#Cadence Tinker

[winwin17]

KOTLC poll:

[mantisgodsdomain]

Occasionally we debate on illustrating random bits from our Discord PMs that we find really funny but then we remember that we're, like, the physical embodiment of the "ace that makes sex jokes" stereotype and phrases like "iterator dick discourse" would both be remarkably difficult to illustrate and probably require us drawing something at least somewhat NSFW (we do not particularly care to learn how to draw this)

[anticipatedexhale]

Sweet dreams silly~~.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, ekko, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: you fall asleep on them!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader, fluffff and obvi not proofread.

Jayce Talis.

The day had been long—longer than it had any right to be. You had spent hours in the lab with Jayce, watching him tinker away at a new hextech prototype, listening to him ramble about energy outputs and stabilization. His voice was soothing, deep and rich, and even though you had tried to pay attention, exhaustion was slowly creeping in.

Jayce, as usual, was caught up in his work, hyper-focused on the glowing blue crystal in his hands. “You see, if we refine the stabilization matrix, then the energy dispersal won’t—” He stopped mid-sentence when he heard a soft sigh.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw you slumped against the desk, your head tilted slightly to the side, breathing slow and even. Asleep.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Guess my lecture wasn’t that interesting,” he murmured, shaking his head.

For a moment, he just watched you, his expression softening. You looked peaceful like this, your usual tension smoothed away by sleep. The sight of you made his heart squeeze in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

He hesitated, then carefully reached out, his fingers ghosting over your cheek before deciding against it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, stretching before adjusting his position.

Then, with the utmost care, he lifted your head slightly and guided it onto his shoulder. You stirred, mumbling something incoherent, but instead of waking up, you just curled into him instinctively.

Jayce went completely still.

His brain short-circuited for a second. He could feel the warmth of your breath against his collarbone, the way your body relaxed into his.

And he was not prepared for how much he liked it.

Swallowing hard, he slowly exhaled, trying to act normal despite the fact that his heartbeat had picked up. He carefully reached for his coat draped over the back of his chair, unfolding it and draping it over your shoulders.

“There,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”

His work was officially forgotten. He knew he should probably wake you up, tell you to go sleep somewhere more comfortable, but... maybe just for a little while, he’d let you rest.

Besides, the way you fit against him felt a little too perfect.

With a soft chuckle, he leaned his head back against the chair, allowing himself to relax just a little.

“Yeah,” he whispered to himself, “I could get used to this.”

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

Mel Medarda.

The evening had stretched on longer than expected, filled with soft candlelight and quiet conversation. Mel had invited you to her private chambers—away from the noise of the Council, the endless debates, the weight of responsibilities pressing on both of you. It was supposed to be a simple night, just the two of you lounging on her luxurious couch, sipping on fine wine, indulging in each other’s presence.

But the warmth of the room, the softness of the cushions, and the gentle cadence of Mel’s voice had lulled you into a peaceful haze.

She had been speaking about an upcoming political maneuver, something sharp and intricate, her words like silk as she absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm with her fingertips. You had tried to keep up, really—but the exhaustion of the day weighed heavy, and before you knew it, your eyelids fluttered shut.

Mel only noticed when she posed a question and was met with silence. She turned slightly, catching the way your head had dipped forward, your breathing soft and even.

A quiet chuckle left her lips, amusement dancing in her golden eyes. “Falling asleep on me now, are we?”

She made no effort to wake you. Instead, she reached for a silk throw draped over the chaise lounge, delicately pulling it over your shoulders.

Her fingers, always so careful and precise, brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. She let them linger for just a moment longer than necessary, taking in the peaceful expression on your face.

There was something so rare about this—seeing you like this, so utterly vulnerable and unguarded. Mel wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the quiet intimacy of the moment, but something about it made her heart ache in the gentlest way.

She adjusted her position slightly, allowing your head to rest comfortably against her lap. Slowly, she traced soft, absentminded circles along your shoulder, indulging in the quiet moment.

“Sleep well, my love,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose this means I win our little debate.”

With a small smile, she leaned back, resting her head against the couch. And for once, she allowed herself the rare luxury of just being—wrapped in the warmth of your presence, in the quiet understanding that neither of you needed words to fill the space between you.

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

Viktor.

The lab was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the occasional scribble of a pen against paper. The usual chaos of hextech research had settled into a peaceful lull, and Viktor was fully immersed in his work, sketching complex diagrams in his notebook.

You had joined him earlier, intending to keep him company while he worked—though you had underestimated just how soothing his presence could be. The soft scratch of his pen, the low hum of his thoughts murmured under his breath, the dim glow of the lamps—it all wrapped around you like a lullaby.

Viktor, absorbed in his notes, barely registered the moment when your head slowly dipped against his shoulder. At first, he simply continued writing, assuming you were just leaning in to read his notes. But when your breathing evened out, slow and steady, he finally glanced down.

His pen paused mid-stroke.

You had fallen asleep.

Against him.

Viktor blinked, momentarily taken aback. He wasn’t used to this—someone being so comfortable, so unguarded around him. It wasn’t something he expected, nor something he thought he deserved.

Carefully, he shifted his position, mindful of his leg as he adjusted his posture. You barely stirred, only sighing softly as you nestled closer. The warmth of you against his side was... distracting.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were, how easily he could feel the rise and fall of your breath. His fingers twitched against the notebook, his thoughts scattering in a way they never did, even in the most difficult of calculations.

A part of him thought about waking you—telling you that the desk chair you were sitting in wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place for sleeping. But another part of him, the part that secretly relished this quiet moment, didn’t have the heart to disturb you.

Instead, he reached for a spare blanket draped over the back of his chair. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped it around your shoulders, making sure you wouldn’t catch a chill in the cool night air.

With an exhale, he let himself relax, just a little. He shifted his gaze back to his notes, but his mind wasn’t on hextech anymore. Instead, it was on you—on how easily you had trusted him enough to drift off like this, on the rare and unexpected comfort that came with your presence.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He turned the page in his notebook, picked up his pen, and continued writing.

But this time, the equations didn’t seem quite as important as they had before.

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

Caitlyn kiramman.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across Caitlyn’s study. The two of you had settled in for a quiet evening together—her going through case files, you flipping through a book she had recommended. The plan was simple: a peaceful night away from the chaos of Piltover’s streets, just the warmth of the fire and each other’s company.

But somewhere between turning the pages and the gentle rhythm of Caitlyn’s voice as she murmured notes to herself, your exhaustion won. The weight of the long day caught up with you, and before you knew it, your eyelids drooped, your body leaning ever so slightly to the side.

Caitlyn only realized what had happened when she felt your head rest against her shoulder. She stiffened, blinking in surprise.

She turned her head slightly, catching sight of your peaceful expression—eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came.

For a moment, she sat completely still, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t that she minded—far from it. But Caitlyn Kiramman wasn’t used to people leaning on her like this, depending on her for comfort in such an effortless way.

Slowly, her tense shoulders relaxed.

A soft smile tugged at her lips as she carefully shifted, just enough to make sure you were comfortable without waking you. She reached for the knitted throw blanket draped over the couch and gently pulled it over you.

Her free hand hesitated for a second before she finally allowed herself the small indulgence of brushing her fingers lightly against yours, tracing a faint pattern along your knuckles.

"You must be exhausted," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I suppose my reading material wasn’t that exciting, then."

Despite her teasing tone, there was nothing but warmth in her gaze as she looked down at you. She had spent so much time building walls, being the sharp and poised Enforcer that Piltover needed. But moments like this—quiet, simple, intimate—made her realize just how much she cherished having someone to let her guard down around.

Caitlyn let out a soft breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned her head against yours, closing her eyes just for a second.

"Sweet dreams, darling," she whispered.

And for the first time in a long while, she let herself sit there and just be—with you, with the warmth of the fire, with the quiet understanding that, for once, she didn’t have to be on high alert.

Tonight, she could just be Caitlyn. And that was more than enough.

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

Vi.

The night air was cool, a faint breeze drifting through the open window of Vi’s small apartment in the Undercity. The two of you had spent the evening sprawled across her couch, talking about everything and nothing—stories from her time in prison, your latest adventures, and, of course, her constant teasing about how you could never beat her in a fistfight.

She had promised to teach you some new moves earlier, but after a full day of running around, you were too exhausted to keep up. At some point, you had curled up beside her, just listening as she talked, her voice a low, comforting hum in the background.

And then… sleep had crept up on you.

Vi only noticed when she cracked a joke and got no response. She glanced over, her smirk fading slightly when she saw your head tilted against her shoulder, your body fully relaxed against her.

“… Oh,” she muttered, blinking.

For a second, Vi just sat there, her usual confident demeanor wavering. She wasn’t used to this—someone trusting her enough to let their guard down, leaning on her in a way that wasn’t about throwing punches or watching each other’s backs in a fight.

She carefully shifted, mindful not to wake you, but when she moved even the slightest bit, you instinctively burrowed closer, nuzzling against her shoulder with a quiet sigh.

Vi froze.

Her ears went a little warm. She had taken plenty of hits in her life, but this? This was something else entirely.

She cleared her throat, rubbing the back of her neck. “Jeez, you really just knocked out on me, huh?” she murmured, her usual teasing tone softer than usual.

She hesitated for a moment before finally draping an arm over your shoulders, pulling you just a little closer.

“… Alright, fine. I guess I can be your pillow for a little while,” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

Leaning her head back against the couch, she let her eyes drift to the ceiling, her fingers absentmindedly tracing gentle circles against your arm. For someone who had spent most of her life fighting, running, surviving—this kind of stillness was new.

But it wasn’t bad

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

Jinx.

The hideout was a mess of half-finished projects, stray bullets, and a ridiculous amount of neon paint splattered across every surface. It was chaotic—just like her—but somehow, it had become one of your favorite places to be.

Jinx had been rambling for at least an hour now, bouncing between topics as she worked on some new explosive contraption. “—and then, I was thinking, BOOM! But not just a regular boom, like, a big boom! The kind that makes people’s ears ring for days—”

She turned, expecting some kind of reaction from you, only to find you completely out.

Jinx blinked.

You were curled up against the couch, your head resting on your arm, completely passed out mid-conversation.

At first, she just stared.

Then, she let out a snort. “Pfft—you serious? I was just getting to the best part!”

She dropped onto the couch beside you, crossing her arms and pouting like a kid who had just lost their audience. “Jeez, tough crowd. Didn’t know my storytelling was that boring.”

But as much as she wanted to mess with you—maybe yell something loud just to see you jolt awake, or doodle something ridiculous on your face—she found herself hesitating.

You looked… peaceful

It was rare to see someone so relaxed around her. People were usually on edge, waiting for her next unpredictable move, but you? You had just fallen asleep like this was the safest place in the world.

Jinx huffed, but her expression softened as she flopped down beside you, tucking her legs underneath her. She nudged your cheek lightly with a gloved finger. “Y’know, you’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d be real mad ‘bout this.”

With a dramatic sigh, she grabbed an old, tattered blanket from the other side of the couch and threw it over you—mostly covering you, though she wasn’t exactly precise about it.

Then, after a moment of thought, she carefully leaned in, resting her head against yours. Just for a second.

“… Don’t go thinkin’ this means I’m goin’ soft, got it?” she mumbled, even though you were too deep in sleep to hear her.

She stayed there anyway.

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

Ekko.

Falling Asleep on Ekko

The night was peaceful in the underground hideout. The hum of machinery and the distant sounds of the city above faded into a quiet lull, and you found yourself sitting next to Ekko in his little corner of the world. The light from his contraptions flickered softly, casting a warm glow that made the otherwise cold and metallic room feel like home.

You had been chatting with him for hours—about your latest adventures, the wild things you’d seen, and some of the crazy plans you both had for the future. Ekko was always so full of ideas, always looking to improve things, but tonight he seemed more focused on listening to you than anything else.

You could feel the comfort of his presence—how he always made you feel safe, like nothing could touch you when he was around.

But, somewhere between his soothing voice and the warmth of the room, your body started to betray you. The exhaustion of the day, the endless thinking, and the stress of the world above all melted away. Your eyelids grew heavy, and before you knew it, your head had dropped forward, finally succumbing to the pull of sleep.

Ekko didn’t notice at first, lost in his thoughts as he tinkered with a small device in his hand. But when he glanced over and saw you, your head resting on his shoulder, he froze.

For a moment, he just stared at you, trying to figure out if you were just resting for a second or if you had actually fallen asleep on him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he realized you were out cold, a peaceful expression on your face.

His heart did a little flip, but Ekko wasn’t the type to show how flustered he was—so he kept his focus on the work in front of him, pretending he wasn’t slightly melted by the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep like that.

But then, you shifted slightly, your body leaning a little further into him, and before he could stop himself, Ekko gently wrapped his arm around you to keep you steady. He didn’t want to risk you waking up if you were uncomfortable.

His fingers brushed against your hair, the lightest touch, but it made his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the quiet fill the space between you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered under his breath, glancing down at you. “Otherwise, I’d be all annoyed you fell asleep on me.”

But the truth was, he didn’t mind at all. It was like for once, he didn’t have to be the one in control, didn’t have to be the one always thinking a step ahead. He could just be here, with you, with the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Ekko leaned back against the wall, letting his head rest for a moment as well. He didn’t fall asleep himself—no, his mind was always too active for that—but he let himself enjoy the stillness of the moment.

And when the morning came, and you stirred, groggily waking up, he’d be right there, ready to pull you into a warm hug. Because that’s what Ekko did—he protected, he cared, and he made sure you always felt at home, no matter where you were.

But for now, he just sat, smiling softly to himself, and allowed himself to savor the quiet and the warmth of you beside him.

Authors note: U GUYS ARE ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL THANK YOU SOSOSOSO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT AND LOBE U HAVE GIVEN ME MWAHH

[prismkith]

may I ask for a oneshot with jinx like introducing her girlfriend, fem!reader to vander/warwick? and for a while he's like just sniffing and eyeing her suspiciously or whatever until he sees her and jinx in a super like intimate and sincerely loving moment?

also! may I be 🫀 anon? :3

Hi! Yes you absolutely may! i loved this request, and I hope you love what I wrote based off of it!

'How I met your grandfather'

pairing: Jinx X Fem!Reader

genre: fluff, maybe a hint of hurt/comfort

Wc: 2835

You sigh as you enter Jinx’s hideout, shoulders sore and the bags under your eyes growing heavier and heavier. You'd been out with Sevika keeping the lanes in check after the Stillwater breakout, and it was tireless. Enforces had been down your throats the entire time, and balancing keeping the enforcers from beating angry zaunites while also wanting to beat the shit out of them yourself had taken its toll. 

The lanes have been a never-ending job since Silco died. 

You felt horrible for leaving jinx alone after the attack, but she understood. You worked for Silco when he was here, and now sevika. She knew what your job entailed and was used to you being gone for days at a time. 

Stepping onto the still wings of the fan, you were confused by the noise or lack thereof. Her hideout was never quiet, always the sound of her tinkering, or having dance parties and bug-boxing matches mixed with Ishas giggles. 

“I’m home! Anybody here?” you call out into the air. The only response is the echo of your own voice. “Isha? Jinx?” you call out once more. Confused, you walk up to her workstation, cluttered and disorganized as always. You're met with a note on her desk, your name in her distinctive scribbly handwriting on the front page. 

‘Hey trinket, we found Vander. Took him to some mystery healer on the edge of Zaun. Meet us there if we aren't back before you.

Love ya’ 

Your eyes widen as you scan the letter once more, her lack of detail slightly worrying. Questions flooded your brain as you flipped her vague note to find directions on the back. 

Scurrying to get your things together as quickly as possible, you take off in the direction of this ‘mystery healer’, your heavy boots loud as you run to find your girlfriend and her back from the dead dad

________________________________________________________________________

You're slightly panting as you reach the gates she directed you to, having sprinted half the way there, and jogged the other half. Pausing for a moment as you catch your breath, you make eye contact with a man standing in front of the gates. 

His eyes are white, and he's covered in these bubbly pearlescent patterns, donned in the strangest clothes you've seen. You manage to mutter “The fuck…” before he’d beckoning you closer. 

You slowly stand up straighter, distrust evident in your features as you begin to approach him. 

Deciding that you in fact, do not want to open the can of worms that is the freaky-looking man with a blank expression, you attempt to walk straight past him, eyes set on the entrance in front of you, searching for any sign of wild blue hair or large semi robot beast.

You're stopped by Mr. Freaky before you can waltz past, his thin frame swerving in front of you. “I must ask that you turn in any weapons before entering,” he says, an odd cadence in his voice that you've never heard from a zaunite. You scoff at this request, “yeah, no thanks” you reply before attempting to shove past once more. 

You stopped once again, his tone firmer this time. “I must insist, as it is the policy of the Machine Herald”. You consider just socking the guy in the face and making a run for it but decide that you don't know what kind of crazy superpowers this guy might have, and to be quite honest you don't want to find out. 

“Look, not gonna happen. Not sure who this ‘machine herald’ is, but I'm looking for someone else. Just let me pass, i’ll be on my merry way and you can keep doing whatever…. This is” the annoyance shameless drips from your voice now, you have places to be and this guy is single-handedly keeping you from said places. 

He once again denies you access, and you lose your shit. You're now (loudly) in a full-blown argument with this guy, neither of you budging. His voice is only starting to rile you up more, and you're an inch away from executing your hit-and-run plan from earlier when you hear the raspy voice of your lover calling your name. 

You freeze immediately, fist pausing mid-air as your eyes dart behind the man to see Jinx, leaning against the entrance, arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face. 

“Stand down, sergeant. No beating the greeter.” her voice is sarcastic and teasing, and you sigh in defeat. Arms dropping and face annoyed as you reluctantly hand the man your pistol and several pocket knives that you keep strapped to you in various places. 

Once unarmed, the man simply smiles and steps aside, and you make sure to knock him in the shoulder before stomping over to your girlfriend. 

Your annoyance subsides as you see her smiling face, your arms immediately wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close. You feel her relax into your embrace, strong arms circling your waist and giving you a good squeeze before pulling back. 

“What the hell is this place, and why did that fish-man never change his facial expression once?” you question your voice laced with confusion and slight concern. 

She simply shrugs her shoulders and turns to start guiding you through the odd community full of tents and more people with white eyes and pearlescent patterns. “Vi said she knew of a healer here in the lanes. Said he was performing some miracles or some magic bullshit.” she spins on her heel to look at you while continuing to walk backward. “Personally I think he's just some weird purple fortune teller, but Vi trusts him and Vanders actually getting better, so..” her voice softens during the last part of her sentence, voice trailing off as her eyes cast slightly downward. 

You pause in your tracks, shock evident on your features. “Wait, Vi’s here?” not even attempting to hide the surprise in your voice at the mention of her estranged sister. 

She sighs, once again avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I mean, it's her dad too. Didn't feel right not letting her know that he's alive, at least.” you slowly nod as you come to terms with her reasoning. 

“Anywho! Now we're here at this weird commune run by a metal fortune cookie that can read minds and I dead honestly think this place is a cult. Everyone here is weird. And the only good food is the fruit. The only snacks are trail mix and it's all eighty percent raisins,” her lip curls in disgust, shaking her head slightly before continuing. “I fucking hate raisins. Just give me a grape, I don't want its juiceless corpse as an alternative.” 

You snort at her wording, but can't help yourself agreeing. Raisins suck and it's a crime to ruin perfectly good snacks with them. 

You continue to follow her, passing tents all full of people dressed similarly to the first man you met. Some were in tents that looked more like workshops, cooking, and sewing, and some in tents that looked more like homes, full of pillows and blankets and small furniture pieces. 

She continues to ramble about this place, she mentions that Isha is off in a tent somewhere helping a group of women weave a blanket (boring),  how the healer (who you figured out is the machine herald from earlier) somehow knew her childhood name, and how Vi had turned into some emo looking alcoholic and lost another fight to jinx in an underground tunnel. 

Finally, her walking begins to slow as you both reach a greenhouse near the middle of the village. It's a dome made of detailed stained glass, and you can vaguely make out the shape of the massive frame of Vander inside. You spot Vi sitting on the edge of what seems to be a water well, and Jinx’s description isn't too off. You make a mental note of the poorly done hair job and vow to make fun of her for it later. 

When Vi looks up and spots you, she sends you a nasty glare before stomping away with an excuse of finding Isha. You roll your eyes, so what if you've tried to kill each other a couple of times? No big deal, honestly. 

Jinx also rolled her eyes and dismissed her sister with a wave of her hand. “She’ll get over it, don't worry. She was just as dramatic when I went to find her.”

She simply crossed her arms, leading you to a bench outside the greenhouse. Once sat, she slumps into your side, shoulder pressing against yours and head leaning against the side of your own. 

“It's weird, you know? It's him, he remembers me and Vi but… he’s also part of this beast he's trapped in. Vi keeps asking for my opinion on… All of this, but I have no clue. I think I'm still in shock from when I realized it was him.” She shakes her head, letting her voice trail off. You sit in silence for a moment, letting her words marinate in your brain. 

You weren't sure how to respond, for Christ's sake, you barely even knew your own parents. What the hell do you say to someone who killed two of her dads, and then found out the first one is actually alive but trapped in the body of a hostile science experiment? 

Deciding that there was nobody on the planet who could find the words to comfort someone in this situation, you simply grab her hand instead and allow her to rest against you. She knew what your body language meant when words failed you. She always did. 

You sat like that for a while, enjoying each other's company and the quiet. It wasn't often that there was peaceful silence in Zaun, as silence usually meant danger. You both relished the feeling of letting your guard down for the first time in years. 

Eventually, a man… or.. Robot? You weren't sure, steps out of the greenhouse. His body is a mix of purples and blues, looking like a painted night sky, and he is adorned in a cloak similar to those worn by the others on the commune. He approaches the both of you, still sitting on the bench, an aura of confidence and peace to him. His accent is thick when he finally addresses Jinx. 

“I've decided to end our session today. Your father's condition is improving slowly but I can see him growing tired, and I fear pushing him too far may bear consequences.” he nods his head at you in a greeting as he finishes his sentence, before turning and walking away. 

Jinx grumbles a response, something of a ‘thank you’ mixed with some sarcastic remarks, and you think you hear an ‘aluminum psychic’ mixed in there, but before you can think too hard she grabs your hand pulling you towards the greenhouse. 

You stumble slightly, but follow her as she impatiently hops towards the door. Pushing the large door open, she drops your hand and runs inside. You're met with the smell of fresh plants and herbs as you follow her inside, slowly looking around the room and taking everything in as she runs over and wraps her arms around her father, asking how he's feeling. 

His eyes immediately snap to you, a look of distrust and unease in his eyes as he stares you down. Jinx notices, and slowly steps back from her hug. She keeps her eyes on vander as she backs towards you, grabbing your hand before speaking. 

“Vander, this is my girlfriend.” her voice is soft as she begins to slowly walk towards him, hand still locked in yours. 

Fuck, you were not prepared for the whole “meeting the dad” part of all of this. Sure, you've met one of her dads before, but that's because you worked for him, so the stereotypical introduction wasn't necessary at the time. 

Attempting to calm your nerves and make a good impression, you clear your throat and lift your hand as an offering for a handshake. “Hi- um, hello. Nice to meet you, sir. Big fan of your work. Both the daughter and the, uh, other stuff.” your voice shakes as you attempt a joke to try and relieve some of the tension growing in the small greenhouse. 

Your introduction is met with silence, and then more silence, as Vander just stares at you, occasionally glancing between you and Jinx. 

Finally, your girlfriend decides she's seen enough to rescue the situation, stepping between the two of you before breaking the screaming silence. “Well, this has been wonderful. We’ll let you get some rest for now, though.” she grabs your hand again, speedily leading you out of the greenhouse back into the peaceful village of tents. 

Once outside you feel her drop your hand and pause, looking over to see her with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised, amusement causing the corners of her lips to curl up. “Nice one! Real smooth, babe.” she teases. You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek and resting your hands on your hips. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

_____________________________________________________________

Vander glances around at the smiling faces surrounding him. Sat at a small picnic table outside the greenhouse sat his family. His eldest daughter to his right, and the miniature Powder to his left. A feast of fruits, salads, and roasted vegetables covered the table. A dinner cooked by a group of people on the commune. 

Across from him sat grownup Powder and her… girlfriend.

Vander was already struggling to come to terms with the fact that his daughters were now grown. It felt like no time had passed in his mind, but the years had left their mark on the girls nonetheless, and now he has to come to terms with his youngest daughter being out in the world of romance. His little girl, all grown up and dating women he'd never even met before. 

He continues to stare at the two of you, giggling and talking with the others at the table, shoulders occasionally brushing together. His eyes were weary as he watched you two, despite the fact that Powder seems to trust you with everything, nothing changes his distrust and distaste towards seeing his little girl all grown up. 

He continues this internal battle in his mind, struggling with the growing protectiveness only amplified by the traces of the beast still in his mind. Even the tiny powder trying to get him to eat and offering him water couldn't help distract him from the affection being shown from across the table. 

He could tell you knew he didn't trust you, as every time you made eye contact your eyes would dart away, face casting downwards. 

Eventually, the sun sets, and the conversation at the table begins to slow as the food in front of him is quickly destroyed by the hungry teens accompanying him, miniature powder having fallen asleep against his leg not too long after. 

He watches as Powder begins to grow tired next to you, her eyes drooping and shoulders slowly slouching as she tries to keep herself awake. You notice, and gently nudge her before deciding it's time to call it a night. You stand, and pull Powder up from the bench she's sat on. 

“C'mon, sleepyhead,” you grumble as you turn around and lean over. She turns around and throws herself onto your back, her legs going around your waist as you catch her and lift her until she's snuggly pressed into your back, her head leaning into your neck as her eyes close once more. 

His eyes soften as he watches you make your way to his side of the table to pick up the miniature powder from his lap and lift her to your front, one arm wrapped around her keeping her small frame firmly against your chest, the other arm still hooked under one of Powders knees to keep her balanced against your back. 

The act reminds him of when Powder and Vi were young and would fall asleep on the couch or at the barstools while he cleaned up the bar after a long night. The memories caused a pang in his heart, chest contracting at the memories of when they were young, reminding him of all the years he must have missed. 

As you slowly begin to walk away towards the tent Vi directed them to, he speaks up before you're too far away. 

His gravelly and deep voice calls out behind you, “It was nice meeting you too..” you pause in your steps, turning your head to look at the man behind you to confirm you weren't hearing things. Upon seeing your face, he glances down before continuing, “You seem like a good kid, you're, uh, good for Powder.” 

Your face slowly splits into a grin, simply nodding your head at him once, before turning and continuing your trek into the night. 

Meet the future father-in-law: check. 

____________________________________

A/N: ahhh first one shot let's go! hope you guys enjoy this one :3 luv my girl jinx that's my wife fr

[misswynters]

Just Because

ekko x fem! reader

requested by @inguuuuu

a/n. the boy deserves flowers 💐

Ekko wasn’t expecting this at all.

He wasn’t expecting the soft sound of your footsteps behind him as he tinkered with his latest project. His focus solely on the delicate machine in front of him. He wasn’t expecting the sudden hush in the air, a shift that made him look up from his work. His brow furrowed slightly as he met your eyes. You stood in the doorway, holding a delicate bouquet of flowers. They bright, vibrant, and impossibly beautiful. You were grinning like you were hiding a secret, and Ekko blinked in surprise.

“Uh... What’s this?” he asked, glancing between you and the bouquet, his voice still lingering with confusion.

You stepped forward, your smile widening as you gently held the flowers out to him. He hesitated for a moment, not sure if he was supposed to take them. But there was something in your eyes that made him reach out.

“Just because,” you said softly, your voice carrying that warm, comforting cadence that always made his heart skip a beat. “No reason at all. I thought you’d like them.”

Ekko blinked again, but this time, his expression softened. He glanced down at the flowers in his hands. They consisted of lilies, daisies, and something bright purple that looked almost like wildflowers. The colors were so vibrant, they looked like they were bursting with life. It wasn’t just that they were beautiful; it was the thought behind them that had him feeling a little overwhelmed.

“I—I don’t really get flowers,” he admitted quietly, a little self-conscious about the whole situation. “I mean, I usually see people giving them to... well, to girls. Not so much to guys.”

You chuckled at that, the sound like music to his ears. “And I’m not a girl?” you teased, winking at him as you slid onto the workbench beside him, your hands resting casually on the edge.

Ekko shook his head in amusement but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Yeah, you’re not,” he agreed, his fingers still wrapped gently around the stems of the bouquet. “But... why flowers, though? I mean, it’s not like I did anything to deserve them.”

“You’re why,” you said softly, turning slightly to meet his eyes. “I thought you could use a little brightness today. You work so hard all the time, and I just wanted to remind you that you’re appreciated. No special occasion. Just... because.”

Ekko’s smile softened as your words sank in, the sincerity behind them hitting him like a wave. He’d always been the one to show his affection through actions. Building and fixing things, helping others, however hearing you say those simple words meant so much more than he expected.

“Well, damn,” he said after a moment, his voice rough with emotion. He took a deep breath, looking down at the flowers again. “I wasn’t expecting that. But... thank you. Really.”

You grinned again, happy that you’d made him smile. “You’re welcome, Ekko. It’s no big deal. I just thought you might like them.”

There was a pause as Ekko took in the beauty of the flowers, his thumb brushing against one of the petals as if he were processing the gesture. Then, he looked back at you, his expression thoughtful.

“I mean, if I’m honest... I wasn’t really expecting to get anything like this, especially not from you,” he admitted, still holding the bouquet with reverence. “You’re always so... I don’t know, strong. Like you don’t need things like this.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “Are you saying I’m too tough for flowers, Ekko?”

He smirked, but there was something soft in his eyes. “Nah. You’re just... not the type to do things like this. It’s nice, though. Really nice.”

“I just wanted to surprise you,” you said with a shrug, your voice soft and genuine. “I don’t always have to be the one to receive surprises, you know? Sometimes I like seeing the way your face lights up when you’re surprised. It makes it 100% worth it.”

Ekko’s heart gave a little flutter at that, the way you were looking at him making him feel a warmth he couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t just the flowers. It was how you knew him. How you understood him in a way that no one else really did. The vulnerability in your gesture made something stir within him. He placed the bouquet gently down on the table beside them, then took a step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. He wasn’t sure what he was doing at first, but the words came anyway.

“Well... thank you,” he said again, but this time, it was softer, more intimate. “I... really appreciate it.”

Before you could respond, Ekko reached out and gently cupped your face in his hands. The movement was slow, like he was unsure of what exactly he wanted to say next.

“You’re more than just the person who surprises me with flowers,” he continued quietly. “You’re the one who makes me feel like I can take on the world, even when it feels like I’m losing. I just... I don’t know how you do it. But I’m really lucky to have you around.”

Your breath caught in your chest, caught off guard by how open he was being. The way Ekko usually expressed himself was more through actions than words, and hearing him be so vulnerable. It made your heart ache in the best way.

“Aww...” you whispered, your hand reaching up to rest gently against his wrist. “You’re more than enough. I’m lucky to have you too.”

He smiled then, soft and almost shy, as he leaned in a little closer, his forehead touching yours for just a brief moment. The world around you faded into the background, the scent of the flowers, and for a second, everything felt perfect.

You pulled back slightly, still grinning, but this time, there was a playful glint in your eyes. “So,” you said, your voice light, “what are you going to do with them?”

Ekko raised an eyebrow, his playful smirk returning. “Well, I think I should probably put them in water before they die, don’t you think?”

You laughed, nodding enthusiastically. “I think that’s a good start.”

He chuckled, giving you a quick wink as he grabbed a nearby empty glass and began carefully arranging the flowers inside, though the whole time, his mind was still reeling from your gesture. It wasn’t just about the flowers—it was about you, and how you always seemed to know just what he needed, even when he didn’t.

As he turned back toward you, holding the flowers carefully in his hands, you could see how much the little surprise had meant to him. His usual carefree confidence had been replaced with softer ambiance. He was quieter now, more contemplative, but still smiling.

“You’ve really got a way of making everything better, you know that?” he said softly.

You couldn’t help but smile back, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I’m glad. I like making you smile.”

Ekko looked down at the flowers again, then met your gaze, his expression full of warmth. “Well, mission accomplished.”

You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, a silent thank-you for everything. You knew that this little gesture was just a small thing, but for Ekko, it was the kind of moment he would carry with him, a reminder that sometimes, even the smallest surprises could change everything.

taglist: @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights @chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct @celineandtulips @stuckinaoaktree @fxxvz @jadziulaa @luclue @1intrustivethoughts @finnsky666 @blkmystery @serena6728 @mvistl @kaedeprinz @alientee @ametheslime @turquoizxe @emforjin @ekkosh

[beuxwhoyouare]

Preying on Him

We were at one of those Spartan type races when I saw him…what a beaut. I guess what they say about gays is true, they all end up falling for their doppelgängers. I mean maybe it’s my delusion but we shared quite a few similarities. Our physiques were similar and our heights were a near exact match. So I guess if you had like facial blindness and squinted and I dyed my hair darker we could be twins.

You may laugh because that sounds like a lot but in my head it was almost like the world challenging me to do it. I navigated my way through the mud and pulled my way towards the wall when I saw him to my left. He’s so cute and his light colored eyes were hypnotic.

I had to give up on any hopes of winning the race as I worked to trail him. I wouldn’t say I have an obsessive personality until that point but maybe that was the catalyst for it forming. I just wanted to know everything I could about him.

The race ended and I saw him meet up with a group. Once he separated and told them he’d meet them there I manufactured a moment of us “bumping” into each other. A quick glance was all I needed for now but I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

So sure I stalked him for the rest of the evening and saw him pick up on all the nuances of how he interacted with friends, how he moved, and even the cadences of his voice. His was a little raspier than mine, I mentally took note. Eventually, he separated from his friends saying he’d meet them at the after-race kickback. Returning to conventional modesty he sheathed a form fitting shirt over his lustful physique and taking a selfie to update his friends and followers.

I was nearly entranced and salivating over him. Eventually I naively decided without a plan to follow him, I trailed him as he went to the store to get liquor and snacks to share with his friends. Following him throughout the store, I began to realize that while there were similarities between us, he was like an idealized version of me. More muscle, more conventionally attractive features, and more masculine. At checkout I got close to him but kept my distance and found out his name as he sifted through his wallet for his ID, Benito, but his friends called him Benny.

It was the perfect name and reading it was nearly enough to break me. The day continued and so did my stalking, eventually leading to the kickback by a forested area by the lake. It was so chill and you could easily tell him and his friends were enviously charismatic and cool. I parked at a distance and sifted through all the random things in my car. I worked in medical device sales and I was sure I could figure out one unsellable device in here that could help me achieve my twisted climax.

Aha there’s this thing? I never could find the right psychiatrist for this one. It claimed to be an empathy device, someone incapable of feeling empathy for others could in theory garner that of the user. I don’t know if it actually worked but I’m sure I could tinker with it to make it exchange a little more than just some empathy.

As I sat there sifting through the devices code in the backseat of my car I made sure to alternate on keeping an eye on Benny. I made some tweaks and hoped I had done enough. The taser like device required skin to skin contact which was definitely a major fault with this plan but a moment presented itself as Benny waltzed away to go pee at a nearby bush. As he began to pee, I pounced turning the device on and launched at his neck. Too stunned to react, I made contact and a spark burst out and then everything went black.

I’m not sure how much later but I woke back up to some people shaking me as I lay on the ground. My blurry vision slowly started to focus and so did the. Sound of what they were saying to me. “Yo Benny dude wake up are you okay? We called the park rangers on that dude, are you good?”

I tried to hold in my laughter but a smirk appeared across my face. I had done it. They were calling me Benny. I pretended to be shocked by the attack as I snuck one of my new hands under my shirt to feel the new goods.

I told the people I just wanted to head out and go home, but my perverse desires were already taking hold of me as I walked back to my jeep. I couldn’t stop copping a feel of everything. My hands migrated one at a time from my new cobbled stomach going back and forth between relaxing and flexing, eventually moving my hands to squeeze my new arms and chest. I made my way to the vehicle and fumbled looking for an ID with a home address.

I sped off after putting it in the gps, continuing my exploration. Well over the speed limit, I was matching the speed of my heart beating as I ran my hands across my hair. I wanted to do more now but I needed to be in private.

I parked anywhere I could find at the address and ran as fast as my new muscular legs would let me. After a few failed attempts to get into the home, I made it inside and began nearly ripping my clothes off. He was so strong I could hear some seams pop as I thought I was being gentle taking it off.

I got to the last piece of clothing and was nearly salivating. I paused to savor the moment before I truly went carnal. Taking a picture before losing my innocence in this new vessel. I quickly turned my attention to the growing rod in my hardly modest boxer briefs. It may not be that long but it was intimidatingly thick. Like I needed both hands to wrangle that horse. And once I started I needed to brace myself against a wall.

I stroked with both of my hands expertly in a way this body craved. I was normally silent when doing this kind of thing, but this body wouldn’t allow that. Moans and sighs of unbelief escaped every other stroke. I don’t know if Benny lived alone but if he didn’t, everyone nearby is getting the erotic audible show of their lives.

I should’ve expected it since we met at a spartan race, but his endurance was ridiculous. Minutes in I was simultaneously beyond aroused and almost bored. I wanted to finish so bad but also never wanted it to end. And just then, I felt it and as I began to frantically look for something to finish in, it escaped everywhere. I fell to my knees as I let it release load after load in the room. I thought I had enough but couldn’t stop myself from licking up my mess on the floor, before falling over breathless.

I just laughed and walked myself to the shower. As I turned on the water, I walked back to see my new reflection in the mirror….what a good day to be Benny.

[camelspit]

Keeper Sexywoman 2025

Round 1

Councillor Alina vs Cyrah Endal (Apr 13)

Lady Belva vs Lady Fayina (Apr 14)

Master Cadence vs Juline Dizznee (Apr 15)

Calla vs Verdi (Apr 16)

Caprise Redek vs Councillor Clarette (Apr 17)

Edaline Ruewen vs Lady Gisela (Apr 18)

Emma Foster vs Councillor Oralie (Apr 19)

Esha Aria vs Waitress (Apr 20)

Grizel vs Ella (Apr 21)

Queen Gundula vs Lady Song (Apr 22)

Lesedi Chebota vs Lady Galvin (Apr 23)

Lovise vs Blue-haired Girl (Apr 24)

Luzia Vacker vs Tinker (Apr 25)

Mai Song vs Flori (Apr 26)

Umber vs Lady Vespera (Apr 27)

Queen Nubiti vs Tarina (Apr 28)

Empress Pernille vs Brielle (Apr 29)

Della Vacker vs Livvy Sonden (Apr 30)

Jolie Ruewen vs Elysian (May 1)

Quinlin's Receptionist vs Councillor Liora (May 2)

Councillor Ramira vs Lady Zillah (May 3)

Coach Rohana vs Councillor Velia (May 4)

Queen Hylda vs Silla Heks (May 5)

Mrs Stinkbottom vs Vika Heks (May 6)

Coach Wilda vs Councillor Zarina (May 7)

Ro vs Silveny (May 8)

Comeback Round (May 9)

[djarrex]

got you under my skin

ND-5 x f!reader

read on ao3 (more warnings here too) | masterlist

in Outlaws I crash the ship into things on purpose just to hear ND scold me. yeah I'm a robofucker now. can't help it. minors be gone.

The Trailblazer had just landed on the landing pad, the engines whirring as they powered down, when Kay came up behind you where you were tinkering with your blaster at the workbench. Nix jumped onto the table from her shoulder and chirped at you. 

“You good to hang back with ND?” she asked, even though she knew the question was pointless – and it was more of a taunt, no less. You tossed her a sideways glance, rolling your eyes at her knowing grin. 

“We’ll be fine,” you assured her as you ran a cloth along the barrel of your blaster. “We’ll get started on mapping out the next locations.” You paused, setting down your blaster to pet the merqaal, who beamed at you with those large eyes and wide smile of his.

“He can’t hate me forever.”

“ND doesn’t hate you!” She chuckled at that, and opened the side gangway door as Nix jumped back to her shoulders. “I already told you that it just takes him a while to warm up to people. Especially if those people needed their lives saved right out the gate.” Kay winked at you, and you remembered how Kay’s initial relationship with the old commando droid had been rocky as well.

You partially followed Kay as she started to head down the gangway. “I need you to work together on this. I should be back in a few hours,” she called back to you. With a smirk, she then added: “Try to get along until then.”

The gangway door shut and you could almost laugh out of pure disbelief, a heavy sigh blowing out between your clenched teeth. Kay knew just how much ND got under your skin, and if ND had skin, you were positive the feeling would be reciprocated. The droid and you hadn’t been able to get along ever since he’d been forced to save your life just after you’d joined their crew. Months ago now, Kay had run into you on Renpalli Station. You’d been on the run from your former employer and were trying to secure a ride out of the sector. She’d been nice enough to offer you a ticket to freedom, but after those several hours of hyperspace travel–including multiple games of Sabacc, drinks, and shared stories–Kay had offered you a place with their crew. You had certain skills that could be put to use, and Kay had known that, which is what she argued with when reasoning with her droid partner that you would be a useful addition. ND-5 was hesitant, but trusted Kay’s judgment, just as he always had. 

From that moment–the way he’d shaken his head at you while reluctantly agreeing with his partner–you were able to tell it would take a while to prove yourself to the droid. But getting into trouble with the Empire a couple days later really sealed the fate of your relationship with him. Every little thing you did since then had been attempt after attempt to prove yourself to ND-5, that you were worthy of his trust and you were not a liability to the crew, but it still wasn't enough. The dismissive attitude toward you and his overall demeanor when it came to you eventually turned into a sour taste in your mouth, and now, you were just plain bitter. The only friendly interaction you had on the Trailblazer was with Kay or little Nix, but she was always out and about doing her thing with her small companion by her side; which was fine, because she was good at what she did. You were more comfortable hanging back, even if that meant sharing the space with the droid who so blatantly disliked you. You were always able to keep yourself busy, and really the only times you needed to interact with ND-5 was when Kay requested it. Like now. 

“She is still at the workbench,” you heard ND-5’s deep, modulated voice come from the cockpit. He may be a droid, but he sure as hell learned to cadence his speech to appropriately deliver what he was trying to relay. You shook your head and took a centering breath before you made your way into the cockpit. ND was still seated in the co-pilot's seat, as he always was, as he spoke with Kay on the comm. His head slightly turned upon hearing you enter. 

“I’m here, Kay,” you call out, rolling your eyes at the back of the droid’s head. You took a seat in the pilot’s chair, and kicked up your legs, resting them up against the console. “Didn’t you just leave? ND bothering you already?”

“I have narrowed down a few systems that–” ND-5 paused, his head turned in your direction. “Get off of the console.”

“ND,” came Kay’s mock scolding voice. You could picture her facial expression. “Be nice. Now, what were you saying about those systems?”

You tucked your legs onto the seat instead, holding your knees close to your chest and spun back and forth as the conversation carried on. ND and Kay went back and forth about the systems that he’d mapped out without you, and you remained silent for the most part, biting your tongue. Kay disconnected a couple minutes later, but not after tossing out another reminder to get along with one another. 

“So,” you started, dropping your boots into the ground with a thud and resting your elbows against your knees. “I know we told Kay we’d work together on that, but it looks like you already went ahead and did everything yourself instead.”

“Yes,” he told you flatly, clicking away on the datapad held in his long, metal fingers. While you were busy playing with your blaster, I got to work on what was requested.”

“That’s not– Kay had just left!” You practically shouted, but ND didn’t spare you a glance. You sat up straighter. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, and we don’t exactly get along the way crewmates should.” You sighed, trying to calm yourself down. “But I pull my weight, and Kay likes having me here. I made one mistake months ago and I have been trying to prove myself to you but you won’t even let me do that!

ND-5 visibly froze as you stood up, but didn't bother to look toward you. You stepped over to where he was sitting, more words buzzing on your tongue. “And if all this animosity toward me is your way of trying to get me to leave, then you may just get what you wanted. I don’t know what your problem with me is.”

None of the anger died with those last words, but you decided to save your breath and go back to what you’d been doing before – but before you could make it all the way out of the cockpit, ND’s voice arrested you in place.

“Do you really want to know?”

The way it sounded so genuine sobered you, and when you turned around, ND was actually looking at you. It was your turn to be frozen as he stood up, his imposing height towering over you. You felt like shrinking, your chest tightening at the mere way ND was looking down at you. Anxiously, you awaited his next words as you could practically see the gears turning and springs bouncing in his head.

It dawned on you that you’d never stood this close to him before. Strange, you thought, because you do live on the same ship.

“You… are a distraction.”

You narrow your eyes, and swallow hard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looked away.

“...Nevermind.”

“ND-5, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You huffed in frustration. “You know what? You’re distracting me from “playing” with my blaster,” you tossed out his own words back at him. “Fuck this.”

You turned to leave the cockpit, but ND’s metal fingers found their place wrapped around your arm. He didn’t yank you, or apply serious pressure as you know he probably could have without even realizing, but the gesture definitely stopped you in your tracks. He had never touched you before, not even with the fabric of his trench coat whenever he would walk by. You couldn’t face ND, too concerned with the way your face heated up at the contact of the cool metal against your skin.

He spoke your name, quietly, and the sound of it made your heart skip a beat.

“I can hear a lot,” he started to elaborate. “My audio sensors can pick up what organic hearing sometimes cannot.” 

You finally turned around, feeling even smaller than before with how close he was to you. ND could probably sense how heated your skin was. You were embarrassed now, too – flames kindling all over your body. Never would you have ever predicted that you’d feel this heated from something other than anger and frustration with ND. A new feeling emerged from somewhere deep within you – a lust that must have crawled its way out. 

Your throat felt dry. This was new. 

“...And?”

“I cannot get the sounds you made out of my memory banks.”

You were in shock. ND-5 could hear you – late at night in the semi-privacy of your little alcove bunk. As quiet as you always were–something you’d always take precautions with–proved to be futile when in the proximity of a droid, one who was actually able to speak to you about it – a droid who was apparently making you feel… desire. 

“I did resent having to save you from those Imps,” he continued. “But I have, unexpectedly, found myself intrigued by you.”

You raised a brow and instinctually bit your lip.

“Oh? Is that the case?”

“Yes. I have often calculated how I could pull those sounds from you myself. That is why you are a distraction.” 

You were still in shock, even more so than before. You could say it all made sense now – why ND kept you at such a distance, why he shut you down with disapproving comments and taking it upon himself to complete tasks solo, rather than working alongside you. You could say it made sense, and maybe this was your way to bridge things with ND, to make things amicable with him for the first time. 

This was never something you’d consider before. There never was an attraction until now and it’s growing rapidly, beyond your control. You figure that all the resentment you harbored for him in retaliation was the catalyst – and now you need to fuck it all out of your system. He’s a droid… but maybe that was a good thing.

“Tell me,” you cautiously prodded. Nerves and the newfound desire fought for the reins. “What, um, calculations have you made?”

He was so close that for the first time you could hear the faintest of whirs in even the smallest of his movements. “This is a surprise,” ND noted with a cadence in his tone to match. “I never calculated that you would inquire about this.”

“Well.” The drive took over, and with the newfound confidence, your palm rested on his cool metal chest, just below the jagged scar. You glanced up. “I am.”

ND froze, as if he were computing his next move. 

Maybe you were making a fool of yourself. It wasn’t like you woke up this morning already pining for the droid, and even now, you weren’t even sure how it would work – but something in the back of your head screamed at you, that ND knew exactly how it would all play out – and that tempted you to your detriment.

“Good,” he said quietly and in a way that meant no backing out now. Raising his arm, ND dragged a finger down your cheek and cradled your jaw. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. “Get against the console.”

You blinked at him. “I thought you didn’t like it when I–” The wordless stare you were leveled with was enough to jolt you with the realization. A devious, knowing smile grew on your lips. “–Oh.”

“If you are going to be a brat–” His hold on your chin tightened. “–Then this will not continue.”

“C’mon, ND. Admit it.” You sauntered over to the console when he released you, arching your back and presenting yourself. It was cheap, and you felt a little embarrassed by it, but you’d tossed all caution to the wind. “You like it when I talk back, don’t you?”

ND-5 shook his head. “Tell yourself whatever you would like.” 

The sounds that came from his metal feet hitting the ship’s floor never sounded so loud and imposing until now. Each thud against the floor flooded you with more and more anticipation, and if you could really focus, it almost seemed like he was purposefully taking his time making his way over to you. Maybe that was part of it, part of his calculations. Whatever it was, it was working. Your cunt clenched around nothing, and you felt your underwear dampen.

You held your breath until you felt his hands on you, then everything came to a halt. He spoke your name again – entirely too soft and genuine and a huge contrast to the way he’d say your name before today. Your heart skipped another beat, and you turned your head over your shoulder. 

“Are… you sure you want this,” he asked. A check-in. A final confirmation. You could not recall any other time when you’d been asked something like this. You were filled with gratitude, and it blindsided you. You weren’t sure how to respond, but your defensive instinct to rub ND the wrong way was prominent, and it kicked in quickly.

After all, you were pretty good at it. 

“Who knew you could be so considerate?” you teased.

An audible sigh came from behind you. “What did I say about being a brat?”

“Fine.” With a deep breath, and with everything within you screaming for you to give in to this, you nodded your head. “I want this.” You took another breath, and offered up just a little more. “I… need this.”

“Yes, you do.”

From the right you saw him toggle a switch, and the viewport’s transparisteel tinted before your eyes. The outside light still filtered into the cockpit, however the privacy settling ensured nobody on the outside could see in.

ND’s hands were on you again, the length of his fingers closing around your hips. He gripped them, offering up more pressure than he had on your arm before. His hands don’t stay in place long; soon the fingers were sliding down and around your front, pausing again where you were practically throbbing.

“If I alternate between rubbing and applying pressure on and off right… here–” ND told you, his fingers having somehow found your clit even from over your pants, “–You will be making those same noises for me in a matter of moments.”

You grin to yourself. “Try it, then.”

A thoughtful hum is what he offered in response, and just as it was spoken, ND started to slide a single finger between your legs, adding pressure to right where your clit was, and repeated the motions. You were so worked up that it didn’t take long for you to start letting your moans fall freely, giving in to exactly what he had calculated. Even though it was so much, it still somehow wasn't enough, and you couldn't help but start to rock your hips against him, dragging your ass against the cool metal of his body that was caging you in as his hand remained cradled between your legs. 

“You really did need it. Look at you,” he praised. “Keep going. Take it.”

Never had you ever considered just how lethal ND-5’s voice could be. The rich, modulated sound of it shot straight through you. You felt like an exposed nerve, and every little sound and touch was electrifying. It had been far too long since you’d gotten off with a partner – but this – this was something else entirely. You started to sweat from the exertion, and the entirety of your body being clothed became too much. 

“ND,” you breathed out his name and paused your movements, pathetically tugging on your shirt. “Get this off of me.”

“Not yet,” he countered, much to your chagrin. You sighed in frustration and started to undress yourself, but he gripped you tighter. “You were close, weren’t you? Finish first, then I will comply with your request.”

You were much too worked up to argue, but he was right – you were close. Relinquishing yourself again to ND’s process quickly built you right back up to where you’d been before, and with shaky legs, you practically collapsed with the intensity of it all. It was barely several seconds later when his hands disappeared and his heavy footfalls moved from behind you, and when you picked yourself up off the console and turned your head, you saw ND sat right back in his seat, spun to face out. The trench coat he wore was pushed back behind him, giving you clear access to those metal legs. Realization dawned on you once again, and you were partially ashamed to admit to yourself just how eager you’d become. 

“Over here.”

Still clearing the stars from your eyes, you slowly made your way over to him, awaiting instruction. 

“What would you like me to remove?”

“All of it,” you told him in a voice far too breathy. ND cocked his head at that, but obliged. You kicked off your boots, unclasped your holster, and shrugged off your jacket, but ND handled the rest, carefully peeling off your shirt then your pants and tossed them over to the other chair. You stood there in only your bra and underwear, mentally batting away the sudden shyness that threatened to creep up and out. You knew there was a huge wet patch staining your underwear, and ND visibly took note. 

“Very good,” ND praised. It was simple, but enough, and it brought your confidence back. He patted his lap. “Sit.”

That one word turned you into a picture of obedience. You straddled his leg, your sticky and heated skin pleasantly bitten by the metal.  

“What else did you calculate?” You took off your bra then, and threw it to join the rest of your clothes.

“That you would be able to reach orgasm just like this.”

“Like how?” you asked coyly. 

“Hold on to me here,” ND instructed. He directed your hands to rest on his shoulders, the rough material of the trench coat beneath your palms. “Yes. Good.”

“Then?”

ND said your name in warning. You couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“You think this is funny,” ND commented flatly. He pinched your nipple, and it hurt. You yelped in surprise, and he shook his head – displeased. 

“Now take it, or get off of me. We don’t have all day.”

Your jaw dropped at his words, but your grip on him strengthened. “Fuck, okay.”

“You have the mouth of a pirate,” he added.

Leaned back in the seat, ND rested his hands on your hips and kept them there as you dragged your soaked pussy against the hard metal of his leg. You could hold on to ND as hard as you could and you’d break your own fingers before he’d feel a thing, so you used that to your advantage, riding his leg quick and rough while clinging to his shoulders for purchase. His bulk and solid weight made it so that he barely budged while you moved, but the seat squeaked rapidly, and it echoed throughout the cockpit along with your heavy breaths.

“Touch me, ND.”

It was almost comical how he looked down at where his hands were grabbing your rocking hips, then back up at you, like a huge question mark hung in the air above his head.

“Touch me here,” you clarified, guiding his hand to your chest. “Like what you did before, but not so hard.”

“Understood.”

ND took over then, your breasts held within his large fingers. You looked down, savoring the sight of his metal digits bending at the joints as he groped you. You kept rocking against his leg, your clit catching against the fabric of your underwear. Moans and whimpers fell freely from between your lips, and ND just sat there taking it all in as you continued to inch your way toward another orgasm. 

“You’re close again,” ND noted matter-of-factly. “I can tell. The sounds you make get breathier, and higher in pitch.” 

You were too far gone to make any type of comment back, sarcastic or otherwise, but he was right once again. You felt it in your toes, a tingle that shot all the way up your legs and to your chest where his fingers started to experimentally twist and pull at your nipples. It felt so good that you could cry, and after another few moments of the same repeated motions, you did. Tears of pleasure started to stream down your cheeks, and your pussy started to clench uncontrollably against his leg. Your legs quivered and your chest rapidly flexed with your breaths. Almost as if you’d forgotten who you were with, your head fell forward and you rested your cheek against the unscarred surface of his chest as you caught your breath.

ND spoke your name, and you shot up. 

“Sorry– I–”

“It’s all right,” he offered. “That was intense for you.”

Smug.

You ignored the comment and made it on your feet, but felt a huge wave of embarrassment come over you as you looked down to ND’s leg, where streaks of your release had made it through your underwear and ended up stained on the metal.

“Let me, uh, get that.” 

Despite your weak legs, you quickly redressed and ran over to the kitchen for a rag. Rather than heading right back to the cockpit, you took a moment to stand there in the daunting silence, a million thoughts bouncing around in your head. Did this actually fix anything? Or did this ruin everything? As if you’d been doused in ice-cold water, all of the pleasure you’d experienced and the thrum of adrenaline was gone in seconds, insead replaced with regret and concern. Everything came rushing back to the forefront of your mind, and mixed emotions with it all. ND-5 didn’t want you as part of the crew. He never did. He put up with you living on the Trailblazer and working the jobs with them because he trusted Kay, but that was it. You were a distraction, and now, arguably, you were an even bigger one. 

You didn’t want to take too long. When you finally came back, ND’s head followed your every move, and he continued to stare as you wiped him off. He couldn’t read your mind, but you knew how analytical he was. Calculating. Always assessing. It made you tense. 

Breaking the palpable silence, ND said your name for the fourth time. Not that you were keeping count.

“I don’t hate you.”

Caught by surprise, and suddenly a little irritable now, you backed away from him as if you'd been burned. You would have been angry before. Now, you felt lost. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

You tossed the rag to the side, somewhere you’d be able to remember to grab it to dispose of later.

“You are part of the crew,” he reminded you. “It does matter.”

You didn’t have anything else to say. In fact, you were so overwhelmed with too many emotions and feelings alike, that you just wanted to retreat to the semi-privacy of your bunk and wait it out until Kay came back to naturally break this newly uncovered tension.

“Come back here,” ND called after you. “We need to talk.”

You stopped in your tracks and whipped around to face him. After all these months, now he wants to talk? You were more confused now than anything, and didn’t really have the energy to be angry, but your defensive instinct to start swinging quickly took over.

“About what, ND? You say you don’t hate me, but you sure as hell don’t want me here.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you here. You are a dis–”

“A distraction, yes, you’ve said that. Message received, ND.” You shook your head dismissively, waving your hands in the air. “There isn’t much more to discuss.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was the first time you’d heard ND apologize to you for anything, and some of the stronger feelings diffused. ND’s heavy footfalls came toward you, and he said your name again, only this time, you truly listened.

“I meant it when I said that I resented saving you,” he began. “But you are here for a reason. I trust Kay, and she trusts you. That is enough for me.” 

“I see.” You look down at your boots. Your face felt hot again as you recalled what had started all of this. “And I didn’t intend for you to, uh, hear me.”

“I know that, and you cannot control how distracting you are.”

You shook your head, unable to hide the grin that grew on your lips. You plopped down into the pilot’s seat and looked up at ND. “Well, what now?”

“We work together to do our job,” he supplied, and took his place in his seat once again. A holomap appeared in a brilliant blue light, illuminating the cockpit. A few planets were at the forefront, the ones that ND had picked out. “Let’s get to work.”

You pulled up the same holomap on your end, but kept your eyes on your crewmate. “So, will you make it easier for me now?”

“Only if you stop being a brat.”

You chuckle. “I can’t make any promises.” 

ND audibly sighs, conceding with a head shake. “I didn't expect anything less.”

[peckoo]

短編  ◞  INTERLOCKED LIPS ⠀⠀ feat. choi seunghyun

drabble no. uno ⸻ c . s.ᐟ smutty innuendo . latina fem!reader ◞ established relationship · © OMYW   ( reader is in her twenties ) . wc. 239 .

[ . . . ]

the couch mat squeaks under the imposing bone of your knees , digging in until they fondle the prickly spring. the cliff of your scapulae steepen before the impudent cadence of spit and teeth. pure metal grazes the hint of your zygomatic bone , dusting the screws with the curtain of your eyelashes. crimson fingernails , spiky as pins , scratch the heavenly earth that is choi seunghyun. you fill your lungs with fuel and phosphorus as you take in warm air , and steadily sip the fruity wine the enigmatic rapper's tongue brews.

your pads skate along the oval curvature of his cranium, crawling ominously across the mantle of his hair ( made from a meadow of jet tresses and peach flesh ). the sissy glide of his fingers meander down the tumble of the slope of your backbone , the lock of his ice―cold patek philippe watch embeds itself like a sewing needle , and tattoos the path of your waist in vermilion.

parting in a whiplash , lips shimmering in drool and a string of harmonic panting , your thorax leaps the rope of despair and longing. exhaling ponderously , a cloud of fiery mist perfumes the milky cheekbone of the older man , fogging the lens of his glasses. tinkering in a perilous tug of cat and mouse , seunghyun's starving mouth drums along the meaty coastline of your mandible , pointed chin and the pumping tide of your neck , nibbling at the hint of your adam's apple; sinning.

I GOT THE POWER Ξ © PECKOO , 2025 .

[veephoenix]

the last song | n.s.

With the new album finally completed and a new song dropping in a couple of days, Noah takes his girl to the studio, hoping to show her around without the chaos of past recording days, and maybe, he can get that last song he's been dreaming of.

one shot ✨ | noah sebastian x fem.reader word count: 2.3k tags: established relationship, fluff, fluffy sexual content (it's not too explicit), reader has a slight kink for noah's silver chain (who doesn't, let's be honest), no trigger warnings, just noah being in love and being loved back.

The studio is finally empty. 

After weeks of relentless work and dedication, days blurring into nights, headaches, frustration, last-minute changes, and ups and downs not only in the sounddeck, but also in the mood of the whole team, the album was finally ready, and in a matter of days, new music would fill spaces beyond the studio’s confines.  

         Noah steps aside to let her in. She is enveloped in the grandeur of the space. Never before had she been in a recording studio, and its magnitude overwhelms her. The expanse stretches out before her, a labyrinth of hallways leading into rooms of creativity. There are framed records adorning the walls, a testament to the artistry that thrives within these walls. This feels like the type of place Noah would call home. Too bad she hasn’t fully realized yet that his home is her,no matter how many hours he’s spent away from her locked in this very right place. 

         While she is fascinated by the array of instruments, cables, and other things she doesn’t know the name of, it’s Noah himself who captivates her the most. His joy is palpable as he gives gently explanations about the use of each room, each instrument. His enthusiasm is infectious. He’s so eager to share his world with her. 

         This is one of the reasons why she’s so in love with him. 

         His passion. 

         And she is lucky enough that he’s equally passionate about music as he is about her. 

         Taking her hand, he leads her from one room to another, continuing his explanations and sharing curiosities about this and that, mentioning the guys, the places where each one usually sits while they review the recordings, the Starbucks cups that pile up in the corner of a table when they’ve been locked in there for twelve hours and start to suffer the effects of not seeing the sunlight or hearing the sounds of the outside world, anecdotes that ignite her laughter, a sound that makes Noah’s heart flutter. 

         She asks him about the new music, she pleads to hear at least one song, a piece, ten seconds. Nearly begs him. She knows she just has to utter the word “please” and Noah will give her anything she wants. This evening, she wants to hear the melodic cascade of his voice, get lost in the way Noah turns words into dreamy melodies. It’s not enough to hear him speak; she wants to hear him weave words into a song; she wants to drown in the melodies he has put into lyrics that speak of her, of the moments when they are stripped of all mundanity, of clothes and fear, when they are alone, skin to skin, and when all that can be heard is only the rhythm of their beating hearts and the symphony of their shared passion. 

         He insists he can’t. He wants it to be a surprise. He has hopes that when she listens to the album, one or two songs will get her on her knees, while others will lead her to beg him to fuck her to the cadence of those. 

         Embedded within the lyrics of the new songs are a few confessions, but there’s a time for those to reach her ears, and it’s not tonight. 

         He silences his phone and sets it aside while she occupies herself by tinkering with the buttons on the soundboard. A few minutes later, Noah sneaks up behind her, enveloping her in his warm and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her white t-shirt.  

         “There’s actually... one last song missing,” he murmurs against the fragrant scent of her hair.  

         “One last song?” She asks, her curiosity piqued. She begins to turn round, but Noah holds her in place. He rests his head on her shoulder, and with a trail of his fingers along the curve of her stomach, he elicits a subtle shiver that she tries to ignore. “I thought you said the album was complete, that you had finished...”

“Not quite yet,” he replies, planting a ghostly kiss on her earlobe. 

         She can sense the cool, minty breath against her neck, and it sends a shiver down her spine. He has been indulging in a mint candy, and her mind wanders to the tantalizing thought of having his mouth between her legs at this moment. The idea of that refreshing sensation sends a rush of desire coursing through her veins, and she can’t help but wonder if it would be enough to push her over the edge. 

         She smells of jasmine and the promise of spring. He wants to inhale her, breathe her in.  

         Concerned, she wriggles in his embrace until she can face him, stepping back a few paces as she speaks. She wants him to take her seriously.

         “I didn’t know, Noah. I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me here if you were still in the middle of—”

         With a single step, he reaches her again, his smile widening at her endearing bewilderment. He captures her lips in a kiss, stealing her breath away. The taste of the candy is still on his lips, and his fresh breath enters her mouth as their lips part.

         It’s in the way their mouths fit together that she finds reassurance that they’re perfect for each other. She knows she’s found the boy of her dreams, and the mere thought of being apart from him feels unbearable. She doesn’t know how she will survive next time he goes away on tour. For now, she will live in the way his tender kisses have a way of evolving into passionate bites that ignite a delightful flutter in her stomach. 

         “You’re adorable,” he says over her lips. 

         For a moment, she feels dizzy. Then, with a determined frown, she grabs a handful of Noah’s black hoodie, attempting to appear assertive, though to Noah, she resembles nothing more than an adorable kitten.  

         “You told me the album was complete, that you would only bring me here once the work was done and this was empty so that you could let me explore and touch things and…”

         “And record the last song,” Noah interjects calmly, looking into her eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

         Her brow furrows even deeper, her head tilting slightly to the side as Noah’s gaze traces the contours of her face, his eyes filled with admiration for every freckle, that little ever so tiny scar earned in a childhood adventure, the faint blush spreading through her cheeks.  

         “Noah, I don’t understand.”

         “Let me show you…”

         With her skin already responding to the anticipation, Noah’s hands find their way under her t-shirt, caressing the skin of her sides. It’s always just one touch and she’s already putty in his hands. She can’t help it; the man has that effect on her, that power over her. She would give him the world if she could because no one ever makes her feel as cherished as he does.  

         So, when he gently lifts her t-shirt, after worshipping her with light, seductive kisses along her neck and jawline, she allows him to undress her. His lips touch her shoulder, his tongue tracing a slow path until it finds the pulsing vein of her neck. A sharp intake of breath escapes her lips as he tenderly sucks at her skin, his fingers expertly finding their way beneath her skirt and underwear, eliciting a low, sweet moan from deep within her.  

         It’s the first of many moans to come.  

         Noah smiles against her flushed skin. His cock twitches. His heartbeat races.  

         The music is playing now. 

         He showers her with kisses, his hand cradling the side of her face as he traces a line with his finger from between her legs, through the valley of her breasts, up to her clavicle. 

         Growing impatient, she tugs at his hoodie, and sensing her urgency, he assists her in removing it. Underneath, Noah wears a black tank top, and her eyes immediately gravitate to the silver chain adorning his neck, previously hidden by the hoodie. With a heated spark in her eyes, she hesitates for a moment before seizing the chain and pulling Noah down to her awaiting mouth. 

         With one hand clutching his chain and the other sliding to the back of his head, she revels in the sensation of his soft hair sliding between her fingers. He emanates the intoxicating scent of masculine perfume and tastes like pure adrenaline—a potent combination that renders him utterly irresistible. He’s as addictive as a man can get. He’s tall, muscular, handsome, and fucking sweet. 

         And best of all, he is hers.  

         Noah scoops her up, intending to place her atop the sound deck. It would be a great place to fuck her on, but he quickly realizes it wouldn’t be comfortable at all, and he doesn’t want her to get hurt. 

         He pivots towards the couch—a place where he had envisioned her countless times before… Sitting there with pen and paper, crafting songs about her, he had often pictured her naked form, her eyes shimmering with anticipation, beckoning him to find his place between her legs, to envelop her with his body, to fill her up with every inch of him.

          With care, he lays her down on the couch, positioning one knee on the cushions to remain close to her, determined to prolong their kiss for as long as possible. He doesn’t think he can breathe without her nearby. 

         She is never shy when it comes to showing how much she wants him, how much she needs him. She’s unapologetically about her desperate desire, and that’s something that drives him to the brink of madness. Her eagerness only serves to make her so fucking attractive that he thinks he could eat her up. He’s consumed by that need, to bite and taste her in a surge of primal instinct, yet he manages to maintain a sweet and seductive demeanor. She brings out both the beast and the tender lover in him, and somehow, it’s a harmonious blend that feels inexplicably beautiful. 

         With each touch, nibble, and kiss, her passionate responses start escaping from her lips, wet with lust for him. Their clothes disappear in a matter of minutes, and as Noah finds himself —and his skilled tongue— nestled between her legs, savoring her essence, and impregnating her with his fresh minty breath, the symphony of his name being carried through long feminine moans fill the studio walls in ways he could never have imagined. 

         But it’s when he’s buried deep inside her that the music truly comes alive. 

         Together, they create a melody of ecstasy, Noah playing her body like a virtuoso, eliciting the perfect notes and sounds with each touch, kiss, thrust. She’s a tangled delicious mess beneath him, but every whimper and sigh and plea for more is a testament to her trust and love for him, a hymn sung in the throes of passion. 

         Occasionally, a primal growl escapes him, the beast within yearning to be unleashed, but she, the angel, the muse,keeps him grounded, wrapped in her wings, guiding him along the lines of their shared musical score. 

         As their bodies glisten with sweat, the tempo of their lovemaking begins to slow, descending from its crescendo, their ragged breaths filling the remaining spaces of their song. She smiles against his cheek, nuzzling her nose against his skin. She holds him close, unwilling to let go just yet. Unwilling to ever let go. 

         “So?” She murmurs, teasingly playing with her teeth on Noah’s earlobe.

          He squirms in an attempt to escape her, but her teeth follow him, leaving him with no choice but to retaliate by biting her shoulder and descending to capture on of her nipples in his mouth, coaxing one new sound from her lips. 

         “So?” he repeats, mumbling between clenched teeth, his tongue teasing her hardened nipple. 

         “Did you record the song?” she asks playfully, gesturing with her eyes towards the sound deck. 

         “No. No, I didn’t,” he admits with a laugh, feeling himself softening inside of her. 

         “Oh, well…” she licks her lips, pretending to think of what to do now. The weight of Noah feels so nice on top of her that it would be enough to just keep on holding him. “What are we going to do about it?” she continues. “Any idea?”

         She does have an idea. 

         Her cheeky tone catches him off guard, and this time, it’s him who frowns as he gazes up at her. His chest and stomach press against hers, and with each laborious breath she takes, he feels the rhythmic rise and fall of her body beneath him. He considers moving, but before he can act, she wraps her leg around his, anchoring him in place.

         She bites her lip, tempting him to do the same; to lower his head and kiss her and bite her and leave her breathless. 

         A second later, she reaches down towards her bag on the carpeted floor beside the couch and retrieves her phone, unlocks it, and opens the voice recording app. 

         “Maybe we should try again, don’t you think? And perhaps we should try to be… a bit louder?”

         His eyes darken. 

         “Think you can do that?” she asks him, a devilish smile painted on her face. 

         “I can definitely make you sing louder,” he growls, feeling himself hardening once more while still inside of her. His home. 

         She has a way of provoking him that never fails to get him hard anywhere, anytime, in no time. 

         “Do I… press play now?” Her fingertip hovers over the screen. 

         Noah responds by pulling a few inches out and thrusting hard into her, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization against the worn fabric of the sofa they are laid on. She lets out a scream as her fingertip presses the play button. The phone falls with a thud on the floor. 

         And with that, they’re making music once again. 

         One last song. 

         One more time. 

         Louder. 

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader - part1

Summary: You want to tell a story no one has told before—not of the Winter Soldier, but of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT in 2nd chapter. So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: I have been writing it for a while... having this idea in my head for over a year or so... I hope you guys like it reading at least as much as I loved writing it <3 Because the story is too long (ooopies) I need to divide it into two chapters, so apologies, but blame Tumblr, not me ;)

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

The city’s symphony hummed through your half-open window—a blend of car horns, distant chatter, and the rustle of wind against skyscrapers. Beneath it all, the low, smoky cadence of jazz from your turntable added a timeless rhythm to the scene. You sat at your desk, eyes drawn to the framed black-and-white photograph perched on its corner: your great-grandfather, uniform sharp as his gaze, shaking hands with Captain America.

The photo was more than a relic. Its corners were frayed, the edges softened by years of proud display, but its essence remained undiminished—a talisman of duty, an unspoken promise that had been passed down with every new generation. To you, it was more than a family heirloom. It was a call to action.

Maybe that’s why the Avengers had always felt less like strangers in capes and more like a cause you were meant to champion. You weren’t just drawn to them; you were tethered to their story, defending them when no one else would.

Your career in journalism hadn’t begun with dreams of fame or Pulitzers. No, it had been born out of something far simpler and more profound: a sense of responsibility. The day Tony Stark stood at that podium and declared, “I am Iron Man,” the world had turned on him faster than it had celebrated him. One moment he was a hero; the next, a reckless billionaire with a penchant for self-destruction. The headlines were ruthless, tabloids voracious in their takedowns. But you? You saw something else.

Instinct, or maybe that familial debt, told you there was more beneath the bravado. With a press badge still warm from the printer and a recorder borrowed from your college newsroom, you wrote your first piece. It wasn’t perfect—raw around the edges, maybe a little too earnest—but it defended Tony Stark in a way no one else dared to.

To your astonishment, it caught his attention. Months later, you found yourself in the legendary Stark workshop, an organized chaos of brilliance and madness. Tony, tinkering with a half-finished contraption, had barely glanced up when you entered.

“Nice piece,” he said, his tone as dry as the scotch he usually favored. “Didn’t expect anyone to actually get it right.”

You fumbled for a response, somewhere between awe and intimidation. “I just… wanted to tell the truth.”

He finally looked at you, a glimmer of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Well, aren’t you noble?”

That was the beginning. Over the years, you became a fixture in Tony’s world—not a friend exactly, but a constant presence. The one journalist he could count on to navigate the blurred lines between heroism and humanity without sensationalism. You stood by him through scandals and triumphs, from his bold experiments to the fallout of the Sokovia Accords.

“You’re one of the only people who doesn’t make me want to throw my drink at the TV,” he once told you at one of his infamous parties, raising his glass with a smirk. “That’s high praise, by the way.”

Your relationship with Steve Rogers was different. Where Tony was sharp edges and biting wit, Steve was all steadfast resolve and quiet strength. You first met him at a charity gala, where he lingered at the edges of the room like a man still learning how to fit into this new century. When you mentioned the photograph of your great-grandfather, his expression softened.

“Thank you for your family’s service,” he said, shaking your hand with sincerity that left a lasting impression.

Steve earned your trust slowly, just as you earned his. There was no pretense with him, no theatrics. He respected your work—even when it challenged him—and you, in turn, respected his unwavering moral compass. That respect brought you to his Brooklyn apartment one crisp autumn morning, your notebook clutched tightly in your hands.

Steve greeted you at the door, his hair slightly mussed from an early run, dressed in the kind of casual simplicity that made him seem all the more unassuming. He waved you inside with a curious smile.

“What’s this about?” he asked as you settled onto the worn couch.

You hesitated, knowing the weight of what you were about to say. “It’s about James Barnes.”

His expression hardened, his guard rising instinctively. “What about him?”

“I want to tell his story,” you said, keeping your tone steady but earnest.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiff. “Why?”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” you replied. “Right now, all they see is the Winter Soldier—a weapon, a killer. But that’s not who he is. It’s not who he was. I want to give him a chance to tell his side, to show the world the man beneath the headlines.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Steve stared at a spot on the floor, the weight of your words sinking in. Finally, he looked up, his gaze filled with both caution and hope.

“And you think an article will fix that?” he asked softly.

“It’s a start,” you said. “Let me interview him. Let me write a series that goes beyond what he’s done—to who he is. Let people see him as more than his past.”

Steve exhaled slowly, the conflict evident in his furrowed brow. “Bucky doesn’t trust easily,” he said at last. “And I don’t blame him. What you’re asking… It's a lot.”

“I know,” you said, leaning forward. “But I believe in him, Steve. And I think you do, too.”

For a moment, the room felt heavier than the two of you. Then, Steve nodded, his resolve softening. “I’ll talk to him. But it’s his decision. If he says no…”

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

As you stepped out into the brisk fall air, your chest felt lighter, the ache of doubt replaced by the spark of determination. This wasn’t just another story. It was a chance to rewrite the narrative, to shed light on the shadows Hydra had left behind.

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

The kitchen in the Avengers Compound was unusually still, save for the soft hiss of the espresso machine steaming milk. Early sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching motes of dust in its golden glow. Steve Rogers sat at the island, his hands wrapped around a glass of water. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm against the countertop, betraying the careful composure of his expression. He was rehearsing his words, running through the conversation he was about to have—one he knew wouldn’t be easy. But then again, when did anything involving Tony Stark ever come without complications?

The sound of footsteps broke the quiet. Tony breezed in, tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee mug in the other. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a faded logo of a band whose prime was decades past, hung loose over a pair of well-worn jeans. His mismatched socks peeked out as he moved, their carelessness somehow perfectly in character.

“Cap,” Tony greeted without pausing, setting his coffee down with a deliberate clink. “You’ve got that look. What is it this time? End of the world? Time travel? Or did someone touch my lab without leaving a thank-you note?”

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Tony. It’s not that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony drawled, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Serious to you usually means catastrophic to the rest of us, so go ahead. Lay it on me.”

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “It’s about Bucky.”

Tony stilled mid-sip, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly before he set the mug down. “Of course it is,” he said, his tone sliding into mock exasperation. “Alright, what’s going on with Barnes this time? And don’t tell me this is where you ask me to bankroll his therapy bills. I will, but only because I’m a masochist.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitched—a shadow of humor undercutting the still-fresh scars of their shared history. Years had softened the rift between Tony and Bucky, but some wounds lingered like phantom pains, waiting for moments like these to ache.

“It’s not that,” Steve replied, shooting him a sharp look. “This is… different. Someone wants to help him.”

Tony’s brow arched, skepticism flickering in his dark eyes. “Someone? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you mean her—our resident do-gooder with a press badge.”

Steve nodded.

Tony whistled low, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to hand it to her. Girl’s got guts. And a death wish if she thinks she can crack open that vault of suppressed trauma Barnes is carrying.”

“She’s not just doing this on a whim, Tony,” Steve said firmly. “She wants to tell his story. The real story. Not just the headlines or the conspiracy theories.”

Tony tilted his head, his lips quirking in thought. “I’ll give her this: she’s got a way of spinning truth into something people can stomach. Hell, if it weren’t for her, the world would still think I’m just an egomaniac with a God complex. Not that they’re entirely wrong.” He grinned briefly before sobering. “But Barnes? That’s a mountain of baggage even she might not be able to unpack.”

“She can handle it,” Steve said, unwavering. “If anyone can, it’s her.”

Tony ran a hand over his face, the humor ebbing from his expression. “Alright, Rogers. Sell it to Barnes. But if he snaps and puts another dent in my walls, you’re footing the repair bill this time.”

---

In the compound’s gym, the rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the space. Bucky Barnes was relentless, his punches driving into the heavy bag with the precision of a man who had fought too many battles to count. Sweat slicked his brow and clung to his shirt, but he didn’t pause. The steady impact was the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay.

“Bucky,” came Steve’s voice, quiet but firm, from the doorway.

Bucky stopped mid-swing, his breath heavy as he turned. Steve approached slowly, hands in his pockets, his expression calm but resolute—the way he always looked when he was about to say something he knew wouldn’t go over well.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, reaching for the towel draped across a bench.

Steve leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “It’s about someone who wants to talk to you. Someone I trust.”

Bucky frowned, suspicion tightening his features. “Talk to me? About what?”

“Your story,” Steve said simply. “She’s a journalist. Someone who’s been with us since the beginning. She’s defended Tony, stood by me… she understands what it means to fight for the truth, even when it’s hard.”

Bucky scoffed, tossing the towel aside. “What truth is there to tell, Steve? The world doesn’t want to hear it. They don’t care about who I was—they only see what I’ve done.”

“That’s exactly why she wants to do this,” Steve countered. “To show people who you are now. Who you were before Hydra. To give them a reason to look beyond the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gaze falling to the floor. “You think one article will fix everything? That people will forget the blood on my hands?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. “But it might make them see the full picture. And if anyone can get it right, it’s her.”

Bucky was silent, the weight of Steve’s words pressing down like the memories he tried so hard to suppress. Finally, he looked up. “Why her?”

“Because I trust her,” Steve replied. “And if you can trust me, then trust this: she won’t make you regret it.”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll meet her. But I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I need,” Steve said, a hint of relief softening his voice.

---

As Steve left, the gym fell back into its familiar stillness. Bucky sat on the bench, staring at the floor. The idea of sharing his story—letting a stranger into the labyrinth of his past—felt impossible. But he owed Steve. And maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself too.

He resumed wrapping his hands, his movements slower this time. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the doubt and the fear, a small flicker of hope sparked—a fragile ember, but an ember nonetheless.

---

The gym at Avengers Tower was still, an expanse of silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. The sharp tang of leather, sweat, and faintly metallic cleaning agents lingered in the air. You arrived earlier than planned, your footsteps soft against the polished floor as you took in the emptiness of the space. It was better this way. You’d asked Steve to let you handle this alone—not out of pride, but because this conversation required something unspoken, something delicate.

This wasn’t just about Bucky Barnes. It was about trust, a foundation that could only be laid between the two of you.

The door creaked open, and a shadow spilled across the floor. Bucky stepped inside, his movements deliberate, shoulders broad and heavy with tension. His dark T-shirt and track pants clung to a frame honed by war and survival. His long hair framed his face, softening features etched by years of conflict. But it was his eyes—those stormy blue-gray eyes—that hit hardest. They swept over the room, sharp and assessing, before landing on you.

You felt the air leave your lungs. Steve had warned you about Bucky’s presence, the way he carried himself with a silence that could fill a space, heavy and unyielding. But standing there, facing him, it wasn’t just his silence—it was the weight of his past, worn like a second skin.

He lingered by the doorway for a moment, the hesitation subtle but unmistakable, before crossing the room. His steps were quiet, almost predatory, his body language cautious but not unkind. Without a word, he sank to the floor in the far corner of the gym, his back to the wall, knees bent, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over stone.

“So are you,” you replied with a soft smile, easing yourself to the floor across from him. You kept the distance respectful but not distant—close enough to bridge, far enough to let him feel in control.

The silence between you stretched, taut and uneasy. You could feel it radiating off him—the tension, the readiness to retreat or fight if the moment called for it.

“I appreciate you meeting with me,” you began gently, your tone steady but warm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Bucky’s lips twitched—a flicker of dry humor that barely creased his face. “You’d be right.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light, unobtrusive. “Fair enough. Let’s make a deal, then—if you want me gone, just say the word, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze pinning you. “Steve said you’re stubborn.”

“He’s not wrong,” you admitted, your smile widening slightly. “But I promise I’m not here to push you into anything. This is just a conversation.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment, the weight of his stare pressing down like a physical force. Then, with a reluctant nod, he gestured for you to continue.

You introduced yourself, offering your full name. “I’m a journalist. Though, I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I’ve been writing about the Avengers for years. My first piece was about Tony, back when he announced he was Iron Man.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Tony Stark. Bet that was something.”

“It was,” you said, laughing softly. “He thought I was some starry-eyed rookie—and, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. But over time, I guess I earned his trust. I’ve been writing about the team ever since. I don’t take sides. I just try to tell the truth.”

Bucky leaned back, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “And Steve? How’d you meet him?”

“My great-grandfather,” you said, your voice softening. “He was in the 107th. Steve saved him during the war. There’s a picture of them shaking hands—it’s been in my family for decades. When I met Steve, I told him about it. I guess that’s how it all started.”

Something flickered in Bucky’s eyes—recognition, curiosity. He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Your great-grandfather… William, right? Had the weirdest way of talking I’ve ever heard.”

You froze, your breath catching. “You… remember him?”

Bucky nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I do. He was a good man. Brave. Had this sharp sense of humor that could catch you off guard. You’ve got his eyes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the connection unexpected and profound. You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat, managing a quiet, “I didn’t think you’d remember him. That means… a lot.”

Bucky shrugged, but there was a warmth in his expression now—a subtle thawing of the guarded lines around his mouth and eyes.

Clearing your throat, you reached into your bag and pulled out a stack of printed articles, sliding them across the floor. “These are some of the pieces I’ve written. About Tony, Steve, the team. I thought it might help if you got to know me a little better.”

Bucky picked up the stack, flipping through the pages. His eyes moved over the headlines, lingering on a photograph of Steve. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, not looking up.

“Because I believe in second chances,” you said simply. “And because the world only knows one side of your story. I think it’s time they saw the whole picture.”

Bucky set the articles down, his jaw tightening. “And what if I don’t want them to?”

“Then that’s your choice,” you replied. “If you tell me no, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. But all I’m asking is for a chance. Let me tell your story—with your permission, on your terms. Nothing gets published without your approval.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp and probing. “You’re putting a lot of faith in someone you don’t know.”

“I am,” you admitted, holding his stare. “But sometimes, the people who don’t think they deserve faith are the ones who need it the most.”

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, a swirl of conflict and curiosity. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Relief bloomed in your chest, but you kept it tempered. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you for hearing me out, Bucky. That means more than you know.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and offered a small smile—unguarded, honest.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. It wasn’t pity or fear—it was something he hadn’t seen in years. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something crack through the armor of his guilt.

It terrified him.

---

The morning light spilled through your apartment window, golden and soft, stretching across the room in fractured beams. It casts a gentle glow over your desk, illuminating the scattered notes, books, and the faint ring left behind by your coffee mug. You sat motionless, fingers poised above the keyboard, your laptop’s screen glowing faintly in the quiet.

The cursor blinked, mocking your hesitation. Words had always been your refuge, your weapon, but this was different. This wasn’t just about telling a story—it was about trust, about reaching into the shadows of someone else’s life and hoping they’d let you in.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. You adjusted the blanket draped over your shoulders, feeling its weight settle around you, a comforting barrier against the uncertainty creeping in. Finally, you exhaled a long, slow breath and began typing.

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

Thank you again for meeting with me the other day. I know how much it cost you to be there, to sit across from a stranger and let your guard down, even for a moment. I don’t take that lightly, and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate your time and your willingness to listen.

As I mentioned before, I want to approach this project carefully and with the respect it deserves. I’m not interested in sensationalism or rehashing the narratives that have already been written about you. The world has enough stories about the Winter Soldier. What I want to do is different—I want to tell the story of the man. The friend. The brother. The soldier who existed long before the shadows ever found you.

I’ve been thinking about how to begin, and I wanted to share a rough outline of the first article with you. This isn’t a finished piece; it’s just a concept, a foundation I hope to build with your guidance, your voice, and your trust.

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

Before the world whispered his name in fear, James Buchanan Barnes was simply a boy from Brooklyn. Born to a city that thrived on resilience, he was shaped by streets where laughter mixed with the roar of trains and kindness could be as fleeting as the breeze off the East River. He was the boy with the quick grin and sharper wit, the teenager who walked with a quiet confidence and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved.

He became a soldier, not for the glory but because it was the right thing to do. His sacrifices were not grandiose; they were quiet and deeply personal, offered not to the world but to the people who mattered to him. He stood shoulder to shoulder with heroes but never sought to be one himself. He was, in so many ways, a reflection of the best his generation had to offer.

But history can be cruel. And fate? Even crueler. Through no fault of his own, James Buchanan Barnes became a name that conjured fear, a figure cloaked in tragedy. To the world, he was the Winter Soldier—a ghost forged by the hands of those who sought to strip him of everything he was. For a time, they succeeded.

But what the world doesn’t see is the man who fought tooth and nail to reclaim his humanity. They don’t see the friend who would give everything to protect those he loves. They don’t see the man who carries the weight of choices he never made yet feels responsible for all the same.

This isn’t just a story about redemption—it’s a story about survival, about finding identity in the aftermath of unimaginable loss. It’s a story about what it means to fight your way out of the dark and into the light, scarred but standing.

The world knows the myth. The shadow. The weapon. But James Buchanan Barnes is not a ghost of the past. He’s a man, living proof that even in the aftermath of tragedy, there is hope, resilience, and the possibility of something more.

This is his story. Told not by those who fear him or those who sought to control him, but by the one person who knows it best: him.

There’s something else I wanted to share with you—a photo. It’s the one I mentioned during our meeting, the picture of my great-grandfather with Steve during the war. It’s been part of my family’s story for as long as I can remember, a quiet reminder of courage and loyalty.

But now, it means even more to me. When you said you remembered him—his voice, his humor—it reminded me how deeply our stories can ripple through time, even when we don’t realize it. That small moment of recognition meant more to me than I can express.

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

Take your time, Bucky. There’s no rush, no pressure. This isn’t about a deadline or a byline—it’s about something bigger. I’m here to listen, to answer your questions, your doubts, anything at all. All I ask is that you think about it.

Whatever you decide, thank you. For your time. For your trust, however fragile it may feel.

Best regards.

---

As you reread the email, your fingers hovered over the “Send” button. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of what you were asking settling over you. Then, with a final, steadying breath, you clicked.

The email vanished into the ether, and with it, a piece of your hope, your determination. The sun climbed higher through the window, casting the room in golden light, but you barely noticed. Instead, you sat there, still and waiting, the faint hum of your laptop the only sound in the quiet room.

---

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of his phone casting pale light across his face. He hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon, if at all. Yet there it was—your name, standing out in bold at the top of his inbox. His thumb hovered over the notification, hesitating.

Part of him wanted to ignore it, let it sit there untouched. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was—but because he wasn’t sure he was ready. The idea of someone wanting to dig into his past, to lay bare the scars and shadows he’d spent years burying, made his chest feel too tight.

But then he thought of the way you’d looked at him in the gym. Calm, patient, unafraid. And that damn smile you’d given him before you left—a smile that wasn’t forced or laced with pity, just honest. It had lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit.

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

The words hit him harder than he expected. He read the outline twice, then again, each pass leaving him with a knot in his chest he couldn’t quite untangle. This wasn’t what he’d anticipated. There was no pity in your words, no attempt to paint him as a tragic figure or a monster. Instead, there was care—an earnest effort to understand him, not as the world saw him, but as the man he was trying to be.

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

The image filled his screen, black and white but vivid all the same. Your great-grandfather, standing tall in his uniform, shaking hands with Steve. Bucky enlarged it, his fingers brushing the edges of the screen as though touching the past itself.

The memory surfaced, distant but clear. He remembered the firm handshake, the soldier’s steady gaze filled with quiet gratitude. He remembered Steve’s smile—small but unwavering, the kind that could make you believe they’d already won the war, even when the odds said otherwise.

“She’s really got his eyes,” Bucky murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, fleeting but real.

He set the phone down, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. The photo stayed etched in his mind, a bridge between the past and the present he hadn’t expected. His gaze shifted to the articles you’d included, still neatly stacked on the table beside him. For a long moment, he just stared at them, debating.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he picked up the first one.

It was about Tony. One of your earliest pieces, written back when the world wasn’t sure what to make of Iron Man.

"Stark isn’t perfect—far from it—but he doesn’t hide behind a mask of infallibility. He owns his flaws, his mistakes, and his triumphs. That kind of honesty is rare, and it’s exactly what makes him worth believing in."

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he read, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could picture Tony in those early days, all sharp edges and bravado, as polarizing as he was brilliant. And yet, your words cut through the noise, painting him not as an enigma but as a man.

The second article was about Steve. Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly on the paper as he read.

"Captain America has always been a symbol, but symbols are rarely understood in their entirety. Steve Rogers is not just the man with the shield; he is a man who bears the weight of his choices with quiet strength. To reduce him to hero or villain is to miss the heart of who he is."

By the time he finished, Bucky sat back, the papers still in his hands. Each article told a story, not of perfect heroes but of flawed, complicated people. People who’d been trusted with the weight of the world and had carried it as best they could.

And then there was you. Your voice threaded through every word—not just as an observer, but as someone who cared, who wanted the world to see what you saw.

Bucky’s mind raced. Steve trusted you. Tony trusted you. And now, maybe—just maybe—he could, too.

He picked up his phone again, his thumb hovering over the reply button. His chest tightened at the thought of agreeing, of opening himself up to something he wasn’t sure he could handle. But then he thought of that smile again, the way it had silenced the doubts just long enough for him to believe this might be possible.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he started typing.

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

I’ve read the articles you sent. They’re good—honest.

I don’t know if I can do this, but I’m willing to try. You’re right. I need time to think, but I’ll give you a chance.

Thank you for the photo. It means more than you probably realize.

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, setting the phone down quickly, almost like it might burn him if he held onto it any longer.

The silence of the room pressed in around him, but for once, it wasn’t oppressive. It felt… lighter, somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d taken the first step toward something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long time.

---

The gym felt quieter than usual as you stepped inside, the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the soft creak of the door. Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The space felt familiar now—not in a comforting way, exactly, but in the sense of stepping into a story already half-written, waiting for its next chapter.

Bucky was easy to spot, sitting near the far wall with one leg bent, his arm draped over his knee. He seemed relaxed at first glance, but there was an edge to him, a tension in the line of his shoulders and the way his gaze flicked briefly toward you.

“Hey,” you said softly, approaching with a small smile, one you hoped might ease the weight in the room.

He nodded in return, his eyes shifting to the notebook tucked under your arm. “No laptop? No recorder?”

You chuckled as you sat down across from him, leaving a comfortable amount of space. “I figured they’d stress you out,” you admitted. “Plus, I’m old-fashioned. I like writing things by hand—it helps me think.”

That smile—the same unguarded one you’d given him before—spread across your face again. You noticed how it shifted something in Bucky, just the faintest softening of his expression. His shoulders dropped slightly, and the guarded look in his eyes dulled, if only a little.

“Old-fashioned, huh?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Very,” you replied with a laugh. “And this way, you can read everything I write. Line by line, if you want. Nothing gets recorded, and if something goes wrong…” You tapped the edge of the notebook lightly. “I burn it. Problem solved.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking further. “Burn it?”

“Yep,” you said, your tone mock-serious. “I’ve even got a metal trash can ready for dramatic effect.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement, a sound so soft it almost slipped past you. But it was there. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something in Bucky—a trace of humor, unburdened by the weight of his past.

He leaned back against the wall, his blue-gray eyes studying you. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

You tilted your head curiously. “What did you expect?”

“Someone nosier. Pushier. Maybe a little annoying.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Bucky’s lips twitched again, as if he was trying to resist smiling back.

“Well, give me time,” you teased. “I can be annoying when I need to be.”

His smirk lingered for a moment before fading into something more thoughtful. “Tell me about your childhood.”

The question caught you off guard. “My childhood?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his voice even as his gaze stayed fixed on you.

“Uh… well, it was pretty normal,” you said with a small shrug. “I grew up in a loving family. My parents are still together—they’re celebrating their 30th anniversary this year. I’m an only child, so I was spoiled rotten. My great-grandfather was one of my favorite people. I used to sit with him for hours, listening to his stories. That’s probably where I got my love of storytelling.”

You smiled at the memory, but as you looked at Bucky, you noticed a shift in his expression—a flicker of something knowing.

“You already knew that, didn’t you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Bucky didn’t deny it. “I checked,” he admitted, his tone unapologetic. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about who you are.”

You laughed again, waving it off like it didn’t bother you. “Fair enough. It’s not my first rodeo. When I met Tony, he knew more about me than I did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told me my blood type.”

That earned another quiet laugh from Bucky, the sound low and unpolished but real. “I still don’t trust easy,” he said, his voice softer now.

“And you shouldn’t,” you replied without hesitation. “I’d be more worried if you did.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly reassured by your response. But then his expression shifted, his eyes shadowed by something heavier. “There’s one thing you got wrong,” he said quietly.

“Oh?”

“In your introduction to the articles,” he began, meeting your gaze directly. “You said I always did what was best. That’s not true. I didn’t volunteer to join the army—I was drafted. You can look it up. My number’s on record.”

His words weren’t bitter, but you could hear the weight behind them. This wasn’t about correcting a mistake—it was about how he saw himself, the guilt he carried.

You didn’t falter. You met his gaze with the same quiet sincerity you’d shown before. “I know,” you said softly. “I did my research.”

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

“Just because you were drafted doesn’t mean you weren’t a good man,” you said. “It doesn’t change the fact that you fought to protect the people you cared about. That you were brave. That you mattered.”

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t respond. The way you said it—not as flattery or pity, but as something you truly believed—hit him harder than he expected. His chest tightened, and he looked away, the words settling in his mind like a stone dropped into water.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your smile soft but unwavering.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt purposeful, like something unspoken was shifting between you. A bridge was being built, slow and deliberate, but solid.

Finally, you flipped open your notebook, breaking the quiet with a light, playful tone. “Alright,” you said. “Now that we’ve established I’m old-fashioned and nosy, are you ready to get started?”

Bucky glanced at you, his lips twitching faintly. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Let’s get started.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt the faint stirrings of trust—fragile but real—blooming in his chest.

---

The gym had become a rhythm unto itself, a sanctuary of quiet purpose. It wasn’t just a place for physical training anymore—it was where conversations were born, where silences grew into something meaningful, and where you and Bucky began to find a fragile but growing connection.

At first, your exchanges were cautious, fleeting, like testing the waters with bare toes. A comment here, a question there. But over time, those ripples expanded, stretching across the stillness until the silences between words became less about hesitation and more about comfort.

This wasn’t just an assignment for you anymore. You’d realized quickly that if you wanted Bucky to trust you, you had to strip away the pretense of being a journalist. What he needed wasn’t someone dissecting his past with surgical precision—he needed someone who could remind him he still had a future.

---

“Do you always carry that thing?” Bucky asked one afternoon, nodding toward the leather-bound notebook in your lap as he wrapped his hands in preparation for a sparring session.

You glanced down at the familiar journal, running your fingers over its worn edges. “Always,” you said with a small smile. “I’m old-fashioned like that. Writing things by hand just feels… more real. Like the words have weight.”

Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “Don’t people say the opposite? If it’s not online, it doesn’t exist?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe. But if the world ever loses its tech, at least my notebooks will still be around.”

His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Fair point.”

---

Another time, you sat cross-legged on the floor, your notebook abandoned beside you. “Did you see they’re opening a new exhibition at the astronomy museum?” you asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Bucky paused mid-swing at the punching bag, glancing over at you. “Astronomy?”

“Yeah,” you said, your grin widening. “Space is kind of my thing. It’s infinite. Thinking about it makes me feel small, but in a good way, you know? Plus, this exhibit has a whole section on Mars rovers. I’ve always thought they were cool.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his faint smile betraying his amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the space type.”

“Oh, I’m into all sorts of nerdy stuff,” you said, waving a hand. “Space, ancient civilizations, true crime. I’m basically a walking trivia machine.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Bucky replied, his tone dry but warm.

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand. “Your turn. What’s something you’re into that I wouldn’t expect?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought about it. “I dunno,” he said after a pause. “I used to like going to the movies. Haven’t been in a while, though.”

“Really?” you said, your excitement piqued. “What kind of movies? Don’t tell me you’re secretly into rom-coms.”

That earned a snort of genuine laughter, his smile breaking through in full force. “Not exactly. I liked the old war films. Westerns, too.”

“War films and Westerns,” you repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. Fitting, I guess.”

“And you?” he asked, surprising you with the shift.

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

You pretended to think hard, tapping your chin theatrically. “Probably cheesy underdog sports movies. You know, the ones where everyone comes together, and the team wins in the end? Gets me every time.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

---

“Do you ever miss home?” Bucky asked one afternoon, his voice quiet as he adjusted the wrappings on his hands.

You tilted your head. “You mean where I grew up?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp, watching your reaction carefully.

“I don’t really think of home as a place anymore,” you admitted, the edges of your voice softening. “For me, it’s people. My parents, my friends—the ones who make me feel like I belong. I visit the house I grew up in sometimes, though. My parents still live there. It hasn’t changed much.”

“You’re close with them?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, smiling at the thought. “They’re my biggest fans—and my harshest critics. My mom proofreads all my articles. My dad jokes that it’s because she doesn’t trust me to catch my own typos.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Bucky, and the sound warmed something deep in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked carefully, your gaze steady but gentle.

Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know if I have a home anymore,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Not the way you’re talking about it.”

Your heart tightened, and you nodded slowly. “I get that. But maybe home isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you build.”

His eyes flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you could tell your words had settled somewhere deep.

---

The sound of his punches against the bag created a steady rhythm as you sat nearby, scrolling through your phone. The sudden sight of a headline made you gasp softly, your face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh my God,” you exclaimed, turning your phone toward Bucky. “Look at this!”

He paused mid-swing, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced at the screen. “What is it?”

“This lion cub!” you said, scooting closer. “It was just born at the zoo. Look at that face—tell me that isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Bucky leaned down slightly, peering at the image. The tiny cub, all fluff and oversized paws, was curled up against its mother.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you started to wonder if you’d just embarrassed yourself. Then, to your surprise, he nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Yeah… it’s cute.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by his quiet agreement.

“Really cute,” he added, his voice softer now, as if the cub had cracked through some small part of his guarded exterior.

You laughed nervously, feeling your cheeks flush. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to trade lives with a lion cub? Just sleeping, cuddling, and being adorable all day?”

Bucky straightened, grabbing a towel but letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. “You’re kind of like that already.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He shrugged, his voice casual but his expression unreadable. “You’re always cheerful. It’s… nice.”

The compliment was so unexpected, so genuine, that it made your heart stutter. You quickly looked back at your phone, pretending to focus. “Well, someone’s gotta bring the sunshine, right?”

Bucky didn’t reply, but when you glanced up, his gaze was still on you, something unspoken passing between you.

And for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about earning his trust. Something more was blooming here—something delicate, unspoken, and undeniably real.

---

The topic of food came up one day, unexpectedly light amid the ebb and flow of your usual conversations.

“There’s this food truck on the other side of town,” you said, leaning forward, your excitement bubbling over. “It’s run by locals, and everyone says it’s amazing. They’ve been doing these community food festivals, and I’ve been dying to check it out.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his posture still relaxed from finishing his workout. “Why haven’t you gone yet?”

You shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it. Plus, it’s more fun to go with someone.”

To your surprise, Bucky didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “You’ll… go? With me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Why not?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, searching for some hint of teasing, but his face remained calm, open. Then, before you could stop yourself, a laugh bubbled out of you, sudden and bright.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asked, though his tone was tinged with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” you said between chuckles, shaking your head. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, and it struck something deep within you, a warmth that spread through your chest.

“You have a great laugh,” you said before you could think better of it. The moment the words left your lips, your cheeks flamed, and you clamped your mouth shut.

Bucky tilted his head, watching you curiously, but instead of teasing, he simply nodded. “When are we going?”

---

The evening air was thick with the scent of grilled meats, sizzling spices, and fried dough. Strings of warm lights hung overhead, casting a golden glow over the bustling food festival. Laughter and conversation rose and fell around you as locals and tourists darted between colorful trucks, balancing steaming plates of food and clinking plastic cups.

Bucky walked beside you, dressed inconspicuously in a baseball cap pulled low and a loose jacket concealing his metal arm. To anyone else, he looked like any other man enjoying the festival. But to you, the way his eyes scanned the food stalls with curiosity rather than wariness was a quiet triumph.

“Okay, what should we try first?” you asked, practically bouncing on your heels as you scanned the array of options.

Bucky nodded toward a truck boasting “authentic Italian cuisine.” “You pick. I’ll follow.”

Grinning, you made your way to the truck, and soon you were holding a plate of steaming spaghetti carbonara. You handed Bucky a fork, scooping up a bite and offering it to him.

“Here, try this,” you said, holding it out.

Bucky hesitated for only a moment before leaning in and taking the bite. His eyes widened slightly, and a low, involuntary groan escaped him.

You froze. That sound—so small, so unintentional—sent a jolt through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“That good, huh?” you said, trying to keep your voice light and steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Bucky nodded, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, it’s good.”

You smiled, taking a bite yourself. “Told you. Italians don’t mess around with food.”

---

As you wandered through the festival, stopping at a stall serving Chinese dumplings, you found yourself rambling between bites.

“You know, I used to want to be a food critic,” you said, laughing softly. “It seemed like the dream, right? Traveling, eating amazing food, writing about it. But then I realized I’d feel awful writing bad reviews. Like, what if the chef was just having a bad day?”

Bucky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You feel bad about criticizing chefs, but not politicians?”

You pouted in mock defiance, crossing your arms. “Politicians deserve it,” you said, your tone playful.

His laugh came louder this time, a deep, rich sound that made you look up at him in surprise. He was smiling—really smiling—and the sight caught you off guard.

“What?” he asked, his laughter fading into something softer.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head as a grin tugged at your lips. “It’s just nice to see you like this.”

He glanced away, but not before you caught the faintest hint of color rising in his cheeks.

---

Later, you found yourself at a shooting range game. The target? A giant teddy bear sitting proudly at the center of the stand.

You stared at the bear, your lips curling into a wistful smile.

“Why are you staring at it like that?” Bucky asked, following your gaze.

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to win one of those, like in the movies. But I’m terrible at shooting games.”

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

Without a word, he handed you the food he’d been holding and stepped up to the booth. He exchanged a few bills with the operator, picked up the air rifle, and lined up his shot.

One by one, the cans toppled with effortless precision. The entire thing took less than ten seconds. The operator handed Bucky the bear, looking vaguely impressed.

Turning to you, Bucky held out the bear, his smirk softening. “There. Happy?”

Your squeal of delight was uncontainable as you hugged the bear to your chest. “Are you kidding me? This is amazing!”

Bucky chuckled, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just shook his head, the faint smile lingering on his lips.

---

Back at the Tower, you sat on the floor of your apartment, the giant teddy bear propped up beside you like a loyal guardian. The box of desserts you’d brought home lay open between you and Bucky, who, to your surprise, had settled close—so close that his shoulder brushed against yours.

For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, but then Bucky broke it, his voice quiet.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked, not looking at you. “The food trucks, the conversations… You haven’t even written anything yet. Feels like I’m wasting your time.”

You set your fork down, startled by the vulnerability in his tone.

“You’re not wasting my time,” you said firmly. “I don’t care if it takes months to write anything. Getting to know you—this you—is the best part of all of this.”

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“This,” you continued, your voice softening. “The way you laugh, the way you care about the little things… That’s what I want people to see. That’s who you are.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes closing.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you stayed still, letting the warmth of his presence settle around you.

---

The Avengers Tower was unusually quiet as you wandered through its familiar halls. The kind of quiet that followed the steady hum of a busy day winding down, where every footstep seemed louder than it should. You had come, as always, to meet Bucky, notebook tucked snugly under your arm and a lingering thought about whether any desserts were left over from last night.

First, though, tea.

You found the kitchen easily—it wasn’t your first time navigating the compound’s labyrinthine halls. The space was sleek and modern, all polished countertops and gleaming appliances, with enough mugs in the cabinet to serve the entire team and then some. Reaching for two cups, you began preparing something warm, something simple—black tea for him, chamomile for you.

The quiet was broken by a familiar voice, low and tinged with amusement.

“Well, look who it is.”

Startled, you turned, still holding the mug, to see Natasha Romanoff leaning against the doorframe. She had that effortless poise she always carried, arms crossed and lips curled into a small, knowing smirk that seemed to see right through you.

“Natasha,” you greeted, managing a smile. You weren’t surprised to see her—she had a way of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. But something about her always left you feeling slightly off-balance, like you were playing a game without knowing the rules.

She stepped into the kitchen, her movements fluid as she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “How’s it going with Barnes?” she asked casually, though her sharp green eyes betrayed her genuine interest.

“It’s going… amazing,” you admitted, the honesty surprising even yourself. Your cheeks warmed as you added, “He’s amazing.” Then, hesitating, you glanced at her. “But I can’t really tell you more than that. I promised him I wouldn’t talk about what we’ve been working on.”

Natasha’s expression softened, the smirk fading into something closer to a real smile. “Good,” she said, her tone gentler now. “He needs that. Someone who keeps their promises.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. “I just want him to feel safe.”

“Safe,” Natasha repeated, her smirk returning. She tilted her head slightly, mischief glinting in her gaze. “And how safe do you feel around him? Your cheeks get awfully red when you’re with him.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but she cut you off with a laugh, clearly enjoying herself.

“It’s cute,” she teased, her voice lilting. “The way you look at him. Like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world. And then when he says something unexpected, your face does this little thing—” She mimicked a flustered expression, her grin widening as you groaned.

“Okay, fine,” you said, waving a hand in surrender. “Yes, Bucky is charming. And handsome. And maybe I have a… silly little crush. But that’s all it is. A crush. I’m not here for that, Nat. I’m here to make people see him for who he really is.”

Natasha’s smirk faded as she studied you, her expression turning thoughtful. “And how do you see him?”

The question caught you off guard, but when you answered, your voice was steady. “I see someone who’s kind. Someone who’s trying so hard to be better, even when the world doesn’t give him the chance. Someone who’s funny, and thoughtful, and—” You stopped, shaking your head. “I just want people to see him the way I do.”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t speak. Then she nodded, her approval subtle but unmistakable.

“He’s changing,” she said softly. “Whether it’s because of you or not, I don’t know. But he’s more open. More… himself.”

Her words sent a warmth through you, though they carried a gravity you couldn’t ignore.

“But,” Natasha added, her tone firm now, “you can’t forget that he’s still struggling. Progress isn’t always a straight line. It’s not going to be easy—for him or for you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. And you did. You saw it in the way his laughter sometimes faltered, in the distant look that would creep into his eyes when something triggered an old memory. But you also saw the way he kept trying, and you were willing to try with him.

“Good,” Natasha said, stepping back toward the door. “Then keep doing what you’re doing. And maybe one day, you’ll figure out what that silly little crush of yours really means.”

Before you could respond, she was gone, her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

You stood there for a moment, her words echoing in your mind as you finished preparing the tea. Two mugs in hand, you headed toward the gym, your heart feeling strangely full.

---

When you entered the gym, Bucky was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his posture unusually relaxed. His hair fell in loose strands over his face, and when he looked up, he gave you one of his rare smiles.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

“Hey,” you replied, handing him one of the mugs as you sat down across from him.

As you sipped your tea, the silence between you was easy, comfortable. You found yourself watching him, the way his eyes softened as he stared into his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic as though grounding himself.

“What?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe your feelings for him were something more than a “silly little crush.” But as you sat there, sharing tea and silence with the man who had slowly but surely let you into his world, you realized something else:

Whether or not you could name what you felt didn’t matter.

What mattered was that you were here, together, and that for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes seemed to feel at ease.

---

It started like so many of your conversations did—in the gym. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint creak of leather from the equipment filled the space, a subtle backdrop to the measured rhythm of Bucky’s words. It had become a sanctuary for him, a space where his guarded edges softened, where he could breathe without feeling the weight of a world that still didn’t quite know what to make of him.

You’d learned to let the moments flow naturally, to not push or prod. He didn’t need someone to drag his past out of him. He needed someone who would listen when he was ready.

Today, he was ready.

Bucky sat on the bench, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his vibranium hand resting lightly on his knee. You sat across from him on the floor, cross-legged with your notebook balanced on your lap but largely forgotten. This wasn’t about the notes anymore.

For a while, you talked about little things—the weather, a new bakery you’d heard about, the way the gym smelled faintly of old leather and floor polish. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice softened, and he began.

“My ma,” he said, his gaze distant, his tone almost reverent. “She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. She had this way of making you feel like… like you were the only thing that mattered when she looked at you. But she didn’t take any crap. If I stepped outta line, she’d give me this look. Just one look, and I’d straighten right up.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “She sounds incredible.”

Bucky nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She was. Strong, too. Had to be. My dad worked long hours. Too long, sometimes. But he always made time for us when he could. Used to take me and my sisters to Coney Island whenever he had a free weekend.”

“Coney Island,” you repeated, grinning. “Let me guess—hot dogs?”

Bucky’s smile widened. “Best in the city. I’d fight anyone who said otherwise.”

“You had sisters?” you asked, your tone light but curious. Of course, you knew this already—your research had told you—but you wanted to hear him talk about them. It was the biggest breakthrough yet, and you weren’t about to let it slip away.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening even more. “Two of ‘em. Rebecca was the youngest—she was a firecracker. Always getting herself into trouble and talking her way out of it. Could charm her way past anyone. And Winnie…” His smile faded slightly, turning wistful. “She was the serious one. Always felt like she had to keep the rest of us in line. We used to fight like cats and dogs, but… I miss ‘em.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you gave him a moment, letting the silence stretch gently between you. When you spoke again, your voice was soft, careful.

“And Steve?” you asked. “How’d you meet him?”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Steve… We grew up in the same neighborhood. Scrawniest kid I’d ever seen, but damn, he had guts. Always getting into fights he couldn’t win. I’d end up stepping in, dragging his sorry ass outta trouble more times than I can count. But it didn’t stop him. Stubborn little bastard.”

You laughed at that, the image of a wiry, determined young Steve Rogers standing his ground against impossible odds vivid in your mind. “Sounds like you two were troublemakers.”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky admitted, his smile widening.

“Rumor has it you were a bit of a ladies’ man back then,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shot you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Is that what they say?”

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

He didn’t answer directly, but the knowing look in his eyes was answer enough. You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it drew a softer smile from him.

“Okay,” you said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “What were dates like back then?”

Bucky leaned back slightly, his eyes growing distant as he thought. “Simpler,” he said. “We’d go to the movies—cheap seats, usually. Maybe get ice cream after. And if you really wanted to impress a girl, you’d take her dancing.”

“You danced?” you asked, your tone tinged with playful disbelief.

“I wasn’t much of a dancer,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But it worked. Most of the time.”

You smiled, imagining him in those days, his charm and easy confidence lighting up every room he stepped into. “Sounds romantic,” you said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

The conversation slowed, a quietness settling over the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like standing on the edge of something—like there were more stories waiting, more pieces of him still to be shared.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost hesitant. “I don’t think about those days much anymore.”

“Why not?” you asked gently.

“Because it feels like another life,” he said simply. “Like it happened to someone else. And I’m not sure I deserve to keep those memories.”

The weight of his confession pressed down on you, but you didn’t look away. “You do,” you said firmly. “You deserve every good memory, Bucky. Every single one. They’re yours, and no one—nothing—can take that away from you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you thought you saw something in his eyes shift. Not quite belief, but the beginning of it.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

For the first time in a long time, you saw a glimpse of the man he used to be—the boy from Brooklyn with a quick grin and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved. And for the first time, you thought maybe he saw a piece of that boy in himself, too.

---

The gym felt heavier than usual when you walked in, a tension hanging in the air that made your chest tighten. Bucky sat on the bench, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor. His metal hand rested on his knee, the faint hum of the vibranium audible in the otherwise silent room.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer but leaving a careful distance between you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his tone clipped and cold. He still didn’t look at you. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You frowned, setting your notebook down on the floor beside you as you sat across from him. “Bucky, if you don’t want to talk today, we don’t have to. I don’t want to force—”

“Everyone wants something,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your words like a blade. His eyes finally met yours, sharp and filled with a storm you hadn’t seen in weeks. “They want me to talk, to act normal, to live like none of it ever happened. But it did happen. I can’t just forget about the people I killed, the ones I hurt. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?”

His voice grew louder, more raw with every word, and you felt a pang in your chest at the anguish spilling out of him.

“Bucky—”

“You don’t get it!” he shouted, his fists clenching at his sides. “No one does. You think I can just sit here, smiling and talking about movies, like it’s all fine? Like I’m fine? I’m not!”

His voice cracked on the last word, and before you could respond, his fist slammed into the wall beside your head. The sound reverberated through the room, loud and jarring, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed perfectly still, your breath caught—not because you were afraid, but because of the tears streaming down his face.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment.

He froze, his hand still pressed against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

Without thinking, you reached for him, standing to pull him into a tight hug. He stiffened at first, his body like a coiled spring, but then he collapsed against you, his arms falling limply to his sides as his sobs wracked his body.

You slid down to the floor with him, your arms wrapped around his trembling frame. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your hand moving soothingly over his back. “It’s okay. Nothing happened. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “I’m so scared, so damn scared that I’ll hurt someone. That I’ll hurt you. And you’ll leave, and I can’t—I can’t handle that.”

Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your own eyes as you held him closer. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Even if you kick me out, I’m staying. You hear me? You’re stuck with me, Bucky. I don’t care how messy it gets. I’m not going anywhere. Remember? I’m nosy like that.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped him, muffled against your shoulder. Slowly, his metal arm came up, wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breathing uneven but beginning to calm.

The two of you stayed there for a long time, the weight of his pain settling around you like a storm finally breaking. You didn’t say anything more—you just held him, letting him pour out everything he’d been carrying for so long.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red and swollen, but there was something quieter in his expression. He looked at you as though searching for cracks, for some sign that you were afraid or pulling away.

You smiled softly. “We’ll figure this out,” you said. “Together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky nodded. And you knew he believed you.

---

The hum of the elevator seemed louder than usual as it carried you to the common floor of Avengers Tower. Tony had called for you—no, insisted on seeing you—and you couldn’t shake the suspicion that it had something to do with Bucky.

Stepping into the lounge, you found him leaning casually against the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze flicked to you as soon as you entered, and he didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Alright, spill,” he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play coy,” Tony shot back, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “Something happened with Barnes. He’s been acting… weird. And by weird, I mean less broody than usual, which is frankly unsettling.”

You sighed, the tension in your chest tightening. “Tony, if Bucky wants to talk to you about something, he will. But that’s between him and me.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting. “Between him and you?” he repeated, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “So now you’re the Winter Soldier Whisperer?”

Your jaw clenched, the words stinging more than you expected. “I’m his friend,” you said evenly.

“Are you?” Tony countered, his tone cool but pointed. “Because last time I checked, you were supposed to be writing about him, not playing therapist.”

The accusation hit harder than it should have, but you didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about writing,” you said, your voice firm. “It’s about helping him. And if you don’t trust me by now, Tony, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the two of you stared each other down, the weight of unspoken words pressing between you.

Finally, Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” he said, his tone softening. “You’ve proved yourself enough times. Just… don’t let him down. He doesn’t need any more of that.”

“I won’t,” you said quietly but with conviction.

Tony studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, his usual smirk tugged faintly at his lips. “Good. Now get out of here before I start saying something sentimental. Can’t have that getting out.”

A smile flickered across your face, and you turned to leave, your chest lighter than when you’d arrived.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, you couldn’t help but think about what Tony had said. This wasn’t just about writing anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

It was about Bucky. About being there for him, no matter what.

---

Later that evening, your apartment was bathed in the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The city’s muffled sounds filtered through the half-open window—honking cars, distant laughter, and the hum of life carrying on outside. Your notebook lay open before you, the first blank page staring back at you like a challenge.

It was time.

You twirled the pen in your fingers, hesitating for a moment. The weight of what you were about to write felt heavier than usual, as though the trust Bucky had placed in you was balancing on the tip of your pen. Taking a deep breath, you began.

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

Before he was a soldier, before he became a shadow in the history books, James Buchanan Barnes was just a boy from Brooklyn.

He grew up in a neighborhood where the buildings leaned too close together, where streets buzzed with life—vendors shouting out their wares, children’s laughter echoing in the alleys, and the distant hiss of trains passing by. Mornings smelled of fresh bread wafting from corner bakeries; evenings carried the smoky tang of burning coal.

Bucky’s family wasn’t wealthy, but they were rich in the ways that mattered. His parents filled their modest apartment with love, loyalty, and a sense of unwavering stability.

As the eldest of three siblings, Bucky took his role as protector seriously, even when it meant teasing his sisters mercilessly. Rebecca, the youngest, was a firecracker—always talking her way into and out of trouble. Winnie, the middle child, was quieter, her serious demeanor often earning her the title of “the responsible one.” But Bucky adored them both fiercely. His sisters would later say he was equal parts troublemaker and guardian, the kind of brother who could make you laugh even as he scolded you for making poor choices.

His father worked long, grueling hours, returning home with hands calloused from years of labor. But he always made time for his children. On weekends, he’d take them to Coney Island, where Bucky would wolf down hot dogs and swear they were the best in the city.

His mother was the cornerstone of their home. She was kind but firm, with a gaze sharp enough to silence even the most defiant child. She taught Bucky how to tie a tie, how to hold a door open, and how to treat people with respect. From her, he learned the quiet strength of standing tall in a world that could often feel like it was trying to knock you down.

It was in that same Brooklyn neighborhood that Bucky met Steve Rogers. Steve was scrawny, sickly, and stubborn—a kid with a lion’s heart trapped in a frame that couldn’t always keep up. The two became fast friends, a duo that seemed inseparable despite their differences.

“He was always picking fights,” Bucky had said once, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t matter that he couldn’t win. He just didn’t know how to back down.”

Where Steve was unwavering in his ideals, Bucky was the one who kept him grounded. And in turn, Steve reminded Bucky of the kind of man he wanted to be—a man who fought not for glory, but because it was right. Together, they became a team. Trouble found them often, but so did moments of quiet triumph—sneaking into a movie theater, sharing a laugh over melting ice cream cones, or walking the long way home just to enjoy the cool Brooklyn nights.

---

The words flowed easier than you’d expected. You didn’t write about the Winter Soldier or the wars he’d fought, the darkness he’d endured. That part would come later. For now, you wanted the world to meet James Buchanan Barnes—the boy who lived, laughed, and loved before the weight of history settled on his shoulders.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. Your palms were clammy as you watched him read, the sound of the paper rustling unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

He sat on the edge of the bench, his posture stiff as his eyes moved over the page. His expression gave nothing away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was searching. “It’s… good,” he said slowly. “Really good. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Weird.”

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

He set the notebook down, his metal fingers tapping lightly against the bench. “Reading about myself like that. Like I’m… normal.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward. “Well, you are normal, Bucky. Or at least as normal as anyone else.”

He chuckled at that, a low, quiet sound that felt like a victory. “Normal, huh? Don’t know if I’ve heard that one before.”

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

Before you left, you handed him a small, carefully wrapped package. He frowned slightly, his gaze flicking from the package to you.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

He unwrapped it carefully, his movements almost hesitant. When he finally revealed the contents—a set of classic movies on Blu-ray—his brow furrowed, but the softness in his expression betrayed him.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied simply, your smile shy but sincere.

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue-gray eyes flicking between you and the gift. Then, to your surprise, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you.

The hug wasn’t born of desperation or pain like the others had been. It was soft, deliberate, and unprompted.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm against your ear.

Your heart fluttered as you hugged him back, the solid weight of his arms around you grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he finally pulled away, your cheeks burned, but the look on his face made it worth it.

For the first time, you thought maybe Bucky wasn’t just starting to trust you—he was starting to trust himself again, too.

---

That night, the quiet of your apartment felt heavier than usual. The city’s usual soundtrack—distant sirens, muffled music, the occasional rumble of a passing train—faded into the background as you sat cross-legged on your couch. The notebook in your lap was open to a blank page, the pen in your hand poised but unmoving.

The weight of your feelings for Bucky pressed against your chest, a slow, steady ache you couldn’t quite shake. It scared you, how much you cared. How deeply you wanted to see him smile, to see the light in his eyes grow brighter each day. You’d told yourself this was about helping him, about showing the world who he truly was, but somewhere along the way, it had become so much more.

You thought of the way he had laughed at your jokes, the way his face softened when he spoke about his family. The way he’d hugged you that day—not out of desperation, but out of something real, something unspoken.

It didn’t matter if it hurt, you decided. Even if you risked your own heart, even if you never dared to tell him how you felt, it was worth it. Seeing Bucky Barnes slowly come back to life was worth everything.

---

Brooklyn was alive with its usual hum of activity when you met Steve Rogers the next afternoon. The air was crisp, the kind that turned your breath into soft clouds and made your cheeks tingle. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the old brick buildings in a golden glow, the shadows stretching long across the cracked sidewalks.

You stood on the corner, nervously gripping the strap of your bag as you waited. When Steve appeared, his presence was as steadying as you’d hoped. He walked toward you with his familiar purposeful stride, his jacket zipped against the chill, his face carrying that calm resolve that had a way of grounding you.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice warm and low. He offered a small smile as he stopped beside you. “What’s this all about?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you turned to look at the house across the street. It was small and worn, its brick facade faded with age. The shutters were hanging slightly crooked, and the front yard was overgrown with weeds. A “FOR SALE” sign stood askew in the yard, weathered and forgotten, as though it had been there far too long.

“Steve,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I found something. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I thought I’d talk to you first.”

His gaze followed yours, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of the house. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition softening the lines of his face.

“Is that…” His words trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

For a moment, Steve said nothing. His jaw tightened, his blue eyes fixed on the house as memories seemed to flood him. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared slightly, as though bracing himself against the weight of it.

“I checked,” you continued, your words spilling out quickly to fill the silence. “His sister, Winnie, passed away about four years ago. The house has been on the market ever since, but no one’s bought it. It’s in rough shape—it needs a lot of work—but it’s still standing.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands clenching briefly at his sides. “Why are you showing me this?”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly unsure. “I just… I thought maybe it could be something for him. A place to ground him. Something familiar, something that’s his. He doesn’t have much that feels like it belongs to him, and I thought…” You trailed off, your voice faltering.

Steve finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You really think this could help him?”

“I do,” you said earnestly. “It’s more than a house—it’s a piece of his past, something real. I know it’s falling apart, but it’s his home, Steve. It could be a step toward helping him feel like he belongs somewhere again.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on yours, thoughtful and a little heavy. He turned back to the house, his eyes scanning every worn corner, every crack in the foundation. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll talk to Tony. See if we can figure something out—a loan, or whatever it takes.”

Relief washed over you, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Steve glanced at you again, his expression shifting into something quieter, more introspective. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. “Of course I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been through so much, and he’s still here. Still trying. I just want him to be happy. To feel like he has a chance at a life.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you closely. “That’s not what I meant,” he said gently.

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced away, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured. “What matters is that he’s okay. That he’s well.”

For a moment, Steve didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but kind. “You’re good for him,” he said simply.

His words stayed with you as you walked back through the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the hum of the city blending with the thoughts swirling in your mind. You didn’t know what the future held—for Bucky, for you, for the fragile connection growing between you. But you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You’d do whatever it took to see him smile again, to see him find a piece of peace in the chaos of the world. Because he deserved it. And, selfishly, because you wanted to be there when he did.

---

That evening, the soft glow of your desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over your workspace. Outside, the city hummed with life—a soothing backdrop of distant horns, muffled conversations, and the rhythmic click of your pen against the edge of your notebook.

The second article about Bucky had been surprisingly fun to write, a departure from the heavier pieces you’d drafted before. You wanted this one to show a different side of him—a side that wasn’t defined by war or pain, but by the charm and warmth that still lingered beneath the surface.

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

If you’ve heard whispers about James Buchanan Barnes being a ladies’ man back in his day, let me tell you: they weren’t whispers—they were practically shouts. The legend of Bucky Barnes, the heartthrob of Brooklyn, is as true as it is amusing.

“I didn’t try,” Bucky tells me, a smirk playing on his lips, his tone so casual you almost miss the confidence behind it. “It just… happened.” He shrugs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And really, it probably was. A young James Barnes had it all: the looks, the charm, the grin that could disarm you faster than any weapon. But Bucky wasn’t just about turning heads—he was about making connections, about making people feel seen. He wasn’t just a flirt; he was the guy who actually cared.

“So,” I asked him, leaning forward, “what made you such a hit? Was it the hair? The smile? The whole ‘knight in shining armor’ thing you had going on?”

“Maybe the smile,” he said with a chuckle, clearly amused by my curiosity. “And the fact that I didn’t talk much about myself. Women like a good listener.”

There it is, folks. The secret to Bucky Barnes’ success: shutting up and letting the other person shine. Revolutionary, isn’t it?

But let’s talk about dates. Because when Bucky Barnes took a girl out, it wasn’t just a night—it was an experience. “What did dates look like back then?” I asked him, ready to be transported to the days of big band music and soda fountains.

“Well,” Bucky began, leaning back with a distant look in his eyes, “you’d pick her up from her place—on time, always on time. You’d take her to the movies, maybe grab ice cream after. If you really wanted to impress her, you’d go dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but…” He trailed off, a small smile playing on his lips.

“But you pulled it off anyway,” I finished for him, grinning. He just shrugged, not confirming but not denying it either—a true master of mystery.

Bucky’s approach to dating wasn’t about grand gestures or flashy moves. It was about the little things: remembering her favorite flavor of ice cream, pulling her chair out for her, walking her home at the end of the night.

“So you were a gentleman,” I teased, my pen tapping against my notebook.

“Always,” he replied, his smile softening, and for a moment, I could see the man he used to be, unburdened by the weight of the years.

I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask. “Do you ever miss those days?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Things were… simpler. You didn’t have to think so much about how you were being seen. You just… were.”

But while the world may have changed, some things haven’t: Bucky Barnes still has that same charm, that same wit, and that same ability to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.

So, what’s the verdict? Is Bucky Barnes still Brooklyn’s Casanova? I’ll let you decide. All I know is that he could probably win over the entire city if he tried.

And between you and me, I’m not sure he even has to try.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. You sat across from him, watching as he read, your nerves buzzing quietly beneath your skin.

He finished, setting the notebook down with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re making me sound like some kinda heartthrob,” he said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t?” you teased, leaning forward with a grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “It’s funny, reading about myself like this.”

“Funny good or funny bad?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Just… funny,” he said, his voice lighter than you’d heard in a while.

You couldn’t resist pushing a little further. “I’ve gotta say, I’m kinda curious what it’d be like to go on a date with you. You know, for research purposes.”

Bucky looked at you, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as a smile spread across his face. “Maybe one day,” he said quietly, his tone sincere.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you managed to play it off with a laugh, shaking your head. “Guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Avengers’ lounge, Steve and Tony were deep in conversation about your discovery of Bucky’s childhood home. Steve’s voice was steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of hope as he laid out the details.

“The house is still there,” Steve said, his hands clasped in front of him. “The porch, the brickwork—it’s rough, but it’s intact. It hasn’t been sold yet. And I think it could mean something to him.”

Tony sipped his drink, his expression skeptical. “You sure he’d even want it? Barnes doesn’t exactly strike me as the nostalgic type.”

Steve nodded slowly. “He wouldn’t, not at first. But if it was his project—his space—it could help. He’s been looking for something, Tony. Something to anchor him.”

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, fine. I’ll make the arrangements. But it has to be his decision. If he’s not 100% on board, we pull out.”

Steve smiled faintly, his relief palpable. “Agreed. I think he’ll come around. Especially if she’s the one to tell him.”

Tony’s smirk returned, his tone light but teasing. “Ah, our Winter Soldier Whisperer. Why am I not surprised?”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. And deep down, he knew Tony was right. If anyone could make Bucky see the value in reclaiming a piece of his past, it was you.

---

You sat in your car outside the gym, the world around you fading into a blur of streetlights and distant sounds. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached, but it was the only thing grounding you in the moment.

“Bucky, I found something…” You tried the words aloud, your voice trembling slightly. No, that was too abrupt. “Bucky, there’s something I want to show you…” Still wrong—too vague.

With a frustrated sigh, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against the wheel. You had spent weeks planning this moment, rehearsing it in your head over and over again. But even now, with everything in place, doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if he thought you’d overstepped? What if this wasn’t what he needed? What if you were about to ruin everything?

Taking a shaky breath, you reached for the apple pie on the passenger seat—a small gesture, something to soften the conversation ahead. You stepped out of the car, the cool evening air biting at your skin as you walked toward the gym, clutching the pie like a lifeline.

---

The gym was quiet, dimly lit, the faint scent of leather and cleaning solution hanging in the air. Bucky was sitting on the bench, his head tilted slightly as he watched you approach. His expression softened when he saw the pie, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

“This feels like a bribe,” he said, his tone lighter than you’d expected.

“Maybe it is,” you teased, setting the pie on the bench between you. “But I’m hoping it’ll earn me some goodwill for the questions I have.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly. “Alright. Fire away.”

You tucked your notebook beside you, deciding this moment was better left unwritten. “Tell me about the house you grew up in,” you began, your voice gentle. “What did it look like?”

For a moment, Bucky’s expression shifted, his gaze growing distant as memories surfaced. “It was small,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Brick on the outside, narrow hallways on the inside. The kind of place where you could hear everything—Ma cooking in the kitchen, my sisters giggling through the walls, no matter how hard they tried to be quiet.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The porch swing creaked every time you sat on it. Dad always said he’d fix it, but he never did. Ma loved it that way, though.”

“What about your room?” you prompted gently, leaning forward.

He huffed a soft laugh. “Not much to it. A bed, a dresser, a desk in the corner. Rebecca used to sneak in during thunderstorms. She’d bring her blanket and curl up by the foot of the bed. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but…” He shrugged. “It felt safe.”

“And the holidays?” you asked, your tone warm.

His smile grew, brighter now. “Ma went all out for Christmas. She’d bake for days—cookies, pies, the works. The house always smelled like cinnamon and sugar. Rebecca and Winnie would string popcorn for the tree. It was messy, but we loved it.”

As he spoke, you watched the tension ease from his shoulders, the weight he always carried seeming a little lighter. His voice held a softness, a warmth you hadn’t heard before, and it made your heart ache in the best way.

When he finished, you hesitated, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. “Bucky,” you began carefully, “can I show you something?”

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“First, promise you won’t get mad,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

“That bad, huh?” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

You shook your head. “It’s not bad. I just… I don’t want you to think I overstepped.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

---

The drive to Brooklyn was quiet, the tension in the car thick but not suffocating. You glanced at Bucky occasionally, but his gaze remained fixed on the passing streets, his expression unreadable.

When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted in knots. You parked the car, your hands trembling slightly as you turned to him.

“Why are we here?” he asked, his voice cautious.

You gestured toward the house—the faded brick, the crooked shutters, the porch swing that still hung from rusted chains. The “FOR SALE” sign that had once stood in the yard was gone, replaced with a crisp new one that read “JUST SOLD.”

“That’s your house,” you said softly. “Your childhood home.”

Bucky’s entire body seemed to go still. His eyes were locked on the house, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight.

“I found it,” you continued, your words spilling out in a rush. “I was looking for your family, but… there wasn’t anyone left. And then I found this. It hadn’t been sold yet, so Steve and Tony bought it. It’s yours now, Bucky. You can do whatever you want with it—fix it up, sell it, anything. It’s your home.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric of his jeans.

“Bucky?” you said hesitantly, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry if—”

Before you could finish, he turned to you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that made it hard to breathe—but you didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held him tightly, your own emotions spilling over. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the weight of the moment, in the enormity of what it meant.

When he finally pulled back, he brushed a hand through his hair, his gaze returning to the house. “I never thought I’d see it again,” he said quietly. “I figured it was long gone.”

You smiled through your tears, your voice soft but steady. “It’s not perfect, but… it’s still standing. Just like you.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he shook his head, glancing at you. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Well,” you said with a grin, “I’ve got vacation days to burn, and I’ve been looking for a good project. So if you need a hand…”

He smiled then—a real, genuine smile that made your heart skip. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Taking your hand, he led you toward the house. The front steps creaked under your weight, the familiar sound drawing another soft laugh from Bucky. He didn’t say much as you walked through the door together, but his eyes said everything.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a piece of his past, a foundation for his future.

And for the first time, it felt like he was ready to build on it.

---

When you told your boss you were taking a month off, her reaction was as dramatic as you’d expected.

“A month?” she repeated, lowering her mug of coffee and staring at you like you’d just announced plans to join the circus.

“Yes, a month,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. You’d rehearsed this conversation in your head a dozen times.

She blinked, setting the mug down on her desk with a soft thud. “Are you… okay? You’ve never taken more than a long weekend. What’s this about?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your bag, but you held her gaze. “It’s personal,” you said finally. “But it’s important. Really important.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing you with the kind of look that could unearth secrets. “Alright,” she said slowly. “But if you come back and tell me you’re quitting, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

You laughed, though the thought had crossed your mind more than once. “Noted.”

---

When you told Bucky about your month-long leave, his reaction was priceless.

“A month?” he repeated, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes, a month,” you said, echoing your earlier conversation with a grin.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging. “Besides, I figured you could use the help. Just don’t expect miracles—I’m not exactly Bob Vila.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and soft. “Just having you here is enough.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

---

Part 2

[monstersinthecosmos]

Vamptember Day 29 - Hunger

{kellermensch - lost at sea}

Marius used to think of this room as his studio.

Daniel still calls it that sometimes, being polite. But it’s less Marius’s Studio and more Daniel’s Craft Room. The easels have been crushed back into a corner and his reference books are buried behind stacks of model boxes. The large table in the center of the room, which used to be covered in jars of brushes and half-empty tubes and sketch pads and sponges and palettes is now strewn with tiny little screws and spare wheels and broken sections of track and all of Daniel’s special screwdrivers.

Neither of them have bothered with anything in here for a while, though. Marius sometimes painted in here alongside Daniel, when he was tinkering, but Daniel has been coming in less and less. Even towards the end of the obsession he’d been spending more time in the main room—Marius supposes it’s one of the spare “bedrooms”—where Daniel had built the first model village. 

It was as if all the work had been done, and he could just sit there and enjoy it.

Marius swipes an instruction manual off of his stool, watches it flutter to the floor. Sits down and stares at the mess.

Daniel had asked him, a few nights ago, why he doesn’t paint anymore. If Marius had wanted to be mean about it, he might have said Someone’s spare train parts are all over the painting studio, but he’d just shrugged. He thinks maybe he changed the subject. And Daniel’s getting so much better at hiding his thoughts. So graceful, the way his head went quiet as he stared.

The last painting he’d been working on is still on the larger easel. Pushed flush to the wall now, no longer by the window or the lights. Dust blankets over it like a pathetic veil. 

He can’t remember when he painted last. Time cramps in his brain—Daniel confronting him about it a few nights ago (or a few weeks ago?) and the painting sitting here for months and it’s been… decades since the ice, he thinks. The weight of centuries crushes in on his shoulders. 

No one would miss him if he slept. He knows that. Daniel is better. Daniel will be fine.

The garage door rumbles beneath the studio. He might have heard the car approaching, but it hadn’t really sunk in. The garage opens and closes, and the car door a moment later. Daniel’s footfall on the steps into their kitchen, then up the main staircase, then through the hallway.

Marius should get up. Shake it off, say hello. Ask how hunting went. Ask him if he needs something. But time crushes down on his shoulders, and he feels like he can’t move.

Daniel doesn’t say hello, either. The relaxed, fed energy lurks in the doorway, staring in. Thoughts locked up tight as he just watches. 

A part of Marius sees the room in front of him. He’d be able to recall it, if someone asked, or if he tries to remember this later. He can see the clutter, the half-finished painting of Scylla, a green iPod Mini with a cracked screen, a crumbled ball of used blue masking tape. But he’s miles away, really. Floating somewhere.

He’s been doing this lately, hasn’t he? And Daniel has walked in on him a few times, just like this.

There’s never a confrontation, though. Even now. Marius isn’t sure how long Daniel waits, but the energy eventually recedes. Back down the stairs, and Marius hears the TV, hears the soft cadence of laptop keys.

Marius thinks he might cry soon. In that way it bubbles up from time to time. The idea presents itself to him as a tidy, sterile fact—it doesn’t make him want to cry just yet. Just the forecast that it’s coming soon. But for now, he stays frozen still where he is, ancient bones heavy in place. The idea that there’s even emotion somewhere inside is so far away. 

No crying tonight, he thinks. Too far away. Just one of those things, one of those truths, that it will come soon.

And he hears Daniel’s laptop shut downstairs, and the sound of him setting it on the coffee table. The TV going quiet, and the thunk of the remote as Daniel tosses it aside. Then the footsteps, again, coming back up the stairs, down the hall, stopping at the open studio door.

Daniel is behind him, but Marius imagines his face. It feels too ironic, too cruel, the familiar irritation, the frustration, impotent desperation. But what does Daniel know? Naive little fledgling. Try watching for two millennia.

“You coming to bed?” Daniel asks. 

It’s early, for Marius. Daniel is still so young. Part of him knows that Daniel is concerned, doesn’t want to leave him like this, but his ugliest instincts gnaw  through his insides. Hateful idea percolating that Daniel just wants to drink from him before bed, like he always does. 

The two halves of him debate a response, staring ahead towards the clutter. Seeing it but not seeing it, and he’s not sure how much time goes by in the silence.

Daniel sighs.

Thoughts guarded, the best he can, but he’s too easily distracted, too easy to anger. 

“Fuck’s with you?” he asks.

The twinge of provocation, softly alight in Marius’s chest, wakes him up a bit. His shoulders straighten. The half-finished Scylla comes into focus.

You should go, he thinks, unsure if Daniel will hear it. Doesn’t turn to face him, just stares ahead. And the two halves of him picture it.

Because Daniel’s better now, isn’t he? 

“You always do this,” Daniel snaps. It tingles in Marius’s body again, warming up to his shoulders. Sort of pleasant, how it makes his hair stand on end. It’s something so barbaric and ugly, always on standby inside, begging for Marius to feed it. 

It’s been a long time since he’s seen Daniel angry. 

Perhaps it’s unfair to count those other times against him—mindless frustration, overstimulated tantrums aren’t so different than freezing all together. He wasn’t really himself, back then.

But he wonders what it would take to bring it out of him now. This new Daniel, this awake Daniel. How much longer can he stomach being ignored? Marius had made it centuries.

Of course, Daniel isn’t obligated to stay. He’ll leave, and he can now. Doesn’t need help anymore. It’s a matter of time, and maybe Marius can speed the process along.

Daniel’s impatience has his mask slipping. Fucking ignoring me flashes out of him before he can hold it back. The door frame creaks where Daniel squeezes it, and his nails tap against the wood as he composes himself.

They’re so similar, really. Marius feels it, like a pull, like they’re tied together. All the anger feels the same—blooms the same and whispers the same, to each of them. Unfolds in them the same way. He feels it, lingering in the dusty air. 

He wants to hurt me, Marius realizes. So familiar to him that it aches in his chest. He almost betrays himself, wants to rub his hand over his collarbone to soothe his own anxiety, but he stays still. 

How easy had this been for Akasha? How deep inside had she disappeared? Marius thinks, if he really needed to, he could bury himself that far under, but for now he’s barely below the surface.

And Daniel is coming closer now. The floorboards creak beneath his feet as he comes around the craft table, to stand in Marius’s field of vision. 

“Seriously, what the fuck is this?” he asks. He presses his hands to the table, and Marius feels the way he stares, even without looking up to his face.  Hard to read time lately. Marius isn’t sure how much goes by. He hears one of the clocks downstairs, ticking, and ticking. Daniel finally sighs. “Great. Real mature.”

Provoking people can be such an ugly habit, Marius knows. Something he does, himself. Unsure if this counts, but maybe it’s karmic, the way Daniel’s insult needles in his chest.

He finally looks up. 

Daniel’s face is so flat, his eyes steely. Stubborn. The feeling starts to return in Marius’s body, and he wonders how much he can push back. 

“You didn’t have much to say to me for a number of years, yourself.”

It should be what Daniel wants, and maybe the flash of mischief in his eyes betrays the way he scowls. Shoulders rigid as his nails dig dimples into the tabletop.

“Maybe you should go take one of your big sleeps if you’re this fucking cranky.”

The anger creeps through the roots of Marius’s hair. Heart skips as he narrows his eyes, studies Daniel’s face. “One of my big sleeps?”

“Everyone doesn’t do that, you know,” Daniel says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You act like it’s normal just because you need to. You know Armand—”

“Armand is a child.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Sure, yeah. Such a child that you’re terrified of having a real conversation with him. Sure.”

Marius leans back in his chair. Raises an eyebrow. Interesting. He folds his hands in his lap. “Real conversations? With Armand? How did you feel when you read Lestat’s book? Tell me that.”

“You never even told him what happened to you.”

“He’s the only serious relationship you ever had when you were alive. Was he your first breakup?”

Daniel’s pupils blow wide. The hair rises on the back of Marius’s neck.

“Well killing Santino didn’t do shit for you, did it?”

His ears ring. His mouth opens, but he’s not sure what to say.

Oddly erotic, the way the fury creeps up. Sensual, awakening. His throat pinches in hunger, and he can still smell the victims on Daniel’s clothes, even over the smell of stale turpentine and model glue that haunts the room.

Daniel cracks a smug half-grin, as if Marius’s silence means he’s won. He presses his hands to the table again, leans in. “You drank from Santino, too. Still couldn’t figure it out.”

“That’s not—”

“I saw it, Marius. In your blood,” he says. He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb. “Saw it in his blood, too.”

Marius is up before he realizes it, before he intends to. Free-falling without his self control, unable to latch onto it, seeing everything as an observer. The way the table flips, and the amused shock on Daniel’s face, and the way his knees bracket Daniel’s hips a moment later. Daniel sprawled across the floor, his hair tousled as he pants, as his fist bunches into Marius’s shirt.

His hand wraps around Daniel’s throat, so easy to pin him there, so young still. Daniel’s pulse races beneath Marius’s fingers, his Blood activated, unaccustomed to defending itself. 

Still warm, from his hunt. Marius breathes deep, smells the victims on him. Watches the emotions play across Daniel’s face, the way they come and go, as he tries to hide each one.

It can be odd, the way he reminds Marius of himself. But the way he can remind Marius of Armand, too. He wonders, watching the stubbornness fight for dominance, seeing the secret pleasure beneath it, if it was passed down. How much does the Blood carry? How much of this is Marius, himself, distilled over centuries?

The anger is like heat on his skin. Pleasant, like a warm bath. He shudders into it.

“Let me see it, Marius,” Daniel says. He arches his back, presses his hips up to Marius’s groin. He’s still so fledgling-soft, even after years of glutting on Marius’s blood. So weak, so that Marius doesn’t even budge. But his eyes glimmer in the struggle. Enjoying it.

Marius squeezes around his throat. It would kill him, if he were alive. If he needed oxygen. Still, he feels how it constricts Daniel’s arteries, sees how the color rushes his face. Smells the panic on him, his body and Blood frantic with primal instinct.

He leans down, their chests pressing together, his hair falling around them in a curtain. Breathes against Daniel’s mouth, smelling the blood on him still. He licks across Daniel’s bottom lip for a taste.

“You don’t truly want to be immortal,” Marius says. Calmer now, and he squeezes harder to make his point. 

Daniel’s brows come together in frustration, but the words don’t come out. Marius has to ease his grip.

Scrambling for a retort as he grabs Marius’s shoulders, hanging on for leverage, not trying to push him away.

“You never let Armand fuck you,” he hisses. Desperate now, thinking with his flesh, running out of barbs. Marius almost laughs, but he’s stubborn, too.

“You wish you hadn’t.”

“You hate that he burdened you with me.”

“And you’re afraid of me.”

Daniel’s body relaxes, eases down against the floor. Cheeks flushed as he tries to hide his arousal, pretends he’s still mad.

Sun will be up soon, Marius feels it. Sees it in Daniel’s bloodshot eyes, that he’ll be tired soon. Perhaps it’s his signal, time for their bedtime ritual.

But easy enough to pretend he’s still angry, too. 

He lets go of Daniel’s throat, to make space. Grabs him by the hair, instead, yanking his head to the side to expose the stretch of perfect skin. 

Well, not entirely the bedtime ritual. It doesn’t usually go like this. Marius heart races as he leans down, as he tears in. 

They’ve never been violent with each other. Marius has never made such a mess. He tears, with his teeth, so that a perfect red arc of arterial spray splashes across his face. It paints a messy line across Marius’s shirt, and over the floor. Marius wonders if it reaches Scylla and if he’ll have to scrap it, or start it over, or work around it.

For a moment he just watches it bubble out, lets the scent of it fill him. Daniel instinctively lifts a hand to cover the wound, but Marius pins his wrist to the floor. Just watches, until the wound is almost healed, as the blood pools dark around in him in a halo, and then leans into bite again.

He drinks, this time.

Smooth mouthful, rich and warm, still fresh from the hunt. So full of his petty verve. Marius cuts the wound again, and again, his head swimming as it fills him, as Daniel softens beneath him. He shakes as he swallows, and he grinds down, as if it’s sexual, wanting to feel the press of Daniel’s body. Daniel moans, like he’s dying, and cups his hand around the back of Marius’s neck.

Barely able to disguise his thoughts now. Not pretending to be annoyed, and too relieved that he’s gotten his way. Sated by the pain, even as the blood loss makes him dizzy.

Makes him feel human again, to feel weak like this. He shuts his eyes, lets his head roll against the floor, pretends that he’s still alive as Marius takes and takes.

It really hadn’t been anger at all, Marius thinks. Fear, maybe. He sees a collage of Daniel’s evening—the house party he’d crashed, full of warm bodies, intoxicated university students all pressed together in such a small space. So humid with all their sticky human desire. He sees the way Daniel had taken a walk by the river after, to let the alcohol burn off, the way he’d lit a cigarette without smoking it, old habit as he sat down on a dock to stargaze.

And Marius, after, as he’d come home. Eerie still, in the craft room. 

He doesn’t ease up until Daniel’s heartbeat tapers off. He licks over the wound, patient as it’s slow to heal. Kisses the healed spot, suckles it gently.

The blood loss won’t kill him. They both know it, somewhere, even though Daniel likes to flirt with it. Likes to pretend, to try it on, to push it until his body panics. His Blood inside always tells him to fight, and somehow he always resists. 

Still, he’s weak enough that he goes limp on the floor. Closes his eyes. Marius isn’t sure he has the strength to bring himself to bed. 

That’s fine, though. 

It’s calmer now, as he sits up. He ignores the mess—all the time in the world to deal with it, after all—and he slips his arms beneath Daniel’s body to lift him. Bridal style, and Daniel lazily loops his arms around Marius’s neck for the walk to their bedroom.

“Drink from me,” Marius urges, as they settle into bed. He draws a blanket around them, and hits the remote that covers the windows.

Daniel shakes his head. He curls into Marius’s side, rubbing his face against the blood-stained shirt.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles. 

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhmm,” his voice is so soft, weak as the morning begins to pull him under. He paws gently at Marius’s chest, snuggling in. Breathing the scent of his own blood. 

Not quite a good cry, like Marius had expected. Cathartic, all the same. He hasn’t felt so relaxed in months. He wraps an arm around Daniel, pets his hair, enjoys the closeness.

“You don’t hide things as well as you think you do,” Daniel mumbles. Half asleep. Marius isn’t sure if it’s sleepy honesty or if he’s still trying to pick a fight. It aches inside, either way, and he holds Daniel a bit tighter.

And so much time can pass for him. Lately, he can’t keep track. He stares at the ceiling, listens to Daniel’s heartbeat, and can’t tell if he’s still awake. Unsure how long it’s been, how long he can make it before sunrise.

He strokes the back of Daniel’s head. 

“So what is it?” he whispers. “Are you going to leave?”

Heavy pause, and Daniel doesn’t stir. Marius thinks he should savor this, while he still has it, now that Daniel is better. 

But there’s a pinch at his ribs. A grumble as Daniel rubs his face into Marius’s pec.

“No, you asshole.”

Marius smiles. He covers his mouth with his free hand, like he has to hide it.  Mortifying to be seen like this, even if Daniel is half-asleep. He sinks lower into the bed, relaxing, throbbing all over with Daniel’s blood.

“I…” he stares up at the ceiling. Rubs over his collar bone, like it can ease away the anxiety of it, blend all of it out. It takes all of his effort to say it. “I apologize. I suppose. For the way I behaved.”

Daniel opens his eyes, just long enough to kiss Marius on the cheek.

“I love you, too.”

[impossiblepluto]

ooooh saw your tags about the poll (and I totally agree, fainting is superior imo) the build up is always so so fun to read, especially if there’s someone else to witness their faraway look and sudden stillness.

HOWEVER I do think the alternative is fun, like someone finding the whumpee passed out for who knows how long, all alone. So I raise you this: an unconscious Mac passed out somewhere (working late in the lab? Afterhours in the war room? Tinkering with something in his garage? endless possibilities) before being found and taken care of

Incessant knocking pervades the comfortable darkness embalming his brain. He raises a hand to brush aside… something… 

The noise?

That doesn’t make sense. 

His hand falls back into his lap. 

The knocking continues. Vibrating through his back and down into his limbs. Reverberating uncomfortably in his skull. 

Mac grunts.

“I don’t know! There was a thump and a crash and now he’s not answering-�� Jack’s voice is muffled. 

Who’s not answering? Did something happen? That’s Jack’s voice though. Jack must be okay.

“Let me try!” There’s a dull rustle of movement, a thud and Jack’s murmuring complaint and then a new cadence of knocking.

Bozer. Bozer’s okay too. Relief while present is muted, much like the distant voices.

“Mac! Mac, open up! Answer us!”

Oh. 

They’re worried about him.

But he’s fine.

He’s just–

Mac pries open his eyes. The bright light of the bathroom lances across his vision. The lids slam shut against the onslaught.  he grunts.

“Wait! Did you hear that? Mac?” 

Cautiously, reluctantly, he opens his eyes again. That is enough to get him breathing hard from exertion.

He's in the bathroom. On the cold tile floor. Wedged up against the door.

Everything kind of aches. In a vague distant way like Jack's voice. 

“I knew this was going to happen.”

Jack might feel like he knows what happened but to Mac, his presence on the floor is a mysterious, disconcerting blank.

“Alright, that's it. I'm gonna bust that door down.”

“N’” Mac gurgles. 

The threat gets him moving. He reaches up behind himself, blindly pawing at the doorknob until it twists under his clumsy grasp. 

“Mac! You okay?” 

He can see a sliver of Jack’s face through the crack in the door. 

“Mm-hmm,” Mac groans. There is a scoff of disbelief. Mac tips forward, out of the arc of the door’s path allowing Jack entrance. He keeps falling, face pressed to the cold tile.

Through blurry eyes he watches Jack crouch beside him. Feels the pressure of Jack’s fingers against his face, but not the warmth. And then his brain goes dark again. 

[winwin17]

Create your Lost Cities family (pt. 1)

At the end of this group of polls, you will all be stuck in a family of members with only the characters who won the poll. Let's see what kind of silly family we get!

[wintermarmalade]

The blurry figure tinkering with it's inner mechanisms stopped, and the limp doll's vision suddenly snapped into focus. Standing in front of it was a scruffy person with dark, fluffy hair and oil-stained overalls. She was looking at it expectantly.

"Hello?" She spoke, then stared for a few moments, concerned. The doll still appeared hollow and dim.

"Are you there?" Still no response. She muttered something to herself about being a bad clockmaker.

"Please say something if you can."

Having been given a command, an instinct spurred inside of it. Springs uncoiled, gears began turning, escapements started ticking. It's dim eyes focused and locked onto her's, and it spoke.

"Hello, I am here" It stated in a monotone voice.

Her face lit up in excitement, and she couldn't help but bounce with joy.

"I did it! You work!" She exclaimed, trying not to shout.

"What would you like me to call you?" The doll inquired.

"Call me Magdeline! Or just Mags. And what would you like me to call you?"

"I will be called whatever you would like to call me"

"I mean, you have a name, don't you?"

The doll thought for a moment, trying to process the question.

"I will be called whatever you would like to call me" It repeated with identical cadence.

"Hm, okay... I'll have to think about that a bit then."

"What tasks would you like me to do for you?"

"Oh, umm I don't actually have anything for you to do right now." She looked around the room for something it could do, seeing her desk full of the uncompleted trinkets she'd been putting off working on all day. Her face fell upon remembering her deadlines. She didn't think she could teach a doll such a handicraft in a timely manner. "Well I need to finish my work for the day, sooo just wait here for now and I'll think of something."

"Yes Magdeline, I will wait for your next command." It stated and sat as still as a statue.

The clockmaker gave a big, giggly smile before jumping over to her desk and getting to work.

[camelspit]

Best Keeper Character 2025: Portrait Signups

What is it?

Like in the kotlc sexy competitions, artists sign up to make portraits of all of the characters (who made it past preliminaries) to be used in the polls. You will have until July 30 to complete the portraits and turn them in!

How to Sign Up?

Send me a tumblr message asking for the characters that you want, and I'll let you know if they're available as soon as possible! I recommend signing up sometime between June 24 - June 30 to give yourself as much time as possible to do them!

DO NOT send me an ask when signing up. Messages are a lot easier for me to keep track of.

Rules

You can sign up for as many portraits as you want, but I wouldn't suggest going over 5 because you only have a month to do them.

The canvas can be as large as you want, but please make sure that it's square (or, if you're drawing traditionally, as close as you can get to a square)

Traditional and Digital drawings are both accepted

Color is not required but it is strongly encouraged

You can draw as much of the character as you want, whether thats just a head or a full body.

The drawings do not have to be entirely canon accurate (hcs like piercings, poc vackers, ginger marella, etc. are allowed) but please make sure that it's still identifiable as the character. If you have any questions about that, feel free to message me or send me an ask!

If you think your portrait will be late or you need to drop out, PLEASE tell me as soon as possible!

To turn it in, you can send it to me directly and/or post it and tag me

List of Characters below the cut. I will try to update it as signups continue! If a name is colored in blue, that means the character is unavailable.

Alvar Vacker

Amy Foster

Biana Vacker

Brant [REDACTED]

Councillor Bronte

Master Cadence

Calla

Cyrah Endal

Councillor Darek

Della Vacker

Dex Dizznee

Edaline Ruewen

Elwin Heslege

Elysian

Ethan Benedict Wright II

Fintan Pyren

Fitz Vacker

Flori

Lady Galvin

Garwin Chang

Gethen Ondsinn

Lady Gisela

Grady Ruewen

Grizel

Iggy

Jensi Babblos

Jolie Ruewen

Juline Dizznee

Jurek

Kesler Dizznee

Linh Song

Livvy Sonden

Marella Redek

Maruca Chebota

Prentice Endal

Quinlin's Receptionist

Rayni Aria

Rex Dizznee

Ruy Ignis

Mr Snuggles

Sophie Foster

Stina Heks

Tam Song

Councillor Terik

Tiergan Alenefar

Tinker

Umber

Lady Vespera

Wylie Endal

Yuri