt it needed context to explain it a bit)

Requests are open btw.

-With that said, it's all under the cut-

You overheard him talking to some friends about Guardian Angel Bells. "What the hell is that?" You asked yourself mentally as you pulled out your phone and Googled it, the light of your phone giving away your eavesdropping position. You noticed them look up and swiftly turned your screen off, quietly leaving before they noticed.

You didn't have time alone until bed to look up what he was talking about. All you knew was that it could only be gifted, not bought, based on the conversation they were having, so you didn't want Jason knowing you wanted to get him one.

"Fuck, you're right. That would be so amazing the person I was with got me one." Jason's words rang in your brain. See you and Jason are close, you've loved him for a long time, but the perfect chance hasn't arisen. He was either fresh one a breakup and needed support, or he was in a relationship; neither time seemed appropriate to gush your feelings out to him like a damn water ballon.

Right now, Jason had sworn off dating everyone for a while, which made your heart shrink and ache thinking you'd lost your chance for a good while, but this was an opportunity, and if not, then at least he would know how much you worried and cared about him.

Every night he left, you'd mentally pray to every god and goddess you could think of that he would come back home safe, which might slightly take the edge off your worry. You worried a lot since all the Joker stuff happened, of course, you two were kids then, but it stuck in your mind like a pill gets stuck in the throat with no water.

You slipped under your soft covers, turned the light out, and looked up "guardian angel bells" on Google again. Reading the description word for word, "Motorcycle guardian bells, aka gremlin bells, are small bells attached to motorcycles to ward off evil spirits and road gremlins. The tradition dictates that the bell should be a gift, not bought by the rider, and should be securely attached to the lowest part of the motorcycle frame by the one gifting it."

Before you knew it, it was four in the morning and you were still searching the Internet, learning all about the rules and where to get them, and how to have them made, and you found a few places.

The place you decided on getting one made was booked up, and they said the wait would be around three months, but you had sent them the idea of what you wanted to protect him when he was on patrol or otherwise just riding around.

Months went by, and life caught up to you, and you'd forgotten all about it until it got delivered. Opening the package with curiosity, it hits you, and excitement fills your veins. You pushed the directions to the side for a moment and looked at them. It's a gorgeous gunmetal grey color with a beautiful female angel on it, simple but meaningful. Jason had always made comments about you being his angel cause you'd do your best to keep him safe even it annoyed him sometimes, he knew you meant well.

You ran out to his bike, quickly fastening it as per the instructions making sure that the bell is secure in the lowest part of the bike. Usually Jason's asleep cause he normally sleeps during the day and is up for most of the night for patrol but not today.

"What the hell are you doing to my bike?" Jason asked, causing you to jolt up from where you lay on the floor, hitting your head on his bike. You rubbed your forehead and looked up at him like a kid with their hand in the candy bucket for sure he'd be angry with you.

Any bit of anger vanished as he saw what you did, he'd loved you for a considerable long time, but he didn't wanna ruin what was the best relationship in his life. You doing this forced all his feelings to burst back to the surface. He stretched his hand out to help you up, which you took, standing up before being yanked into a big, deep hug.

"God, I could fuckin kiss you, Angel." He whispered as he squeezed you, tears falling down his face. Something about this moment was just making him so emotional, he didn't even remember telling you he wanted one. A smile filled his face as he remembered that flash of light the night he was talking to his friends.

"You sly, beautiful motherfuckin' woman." He pulls back before holding your face in front of his, his warm palms against your face. His blue eyes gaze into yours with pure love, his smile wide and genuine.

"Is it okay? I didn't know what you wanted exactly, I wasn't sure." You asked a bit nervously as you tried to shake off the tension in your check of getting caught.

"You have no idea how perfect it is." He grabs a helmet, turning to you and sticks it on your head without skipping a beat. Like he'd already had this planned in his mind for years.

"Hop on, let's give this baby a spin." You hopped on behind him, he reached back behind you, grabbed your hands and wrapped them around his waist, silently telling you to hold on as he pulled out of the garage.

Jason took you on a ride, spending the whole afternoon and night with you. His gratitude soaring out of his chest, he never asked you, but from that moment, you became his girlfriend. And now if that bell could talk...it's seen just about whatever you could imagine it would. Crime fighting, kissing him before patrol...a lot more than kissing on that very seat, thankfully for you and Jason, objects don't have voices to tattle and no one else was around that night.

-> Masterlist

-> Send me requests/prompts if you'd like

[insertsparkleshere]

gameplay

cw: p! link below, established relationship, teasing, doggy, unprotected sex, sex in someone else's bed, breeding, overstim, messy sex, degradation, mean bf, smut, mdni

summary: this is what happens when you tease your man too much in your cute little nightdress

he watches you intently from his spot across from you at the patio table as you bounce one of your friend's babies on your lap. the hand holding his red solo cup squeezes around the plastic in an attempt to lower the urge to snatch you up. you keep giving him that innocent smile in your form fitting dress, looking like the picture of domesticity and a wet dream of his come to life.

he shifts in his chair, cup warping beneath his grip, jaw tight as he drags his gaze slowly down the line of your thighs, then back up to your tits, which keep bouncing just a little with the soft motion of your body while you entertain the child. "you seem to know what you're doing." he grunts.

you have that one look on your face you always get when you're teasing him. you hand off the baby to one of your friends so the poor thing isn't involved in the intense stare-off you and him have going on, and you grin, leaning forward and tipping your head to the side, fluttering your lashes at him. "yeah, it feels natural, hm? bet i'll be real good at it when you put a baby in me."

he shifts in his seat and spreads his knees further like it'll calm the way his cock is hard and pushing against the zipper of his jeans. you haven’t touched him once and his cock is already uncomfortably swollen just from watching you be sweet to everyone else in. "don't talk like that." he says sternly, unable to handle your dirty talk while in public.

"your face is warm, are you alright?" you smile innocently, your big eyes sparkling sweetly. you tug your hair up off your neck with a soft, whining sigh and his breathing picks up sharply. you did that on purpose. it's not far off from the sounds you make when he's balls deep in you, which doesn't help his situation. " 'm fine, baby. 's just hot outside."

he wonders if he made the right choice to come. he was debating dragging you back to bed and away from the car the second you chose that sundress, form fitting and showing a questionable amount of cleavage for a barbeque in your backyard where you'd intended for your man to meet some of your friends and their husbands; a group date, if you will. now, you've stood up and started moving around the barbeque, and he feels like he's being tormented on purpose. the way you stretch when you reach for the cooler, arms overhead, back arching, your dress straining against your ass.

he hasn't spoken in a while now, to any of your friends. he just nods or shakes his head or clears his throat any time he's addressed, because he cannot think right now. you keep drifting past him like you're checking on something, brushing your fingers along his shoulder, placing a very calculated kiss right to his sweet spot; the area right under his ear.

you keep pretending not to notice how wrecked he looks as his jaw keeps flexing, throat working every time he swallows, like he's physically trying to restrain himself. he watches your ass bounce and hips sway when you walk. "oh fuck me," he mutters low to no one in particular. he catches your arm the next time you walk past him, dragging you close to him so he can lean forward and whisper in your ear. "you like being a fuckin' menace, huh?"

and you do, that's what makes this so fun for you. you keep doing that little pout, bottom lip soft and pushed out, head tilted like you're confused when you're really not. he grunts, hand coming up to wrap gently but very firmly around the base of your throat, thumb just under your jaw as he tilts your head up, and his voice lowers. "you keep lookin' at me like that. walkin' around like that. can't you sit still?"

you blink up at him with a little grin. "i thought you said it was hot outside, baby. 'm just trying to keep cool." he scowls at your bullshitting and squeezes your neck.

"yeah? y'wanna see how cool i can be when i stretch out your sloppy lil' pussy?" your breath catches in shock at his tone, but your cunt gives a doll throb nevertheless. he continues, clearly fed up with your antics, leaning in so his mouth brushes against your cheek.

instead of backing down, you just reach down and take his hand off your throat, kiss the inside of his wrist before glancing around, voice sweet and breathless. "stop being so needy, babe. i'm sure you can behave yourself for a few more hours." you say, your voice soft and patronizing.

he's furious. his eyes rake over you, slowly, hand moving to the small of your back, holding you closer to him now. "i'm sick of you being such a little brat, y'hear me? do you wanna be punished?"

you scoff, and pull back just enough to give him a smug grin. "mm, you're so dramatic," you murmur like it's cute and he isn't five seconds from fucking you on the grass like a wild animal. "chill out. 'm gonna go get a popsicle. i'll grab one too so your mouth has something to do other than talking."

he stares after you, stunned while you walk away with your hips swaying. his cock is throbbing, nearly painful in his jeans now, the cotton of his boxers chafing into skin in the worst way possible. he would get up after you, but his cock is so fucking swollen that he cannot get up without causing a scene, and you know it.

he watches as you pull open the cooler lid, lean all the way over to dig through it, your dress riding up just enough to send another wave of fury through his bloodstream, before you pull out a popsicle and rip it open with your teeth, lips closing around it. your man exhales through his nose, pushing his hand over his lap in an attempt to hide his problem, watching you lick and suck and slobber onto that popsicle like it's his cock. not helping. "she can't be fuckin' serious..." he mumbles, his pulse spiking. his gaze focuses on you, lashes flickering as he tries to prevent the stupid glassy eyed expression he gets whenever he looks at you.

damn him for having such a big crush on his girlfriend.

you stroll back to him, still licking at your popsicle, and lower yourself onto his lap, right onto his cock. and with how thin your dress is, he can easily feel your plump pussy lips and clothed folds against his jeans. you're... not even wearing panties.

you know there’s nowhere else for you to sit, and he knows you timed it like that on purpose. you wriggle like you're just getting comfortable onto his cock, and the noise he makes in response is feral. his hands fly to your waist on instinct, and his whole body jerks under you, hips twitching up against your bare cunt even though he's doing everything he can to hold still. he squeezes you, hard. "you. you've got five seconds to get off me."

you giggle and roll your hips instead so your pussy grinds down on his bulge, and he groans, squeezing you tighter and putting his face in your neck. he needs you to stay still before he creams himself, but you're a fucking brat with no self restraint. "don't think i will," you hum petulantly, reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. "you're so comfy."

his hand comes under your shirt to squeeze at your flesh, he's so swollen and pent up that he's started leaking steadily now, his body begging for release. you won't sit still either, continuously grinding on him as he moans into you skin, biting into your throat to muffle his noises. "mmngh... 'm gonna fucking ruin you, you goddamn brat," you smile in response, all saccharine and smug. "in front of my friends, baby? don't think so."

he lifts his head slowly. "say one more fuckin' thing. go ahead. see what happens."

"you're hard as a rock, baby." is the last teasing remark you make before he gets up, dead silent, and yanks you up with him, his hand sliding around your waist. you stumble a bit in your sandals, but he catches you with no effort, one strong arm across your back to hold you close enough to him that his soiled pants and erection aren't visible. his free hand squeezes your upper arm firm enough for you to know he's done with your shit.

-

"baby, fuck! slow d-down, mmmh, oh my god,"

he's got you down on a bed in one of the rooms upstairs, the music coming from the speakers down at the barbeque the two of you abandoned now faded and replaced by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. you're laying down with him plowing into you from behind so roughly your vision is swimming, and one of his huge hands is splayed on the back of your neck to keep you down while the other squeezes your hips. he's grunting and panting harshly behind you, eyes blazing with anger.

"slow down?" he spits, voice rough as he bends down to talk against your ear. his chest is heaving, sweat sticking to his chest as he ruts into you from behind uncoordinatedly, thrusts hard and sloppy and inconsistent like he's lost the ability to pace himself. "you want slow now? after all that bullshit downstairs? after grinding on my fuckin' cock in front of everyone like a needy little slut?"

his hips snap forward hard and you cry out as he starts fucking his cock deep inside you, your walls stretched out around his cock close to unbearably. his hand at your neck doesn't let up either, making it impossible to lift your head and do anything but take his cock in your soaked, puffy little pussy. he keeps you pinned down like you're a wild, untamable animal. "told you not to fuckin' play with me." his voice is low now, rasping through clenched teeth, "i told you to sit your pretty little ass still, but no. and now look where you are, hm? getting fucked like a whore."

he pounds into you, his bulbous head swollen and pressing down heavily at your sweet spot, too much, too long. you're seeing stars each time he bottoms out and kisses the gooey spot in you so rough that you scream, and tighten up so much that it feels like you're milking his cock. you try to squirm and lift yourself up a little to get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure just for a second, but he slams in harder, shoves you back down, and you whine loudly, legs quivering weakly.

"couldn't help yourself, huh?" he growls, dragging his hand down your spine to slap your ass, hard, making you jolt and clench. "wanted to make me mad. wanted to see what i'd do if you were a little slut in front of everyone." your mouth hangs open as you pant and drool, fingers clawing at the sheets for something to hold. "baby fuuuuuck, please! i didn't-"

"don't fucking lie to me." he says quietly, his thrusts now quicker and rougher, his heavily balls slapping against your ass while he grinds deep inside you. you sob, twisting under him. "yes, yes, baby, i swear fuck, i'm mngh, sorry, 'm sorry,"

his cock twitches and throbs inside you with enjoyment at your pitiful sounds, and he thrusts into you from behind hard enough to watch your ass bounce and jiggle. you try to fuck yourself back on his cock to try and guide the pace or maybe encourage him to let you do the work but he squeezes the back of your neck in warning and pushes down on your back so you can't move anymore. you mewl pitifully, unable to gain any control. his length, thick and veined with a curve that hooks inside you at the perfect angle to kiss your cervix and your g-spot in every thrust, scrapes at your walls mercilessly. he's pounding you as a punishment.

"sh-shit... yeah?" he breathes, voice shaking slightly. "you're sorry now? while you're soaking my cock like this? fuckin' pathetic, baby, you're not sorry at all." he slams forward again, hard enough to make your whole body jolt, and you fist at the blankets for dear life, getting fucked into oblivion while your pussy clenches around him weakly. he hisses through his teeth, cock grinding down into the slick mess between your thighs deeply.

his hips buck sharply, cutting himself off with a guttural moan as he fucks into you so rough and uncoordinated that you feel like he wants his cock molded into the shape of your cunt. "bet you were wet the second we got here," he growls, leaning down to lick at your shoulders and bite your throat, laying on you from behind so you're now in prone bone, the new position making you both moan loud as his cock shoves into you impossibly deeper. one hand is sliding fingers into your mouth so you slobber around his fingers, while the other holds your wrist down. "oh fuck, baby... this pussy's so fuckin' good... fuck..."

you're sobbing now, the overwhelming fullness, the tight stretch, the pounding driving your brain to mush. "please," you whimper, barely able to speak around your cries. "i-i can't... too much, it's too..."

"shhh" he snarls, tugging your hair back a little so you're forced to arch for him, your hole spread for him. his cock shoves so deep inside you, and your walls pulse and flutter around him as the buildup of your orgasm coils up in your tummy. "you wanted this," he murmurs. "y' fuckin' asked for it. grinding on me, teasing me, sittin' on my lap with that messy little cunt, this is what you get."

he rams into you harder, strokes mean, and your slick makes filthy squelching noises with each sloppy, animalistic thrust. his cock drags against every soft, sensitive spot inside you like his cock knows instinctively exactly where to hit to make your toes curl. he pushes into you harder, putting just enough of his weight on you to be shy of smothering. "baby, i c-can't, 'm gonna cum," you sob, your voice wrecked and desperate, your voice is slurred and muffled around his fingers pressing down onto your toungue.

"yeah?" he pants into your skin, slotting hot, open mouthed kisses to your shoulders and throat. "you gonna cream on my cock like a good little girl? gonna soak me while everyone outside's thinkin' you're sweet and innocent? fine, nasty lil' thing. cum on my cock." he then turns your head, taking his fingers out of your mouth so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue immediately connecting with yours to kiss you filthily and messily, capturing your moans with his mouth.

you come apart by screaming into his mouth, your body clenching and trembling as the orgasm rips through you, your cunt squeezing him in pulses so tight he chokes on a loud groan. his hips jerk up ino you as he fucks you through your orgasm, thrusts sloppy and urgent. he pulls back from your mouth a little, licking your swollen lips and tugging your hair to make eye contact. "look at me. 'm gonna fuckin' breed you, baby. gonna stuff this messy lil' pussy full and make it mine."

you're still cumming, overstimulated and sobbing into the sheets when he slams in one last time with a ragged growl and spills inside you, his cream hot and coming out in languid, thick splurts. you feel every twitch and pulse of his cock as he empties himself into you, his whole body shuddering above you while he groans loud and unashamed.

he doesn't pull out right away, just stays buried deep, breathing ragged against your skin with his hands coming around to squeeze your breasts under you to ground himself. he exhales shakily and presses chaste little kisses to your shoulder, cock still rock hard inside you. he absently ruts into you, laving his tongue over your sweat slicked skin while you twitch under him weakly. some of his cum leaks out of you, but his fat cock keeps most of it stuffed inside. he pinches your swollen nipples and moans against your neck. "fuck, this perfect fuckin' pussy, baby. wanna go for one more?"

[insertsparkleshere]

I have a grandchid?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.” 

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

[insertsparkleshere]

Me and the wife (Jason Todd, The Red Hood, very well known for his acts of terrorism, very ‘murder for me but not for thee’) are going out (reading fanfic in a location other than my bed) and ordering in when we get back!! (I’m getting takeout.)

[insertsparkleshere]

What do you mean I came here to be happy and giddy and read fluff but y'all tryna make me horny with smut so I gotta get sad instead with angst, WE NEED MORE FLUFF FICS PLEASE, sometimes I just want to giggle, no tears, no heartbreak, no wet coochie

[insertsparkleshere]

have any of you ever considered: maybe he has a average sized dick. small even.

[insertsparkleshere]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[insertsparkleshere]

stop jason’s ended so sweetly i got whiplash

The Hall Pass

Robins react to their civilian partner declaring their hero persona as their ‘hall pass’.

(Steph is here too but she’s the instigator. Little stephcass cameo as well. I could write for the girls too if requested tho)

You really don’t know why you keep letting your boyfriend drag you to these hangouts with his siblings.

Sure, they were cool people, but that’s why you weren’t the most comfortable around them. They were fucking superheroes. You were just some kid off the street, and now you regularly spent your evenings playing board games with Gotham’s ‘rich young and powerful’.

Right now you guys were playing Clue. Which got really intense, as you could imagine. You’d think they’d pick a different game, since solving crimes was their day-to-day life, but nah.

They weren’t even being subtle about it. Pretty sure they were all trying to impress you with how fast they could beat the game, too.

It wound down, however. The night had dragged on. The game changed to Uno because that was less brainpower and more drinking.

You hit Stephanie with a Draw Four, that by house rules, stacked with another Draw Four, making girlypop have to draw eight cards total. You really shouldn’t have done that.

You couldn’t remember how you guys got to the subject, but suddenly you were talking about hall passes. You know, that thing where you can bang a certain celebrity if you ever got the chance and your partner can’t get mad.

You think they were just really trying to embarrass your boy. And it was working.

“Mine’s Zendaya,” Stephanie laughed, “people complain that she’s in everything these days but I couldn’t be happier. I’d use that girl’s thighs as earmuffs,” she then animatedly mimed some colorful actions.

Your boyfriend grit his teeth at the crassness. That was more than he needed to know. Cass just rolled her eyes at her girlfriend’s antics.

The others chattered their agreement. Zendaya was hot. A worthy hall pass.

Stephanie then turned to you with a sneaky smile, the air of an animal cornering its prey, “What about you, huh Y/n? You’ve been pretty quiet tonight.

“Uh—“ you stuttered, “I don’t know. I believe in fidelity pretty strongly,” you played with a lock of your hair, “and I don’t really let myself think about other guys like that, so,” you tried to deflect.

“Oh, please,” one of your boyfriend’s brothers interjected as he incredulously rolled his eyes at you, “like that’s true,”

“Yeah, and I’m secretly the Queen of England,” Steph added.

“Hey!” your boyfriend defended, “Sounds true to me,” he insisted. You were giving a perfectly good answer and they’re just jealous that they don’t have someone like you in their lives.

“C’mon Y/n. Surely, there’s some celebrity out there who’s caught your eye,” Stephanie knocked back her solo cup dramatically, “You telling me you’ve never had a celebrity crush? Never ever?” she nudged your arm with hers.

“Well…” you stalled for time.

“Well?” she pried.

And then you got an evil thought.

You know that little imp on your shoulder that likes to say “hey, you know what would be so fucking funny?”. Well, you’re going to listen to them for once.

True, you know that you’re sitting in the den of the infamous Gotham vigilante family, but they don’t know that you know that.

“There is… someone…”

“Someone?” your boyfriend pressed, trying really hard to sound like he was simply curious and totally not jealous. At all.

“He’s just—ah” you covered your face in your hands in a pretty good performance of fake embarrassment.

“Who?” they all badgered you as they leaned in like you were about to divulge tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers or something.

“It’s—

[Dick]

“Nightwing,”

Dick choked on his own spit. “NIGHTWING?!” He sputtered.

“He’s just so sexy. I don’t know what to tell you Dickie. He’s such a sweetie. And there’s something about the way he moves. I just get so starstruck when he’s around,”

“When he— When has Nightwing been aroun—”

And suddenly he remembered all those times he thought he was being sneaky, stalking secretly walking you home from the rooftops whenever you got off work at night.

Shit. Did you see him? Maybe once or twice? Was it more? Have you been aware that a whole ass vigilante has been practically stalking you? And you were okay with that?

Maybe you just thought his patrol route lined up with your way home.

But he didn’t have any more time to ponder this as you JUST KEPT GOING OH MY GOD.

“And damnn, have you seen his butt?” you whistled, “His suit is so tight. Sooo tight.” You emphasized.

Dick’s face was redder than a tomato at this point. Someone kill him now. Stephanie looked like she just won aforementioned lottery.

“He’s out here single-handedly keeping the entire ass city of Blüdhaven safe, all while looking like he was sculpted by Michelangelo or something. Literally gorgeous. And I heard he saved a puppy one time. A puppy, Dick. It’s like he was written by a woman. I’d be stupid to NOT tap that sweet ass.”

Suddenly, and probably his brain trying to cope with the mortification, all sorts of filthy fantasies were crossing his mind of you, him, and the Nightwing suit. Why did that sound so hot?

Imagine him coming home, not even shedding the sweaty suit as he made a beeline for you. Imagine dry humping while he’s still suited up. God.

Imagine the hero Nightwing bending an innocent little civilian over the table because you just wanted to thank him for keeping you safe. You’ll do anything for him, anything he wants *wink wink*…

Goddammit Dick! Not in front of The Children (his grown ass siblings lmao).

“Well, looks like Dickhead doesn’t mind,” Jason teased as he nudged his older brother with his elbow, knocking him out of his horny daze.

“Oh, he’s totally down for a threesome with Nightwing, Y/n,” Tim added devilishly.

“Shut up both of you!” Dick’s face literally could not get any hotter.

He hid his face in his hand as the rest of the party descended into giggles. You among them.

Poor Dickie. You’ll have to put him out of his misery and tell him that you know his secret after tonight. And then maybe you will get to tap that.

[Jason]

“Red Hood,”

…Jason was confused. Why would you pick him. What?

“Red Hood?”

Where was all his bravado when he needed it?

“Yeah, Red Hood,” you puffed out your chest in pride, “He’s like legitimately the coolest out of all the bats!”

“No he’s not,” Jason said exasperatedly, “You’re biased because he saved you that one time.”

It was a weird night for him. He couldn’t say he wasn’t pissed to all hell when he caught you getting fucking mugged in an alleyway, but he did enjoy the way you looked at him like he was your hero. Your knight in shining armor. Or knight in a beat up leather jacket and red helmet.

“No, I’m right. Not just because he beat up those goons for me.” you crossed your arms, “Those other vigilantes wish they were as cool as Red Hood. Batman wishes he was as cool as Red Hood,”

“He’s done a lot of bad things,” was all Jason could think to say.

“Antiheroes are sick as fuck, Jay. And he’s sexy as fuck too.”

Oh really now? He could almost roll his eyes.

“You don’t even know what his face looks like,” he scoffed.

“I don’t have to. Have you heard his voice when he talks to reporters? It’s like honey. Hot honey, Jason. I just know he’s gorgeous under that stuffy helmet. Oh! I bet his helmet hair is sexy too.”

Jesus Christ. Jason took a deep breath to center himself. You did not just say. All of that.

“Man, I hope that next time I get mugged he puts that sexy leather jacket around my shoulders,”

Your boyfriend just stared at you, willing the veins to not pop out of his forehead.

“You okay there, Jason?” Duke asked in fake concern, patting him on the back.

“Yeah, you’re looking a little.. Red,”

Oh, Jason was going to kill Tim for that one.

Forget them, there’s something more important on his mind now, “There will not be a ‘next time you get mugged’, Y/n,” he said annoyed.

“Oh sure there will. We live in Gotham,” you waved your hand in dismisal.

Lord have mercy on his soul.

Looks like ‘Red Hood’ was going to have to pay you a visit to have a little chat about safety. Again.

And maybe it’ll be as Jason, your boyfriend. If he can work up the courage. Maybe. Maybe it won’t be as bad as he’s been making it out in his head. If your staunch defense of him tonight proved anything. Maybe you’ll love Red Hood too. He won’t have to hide that part of himself anymore. He’d give you all of him, if you would take it.

[Tim]

“Red Robin,”

“Ooooh,” the siblings chorused.

Tim was unexpectedly quiet, however.

“…That’s an interesting choice.” he sounded weirdly calm, lost in thought as his eyes flickered like he was calculating something, “Red Robin,” he said it more to himself than anything.

Not exactly the embarrassed reaction you were hoping for. You were kinda confused, “What do you mean?”

“Well it’s just that he’s not exactly popular, you know? Like, you could’ve chosen Nightwing. That would be the obvious choice here. Everyone loves Nightwing,”

You pretended to not hear Dick scoff at that.

“Well, I don’t love Nightwing,” you said and also pretended to not hear the little wounded noise Dick made at that, and then the sound of the air getting knocked out of his lungs as Jason jabbed him in the stomach.

“So why Red Robin?”

“Well, again, sorry to Nightwing, but Red’s my favorite Robin. He’s just objectively the best.”

“Objectively?”

You started listing off reasons on your fingers, “He’s the smartest of the bunch, he’s the most successful, he’s the prettiest—“

“All of those things are highly debatable,” Jason interjected.

You shook your head, “Look, we’re lucky he hasn’t chose to go rogue because he’d be an incredibly powerful supervillain. He’d be unstoppable. And he’s my Robin. So really. There’s no denying it,”

“Your Robin?”

“Yeah, My Robin,” you fiddled with the bracelet on your wrist, that Tim recognized as the tracker he secretly put on you.

He knew if he gave you something, you’d never take it off. And sue him, he likes knowing where you are at all times. Helps soothe his anxiety about letting you roam around Gotham as you please.

It alerts him if you stray along an unusual path (dangerous) or stay in one place too long (also dangerous). Not your home or work or any of the shops and cafes you frequented. Just like. If you stay on a side street too long, then something’s happening. And he needs to know that immediately.

Seeing your little icon on the map safe and sound in your home was a comfort to him. Sometimes he’d fall asleep watching the unmoving icon.

“He’s like, the Robin who was active while I was growing up, you know? He’s the one I saw on the news and watched rooftops with my telescope hoping to get a good picture of him. That was the guy I wanted to save me. My Robin.”

“Oh so when you said objectively, you meant subjectively,” Damian didn’t sound impressed.

“No. I mean objectively. Just because I’m biased doesn’t mean he isn’t legitimately the best,” you crossed your arms, “You’re just jealous, Tiny,” you stuck out your tongue at the younger boy.

Damian squinted his eyes at your childish display.

Tim laughed, “Well, I guess I really can’t be mad if you sleep with him, then,”

“You can’t,” you said smugly.

Tim slipped his arm over your shoulder, and you melted into him. You might not have changed his plans on the perfect time to tell you his secret (which is next month, your anniversary), but this sure was entertaining. At least now he knows you won’t be mad.

(Bonus) [Damian]

“Robin,”

“Robin?” Damian echoed, voice tinny like he was outside of his body.

“I’m sorry Dami, he’s just really cool—“

“I have to kill him.”

“What?”

“I have to kill Robin, obviously,” he said solemnly as he quickly stood up from his chair, making a scraping noise on the floor, “The hunt starts now. Goodbye, Beloved, I will be back soon.”

“Damian!” you called after him as he dramatically left the room.

(He just went to go get more soda from the fridge. Little shit. But he gave his reflection on the stainless steel door a stern talking to, of course.)

[insertsparkleshere]

Jason Todd has really nice hands. Ones that are always placed gently on your shoulder, or your lower back. Hands that linger near you when you need comfort or support. That hand of a friend, turned something more.

Jason Todd has the hands of a lover. Ones that hold your face gently, and run over your bare skin. Jason Todd has hands that make your head spin and your body react in ways it never has before. Jason Todd has the hands of a god, able to make you see stars anytime, anywhere.

Jason Todd has really nice hands, and he didn’t know how much they meant to you until after a fight.

When you hadn’t seen or heard from him in hours. When you felt like a piece of you was missing because you didn’t have his touch. When you ended up calling him, an absolute mess over the line, begging him to come back home and hold you. And he listened. Of course he did. Because Jason Todd could never say no to you.

Jason comes home and the cold that seemed to consume you while he was gone, instantly vanishes the second you feel his hand on the back of your neck.

The second you feel his hands on your hips, guiding you wherever he wants you to go. Because you are a sucker for his touch, and now that he knows it, he’s never gonna let you go.

-

JASON TODD TAGLIST: @princessbl0ss0m @unofficial-jaytodd-wife @eternltys

[insertsparkleshere]

correct take my man is pathetic and that’s why i love him

okay this might seem like a weird question but i see jason as a very manly man (and not that this doesn’t make a man manly) but do you think he’s ever whimpered in bed🤨🤨

i think he ONLY whimpers in bed. i think he's pathetic and touch starved and insecure and thinks he's unlovable and unworthy of being loved so deeply that he can't believe someone would actually be attracted to him?? would want to touch him?? and be touched by him?? he's flabbergasted. it takes 2 months at least for him to take his shirt off in front of you. you tell him he's beautiful and he starts tearing up. you touch him reverently and kiss him with passion and devotion and he can't stop whimpering. he's a scary dangerous intimidating man who knows 50 ways to kill someone with his hands alone and can stop criminals with one deadly look, but how many times has he been held after coming back? like 4. so when you finally take him to bed and commit unspeakable acts on him all in the name of love i think he'd be overwhelmed with emotions and you'll be lucky if whimpering is all he does. (he's crying).

um i'm thinking about in how in new 52 outlaws he had relationships with essence and kory but i am going to choose to believe those were purely physical and so a real emotional connection would still make him pathetic. (<- delusional).

also. apologies u sent this on 3/30. i'm catching up on old asks still :/

[insertsparkleshere]

right this time 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: bad date, jerk behaviour from said bad date (not bucky, never bucky, he's a sweetheart)

summary: after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like. based on this request

word count: 2.2k

author's note: i love, love this request, soft!bucky will always be my weakness. love you guys and stay safe out there!

You could already feel the headache blooming behind your eyes by the time he said, “Oh, you don’t mind paying, right?”

He said it like it was nothing. Like asking the time. Like it wasn’t already the second time you had pulled out your wallet tonight.

You stood at the counter, nodding stiffly in your carefully chosen outfit, the one you’d debated over, hoping it struck the right balance of effortless and cute.

Beside you, Dylan barely glanced up from his phone. He rattled off an order without looking at you, or the menu. The most expensive combo on the board, with extra toppings and a drink, then added, “And large curly fries. Thanks, babe.”

You paid. Not because you wanted to. Because the alternative—arguing in front of a line of strangers under fluorescent lights sounded even worse.

The restaurant wasn’t charming. It was loud, crowded, and sticky. One overhead light buzzed and flickered every few seconds, just enough to make your eyes hurt.

Dylan slid into the booth across from you and immediately launched into a monologue, about his job, his bench press max, and the supplements he was “thinking of selling on tiktok.”

He didn’t ask you a single question.

Somewhere between his story about getting banned from a gym “for being too intense” and the fourth time he called himself an “alpha,” he showed you a blurry photo of his car. Then one of his abs.

You tried to smile. Tried to stay polite. Tried to find something redeeming.

But then he started in on his ex—how she was “too emotional,” how he was “so done with drama,” and how he liked girls who were “chill, you know? The low-maintenance kind.”

You stared at your plate, appetite long gone.

Afterward, he dragged you to a movie you didn’t pick, barely noticed you during the previews, and spent the first twenty minutes whispering unsolicited commentary about the actresses.

“Hot, but too skinny,” he said more than once.

When you finally tried to reply, he shushed you. Loudly.

You sat through the rest of it in silence, wondering when exactly the night had started to feel like a mistake. Maybe from the moment he said “you free fri?” without even using your name.

By the time the credits rolled, your shoulders were tight, your patience was gone, and you’d barely spoken a full sentence that wasn’t met with a shrug.

He looked at you then, slightly annoyed, like you were the one who’d ruined the vibe.

And just to really finish it off, when the parking machine spit out the total, he patted his jeans with mock surprise and said, “Crap, still no wallet. Can you…?”

You paid. Again.

He didn’t even say thank you.

You went home quiet, heels clicking against pavement, the weight of disappointment sitting like lead in your chest. You’d planned for butterflies.

Instead, you got a stomachache and a receipt.

You hadn’t planned on telling anyone about the date. Honestly, you just wanted to forget it. Bury it somewhere behind your laundry pile and pretend it never happened.

It felt embarrassing, like you’d walked straight into something you should’ve seen coming. And maybe part of you had. But god, some part of you had hoped, just for once, that someone would surprise you. In a good way. And this date was anything but.

Yelena asked how it went the next morning. Just a casual message. “So? How was it?”

You considered ignoring her. Then sighed and typed a reply. Quick. Blunt. No flourishes.

“Paid for everything. Talked about himself. Rated actresses. Didn’t even say thank you.”

It took her barely ten seconds to respond.

“I’m telling Barnes”

You let out a groan and dropped your phone onto the bed.

Of course she was, he was your best friend after all.

The knock came just after sunset, soft, unhurried and almost unsure.

You weren’t expecting anyone. But the moment you heard it, you somehow already knew.

You opened the door, and there he was, Bucky, standing on your front step in a fitted black tactical tee, sleeves hugging his arms just enough to remind you he never really knew how not to look ready for a mission.

His hair was tucked neatly behind his ears, a few strands falling loose across his forehead, and his expression was all soft concern. He looked comfortable, calm, like someone who knew how to carry the weight of the world but had left it all behind just to check on you.

In one hand, he held a brown paper bag. In the other, your favorite drink, the lid slightly fogged over from the cold.

And when he smiled at you, it was the gentlest thing in the world.

“Hey,” he said gently, offering the smallest smile. “I brought cinnamon rolls.”

You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t hesitate. You stepped aside to let him in, and he moved carefully, quiet steps, easy presence almost as if he knew you were still holding something fragile in your chest and didn’t want to make it worse.

He placed the bag on your study table, then turned back to you with a softness that made your ribs ache.

“Yelena filled me in,” he said, voice low. “I heard the date didn’t exactly go great.”

You huffed a dry laugh and folded your arms, leaning against the back of your couch. “That’s one way to put it.”

He nodded, not pushing, not prying. Just listening.

“I’m sorry he made you feel like that, doll” Bucky said after a pause. “Like you weren’t worth the effort.”

The words hit somewhere you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge. You looked down at your hands, suddenly too aware of how tightly your fingers were laced together.

“I don’t know why I let it get to me,” you murmured. “It was just one night and some guy.”

“It’s not about one night,” he said, quietly but firmly. “It’s the way he treated you. You deserve someone who shows up. Who sees you, someone who tries.

You looked up. And he was already looking at you.

Steady, present and kind.

There was a silence that stretched between the both of you, comfortable, not tense. Like neither of you needed to fill it with anything unnecessary.

Then he cleared his throat, nervousness flickering in his expression.

“I, uh… I was thinking,” he said slowly, “maybe I could take you out sometime.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean, only if you want to. No pressure. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “I’d like to show you what it’s actually supposed to feel like. A date, I mean.”

Your heart gave a small, startled flutter. Not because he asked, but because it felt different this time—genuine. No pressure, no performance. Just quiet sincerity.

He meant it. That was the difference.

You exhaled, the tension leaving your shoulders like a slow breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“You don’t have to fix anything, Buck.”

He met your eyes again, unwavering. “I’m not trying to. I just want to be around you. That’s all.”

And somehow, that felt like everything.

You smiled, soft but real. “Okay.”

His whole face lit up, barely, but enough. Like the sun peeking out after a long stretch of grey.

The next evening, Bucky picked you up right at six.

He rolled up on his motorbike—sleek, black, and already rumbling softly beneath him. He swung off and pulled off his helmet, that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

“You said you liked the wind in your hair,” he said, handing you a second helmet. “Figured we’d start the night right.”

You took it with a grin, nerves and excitement tangling in your stomach.

He stepped closer, reached out gently, and began adjusting the straps under your chin—careful, precise, but somehow impossibly tender. His fingers brushed just beneath your jaw, and when he looked up to check the fit, he was close—close enough to smell the hint of his cologne, warm and clean, like cedarwood and something familiar you couldn’t name.

“Too tight?” he murmured.

You shook your head, voice lost somewhere in your throat. “It’s perfect.”

He helped you swing onto the bike, his hand on yours steadying you as you climbed on behind him. And when you settled, you hesitated for only a second before wrapping your arms around his waist.

His body was solid beneath you, warm even through the cotton of his black tactical tee. You felt him breathe once, deeply, before his hand found yours and gave it a soft squeeze.

“Hold on tight,” he said over his shoulder, and the words felt less like a warning and more like an invitation.

He pulled away from the curb, and you tucked your face into the space between his shoulder blades, the wind rushing past your legs as the bike hummed beneath you. The world blurred in gold and shadow, and all you could do was hold on and try not to smile too hard against his back.

You weren’t sure where he was taking you.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t mind not knowing.

You expected maybe a quiet restaurant. Maybe a movie that didn’t make you want to gnaw through your seat or chew grass. Something safe, predictable.

But what you got instead was entirely different.

He drove you out of the city, down winding backroads lined with trees still clinging to the last golden scraps of autumn. The air was crisp, soft-edged, full of that late-day hush the world sometimes offers just before the light disappears.

After a while, he pulled into a gravel turnout near a small, wooded park. You glanced at him, confused, but he just smiled and turned off the ignition.

“Trust me,” he said.

You followed him up a narrow trail, the path crunching beneath your shoes. Leaves stirred beneath your steps, and ahead, tucked just out of sight from the road, was a clearing bathed in the last touches of daylight.

Tiny string lights had been hung from low branches, their warm glow flickering gently in the growing dusk.

You blinked, unsure what to say.

He unclipped a bundle from the rear of his bike, and pulled out a folded picnic blanket, a small cooler, and a speaker tucked under one arm. Everything looked like it had been thought through, not fancy, not showy, but thoughtful.

“I figured you probably had enough of restaurants for a while,” he said, his voice light with something just shy of nervous. “Hope you’re okay with something quieter.”

Your chest warmed instantly. “This is… really nice,” you said softly, eyes meeting his. “Thank you, Bucky.”

His smile deepened, and you caught the faintest hint of colour rising in his cheeks.

He laid everything out in the center of the clearing, the softest blanket, a pair of cushions, sandwiches he had made himself (cut diagonally, because you once had a debate with Walker about how sandwiches tasted better when they were cut that way), a thermos full of warm coffee and a little container of shortbread cookies, the same kind you always looked at when you went to the market together, but never bought.

You sat beneath the lights, the world soft and golden around you, the rustle of wind through the trees the only thing breaking the silence.

Bucky was thoughtful in ways that didn’t need to be loud, quietly showing up with the kind of care that made your heart ache in the best way.

He didn’t try to impress you. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t steer the conversation toward himself. He asked you about your week. Your favourite childhood memory. What you’d been reading lately. What song had been stuck in your head.

And he listened, oh, he really listened

He remembered things you didn’t even realise you had said. Little things. Quiet things that you had mentioned in passing. He wove them back into conversation gently, like handing you small gifts wrapped in ease and attention.

When you had asked about his life in the ’40s, he didn’t hesitate, just smiled, a little nostalgic, and told you stories like they were memories he had kept safe just for this moment.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. Not polite laughter, real laughter. The kind that filled your chest and made you forget about the rest of the world for a little while.

When the food was gone and the sky had faded into that soft in-between of night and not-quite-night, Bucky pulled out the speaker and played a playlist with songs you had mentioned liking—cozy, easy songs.

Then, without a word, he held out his hand to you.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice so quiet it could have disappeared into the trees.

And you took it.

Because there was no reason not to.

You danced under the lights, slow and unhurried, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. His hand rested warm and steady on your back. Yours fit perfectly in his, like it had always known its place there.

At some point, your head found his shoulder. His cheek came to rest lightly against your hair, and he held you just a little closer.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because this, this felt like something good. Something simple, something true.

It felt like safety. Like quiet, like someone had finally shown up just to be there with you.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe this wasn’t just a nice night.

Maybe it was the beginning of something that finally felt right.

a/n: and to anyone who has been on a bad date, i hope this helped!

[insertsparkleshere]

—SALT OF SKIN

𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason helps you when bloody mary rears her head. who knew he’d be such a softie too?

JASON TODD x READER mimi writing die hard fluff after gut wrenching angst pt 268374 . directed towards fem! reader , hint at reader being a vigilante but you’d have to squint . loved this request <3

The cramps came in waves—slow, rolling aches that twisted low in your belly like vines tightening around bone. You lay curled on the couch, one arm draped across your midsection, the other buried under the folds of a worn throw blanket that still smelled like Jason. Rain tapped at the windows like impatient fingers, and the world outside blurred into a palette of gray and silver.

You didn’t hear the front door open, but you felt the shift in the air—the weight of someone familiar stepping into your space, grounding it.

Jason’s voice was low and rough when he spoke. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You hummed a reply, eyes half-lidded, the pain pulling you down into a quiet place.

His boots were already off by the time he crossed the room. He knelt beside you, callused fingers brushing your hair away from your damp forehead, the gesture softer than it had any right to be coming from someone forged in Gotham’s fire.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” He murmured. “You okay?”

You managed a weak shrug. “Period. Feels like a demon’s tap-dancing on my uterus.”

Jason’s lips quirked upward, but his eyes remained full of concern. “I’ll kill him.”

You snorted despite yourself. “He’s immortal. I tried.”

Without another word, Jason stood and disappeared into the kitchen. The rustle of cabinets and the distant hum of the microwave filled the silence. A few minutes later, he returned with a heating pad, a mug of something steaming and fragrant, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

“Tea,” He said, handing it to you first. “Ginger and chamomile. Don’t ask me how I know what that does—I’m full of surprises.”

You accepted it with trembling fingers, the warmth a welcome balm against your cold hands. Then he passed you the pills and pressed the heating pad to your stomach with a kind of reverent care, as if your pain were something sacred he could tend to.

He tucked himself behind you on the couch, pulling your body back against his chest like he could act as a shield from your own biology. One arm slipped under your head, the other over your waist, his fingers lightly tracing soothing circles into your side. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine, a calm metronome anchoring you to the moment.

“It’s like my body is punishing me for not being pregnant,” You mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

Jason’s voice was soft against your ear. “That’s some twisted logic. Wanna fight your uterus together?”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Please. Tag team.”

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was warm and full, thick with unspoken affection. His presence dulled the sharp edges of your discomfort. The pain was still there, yes, but it was no longer unbearable. It existed alongside the weight of his arms, the steady brush of his thumb, the heat of the tea he brewed just for you.

“Thanks, Jay,” You whispered.

He kissed the crown of your head like it was instinct. “Always, baby. You hurt, I hurt. That’s the deal.”

And in the quiet hum of the rainy evening, cradled in the arms of someone who loved you fiercely and without hesitation, the cramps began to ease—not vanishing entirely, but receding like a tide.

You held onto him like a lifeline. And he held back just as tightly.

In between, Jason hadn’t moved.

He was still behind you, one arm slung protectively across your waist, the other curled under his head. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, slow and even, but you could tell by the subtle tension in his muscles that he was still awake—keeping vigil.

“Can’t sleep?” You murmured, voice rasped from rest.

His lips brushed against your nape when he answered, more vibration than sound. “Didn’t want to wake you. You were finally relaxed.”

You tilted your head slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. His eyes were half-lidded, but alert. Watching you like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to mishandle.

“You do this every time,” You whispered. “Like I’m gonna break.”

Jason sighed, the sound brushing your skin like smoke. “Not break. Just. . . I know what pain looks like, and I hate it on you.”

His voice had that rare, unarmored softness—like a scar turned inside out. No bravado, no sarcasm to deflect the weight of his heart. Just the truth, naked and aching.

Your fingers found his hand resting on your stomach and laced through it. His grip tightened instinctively, anchoring both of you.

“I’ve handled worse,” You said gently, voice like a fading candle flame. “You don’t have to hover.”

“I want to,” He said, firm this time. “You always carry so much without asking for help. Just. . . let me hold some of it.”

The words cracked something in you.

Because it wasn’t just about the cramps, or the hormones, or the heat pad pressed snug to your abdomen. It was about how seen you felt in that moment. How much he noticed, when you spent so much of your life learning how to shrink pain into something polite.

You turned in his arms, slowly, careful of the pad and your sore muscles. When you faced him, his hand immediately found your cheek, thumb sweeping the tired skin beneath your eye like he could smooth the ache from the inside out.

“You’re good at this,” You said, voice trembling. “Taking care of me.”

Jason chuckled softly, brow brushing yours. “Yeah, well. I’ve had some pretty bad examples to learn from. Made me wanna be better.”

You kissed him then—not desperate or demanding. Just the kind of kiss you give when words aren’t strong enough to hold the weight of everything you want to say. A kiss like a quiet promise.

He kissed you back like you were something precious.

Outside, thunder rolled across the city like a low, growling lullaby, but inside his arms, there was only peace. The ache hadn’t vanished. But it no longer owned you.

Because Jason was there.

And in his eyes, you were never something weak for hurting. Just someone worthy of being held through the storm.

You must’ve dozed off at some point, lulled by the warmth of his body and the slow, ceaseless rhythm of his fingers tracing idle patterns against your side. When you stirred again, the rain had thickened outside, falling in heavy sheets, drumming against the windows like the heartbeat of the storm.

You weren’t sure what woke you—maybe the sound of the rain tapering off into a gentler hush, or the phantom cramp that twisted in your lower abdomen and then faded. But the warmth beside you was gone.

A quiet kind of panic stirred in your chest.

You pushed off the blanket as well as the now cold heating pad, groggy and slow, body still heavy with exhaustion and discomfort. The air in the apartment was cooler now, the kind of soft, sleepy chill that made your skin prickle as you moved. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan clinked lightly. The scent of something warm and slightly buttery drifted toward you, soft as a lullaby.

Jason.

You padded toward the sound, limbs stiff, but heart settling as soon as you saw him—barefoot, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, standing at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a faintly distracted look on his face.

The glow from the stove’s hood light haloed him in warm gold, catching in the curve of his shoulders and the sharp angle of his jaw. His hair was messy from sleep, one stubborn curl dangling over his brow.

“You’re cooking,” You said softly.

He glanced over his shoulder with the crooked smile you fell for, caught somewhere between guilty and proud. “Caught me.”

“What time is it?”

Jason shrugged. “Late. Or early. Time’s weird when you’re miserable and bleeding.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “So what’s the midnight special, chef?”

He gestured toward the counter where two plates waited—one with an omelet folded like a secret, golden and crisp on the edges, and another with toast cut diagonally, like he knew you hated the crusts but wouldn’t say it out loud.

“Protein and carbs,” He said with mock gravity. “Doctor Todd prescribes it for post-cramp recovery. Also, there’s hot cocoa heating on the stove. I put extra marshmallows in yours. The tiny kind you like.”

Your heart did a slow somersault in your chest.

You crossed the kitchen and leaned into him, cheek pressed against his bare back. His skin was warm and solid, the muscles under it coiled but relaxed now that he knew you were close.

“Y’didn’t have to do all this,” You murmured.

“I know,” He said, placing the spatula down. “S’why I did.”

He turned in your arms, tucking you against his chest like he’d been waiting for the moment all night. You could hear his heartbeat again, steady and patient beneath the cage of his ribs.

“You don’t have to act like you’re not miserable,” He added softly. “I’ve seen you take hits that would knock most people out. This? This kind of pain? It’s a fight too. Just a quieter one.”

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you breathed him in—the faint salt of skin, the ghost of gunpowder and leather still clinging to his hair, and now the warm scent of eggs and melted butter. It was such a strange, perfect combination: dangerous man, soft hands, quiet nights.

Jason nudged your chin up, kissed you once. “C’mon. Let me feed you.”

He guided you back to the couch, a blanket already draped there waiting, plates in hand. He passed you the cocoa first, and the warmth of it bled through your fingers, down to the ache in your stomach, like a balm made of simple love.

You ate in silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. The only sound was the clink of forks, the occasional sigh, and the low hum of Jason’s voice when he quietly asked, “Better?”

You nodded, eyes soft. “Better. Only ‘cause you’re here though.”

He grinned, a little lopsided, a little boyish, and brushed his thumb over the corner of your mouth to steal a crumb. “Damn right I am.”

And in that midnight kitchen, with the storm finally calmed outside and the warmth of a full belly curling through your limbs, you leaned into him again. Just a little heavier this time.

Because healing didn’t always look like silence and stillness. Sometimes it looked like toast without crusts, warm cocoa, and the way Jason held you like you were the most sacred thing in his cracked world.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[insertsparkleshere]

Love letter

When you see a pretty flower, don't pluck it. You'll kill it.

Green eyes that note your every reaction. Fingers that constantly itch to feel your skin. An insatiable need directed towards your very being.

He feigns nonchalance well. Acting relatively stoic with an occasionally flirty comment in your presence. Even when he's not hiding behind his helmet around you anymore, he continues to hide his intentions, his hunger.

He doesn't hide his attraction. He makes it clear with every little gesture, with every little compliment. But he doesn't allow himself to expose how he really feels.

How you make him feel insane.

How you test his self-restraint with every laugh, every giggle.

How he craves you like he's drowning and your oxygen.

How he considers locking you up so no one ever gets to lay their filthy eyes on you again.

How you plague his mind with a thousand dirty thoughts and a thousand dirty fantasies.

How you're in all his thoughts, in everything he does. Like you're in his head, his lungs, and his veins.

How he wants all of you, all the time.

How he wants to be the only one that gets to hold your hand, taste your lips, touch your skin.

How he wants to know your body better than you do. To know exactly how to touch you, to make you moan, to make you tremble.

How the thought of you with anyone else makes him see red.

How violent he's willing to be to keep you safe, to keep you his.

Jason knows this is twisted. Obsession is an understatement. It was never supposed to go this far. It was just supposed to be a passing interest. An angel he stumbled across in the crime-ridden city that is Gotham. It was genuine intrigue and nothing more. And then intrigue turned into infatuation, and then addiction. And now he's too far gone to care.

But he does care about you, in his own twisted way. He cares what you think about. How you feel. Your likes and dislikes. He cares because it gives him ideas on how to earn your attention, your affection. He knows you're kind. Sometimes too kind. He thinks it's as endearing as it is naive. But he uses it to his advantage. It's manipulative; he knows that. But he also knows that he's far too tainted to win your pure heart the right way.

He doesn't know how to shower you with gifts. He doesn't know how to bring you out on dates. He doesn't know what sweet words he should whisper to you. He's not that guy. He never learned to be.

His love letter to you is not full of plastic promises or sweet nothings. It's full of real desire, need, and hunger.

His love letter is not pink, it's red.