#I will continue to correct you again

[magicalgirlfia]

I have unrested my case and I appreciate you stating your objections, however even if you say “#Never correct me again.” I will continue to correct you because I believe that there’s more to say.

—————

I know your Octarian fact of course, I assumed due to your use of the term, you knew it as well-which you obviously do, and I do regret not making myself clear,

By your logic “Octarian Octoling” is a phrase that can’t exist in Japanese due to the lack of distinction between Octarian and Octoling in that language…however as of Splatoon 3 they’ve began to use the term “Octoling” (or オクトリング ) in the Japanese versions of the game.

That doesn’t matter of course if they don’t differentiate between the two of course. It’s lucky that they do.

I present a screenshot of the Side Order website. This directly refers to Agent 8 as “オクトリング(タコ)”.

Thus making a distinction between “Octarian (タコ)” and “Octoling (オクトリング)” in Japanese. “Octarian Octoling” is basically a direct translation of the phrase.

However, I’m willing to concede this point if you want to argue that it was due to confusion people might face about what “octoling” might mean. I admit that this is the weakest of my points and probably should have started with it rather than finished with it. I stand by it of course, but I don’t swear by it.

—————

I straight up do not understand your second point very well so please correct me if I am misunderstanding your words. The Octarians being referred to in that passage are regular Octarian troopers who have no business being in Alterna. They were kidnapped and hell, if I’m not looking into the original text enough…he says it himself. In game.

They weren’t escaped octolings, they were his soldiers. The “Under Strict Management” bit is to emphasize how it’s strange they went missing.

—————

Arguing that Warabi (and his family) are special case just doesn’t make sense. There isn’t anything pointing towards the idea that he or his family are something out of the ordinary like how Shivers clan has lived in the Splatlands for presumed centuries. If you argue he’s a special case you could argue any theoretical octoling outside of his army is a special case, and I wouldn’t be able to disprove you because your argument isn’t be based on anything, especially given the fact don’t have very many octoling characters to work with here.

For example, Wocky, the Octoling stylist for the Chirpy Chips. He’s just some guy, and given the fact that the titular Chips had the same style in the first and second game we can assume he’s responsible for their outfits at least in 1 and 2.

Or hell, even New Agent 3 who’s backstory can be whatever you want it to be they an inkling or an octoling, due to them being a blank slate. You could also try to argue them not knowing who Octavio was as a point and I would if I didn’t think I was crossing the line between “purposeful” and “devs not wanting to add more lines than necessary.” I know I’m ending on another weaker point but the fact that there’s no difference to the Inkling and Octoling versions of Agent 3 says something.

————

In conclusion my conclusion hasn’t changed. An entire species who live all across the world were not forced into one region and I wish the game would make that more obvious than they do.

————

I love the detail that both Octoling idols consistently emphasize how important friendship is to them.

It makes me wonder if that could even be considered a part of Octoling culture. Considering that it’s likely that all biological family most Octolings have had to be left behind when they defected from the Octarian military…

[bowiestarzzz]

God I genuinely don’t get why people hate Nightheart so much. Every reason they have is they’re actually just angry at the authors not at Nightheart lol. Like you’re allowed to hate whatever character u want but I just saw a comment saying the fandom should scalp every Nightheart fan alive and it’s like woah okay. Jesus he’s just a cat dude

[dressuparley]

I still haven't gotten the hang of gposing, nor did I have any particularly inspired ideas, but my girl Arley just wanted to wish @lilbittymonster a happy (belated) nameday (+ Middy provided the fireworks)! Hope you had a fantastic day—your poses and writing always brighten mine whenever they cross my dash! 💜

[wlwgang]

Guys I didn’t have cell signal but coworker I hate said ‘fucking faggot’ in a fit of road rage while on the clock we are officially on a him getting fired countdown

[accirax]

Revisiting My Original DRDT Death Predictions

If you haven't been following what's going on over at @av-multifangan, Venus and I have been posting one of our fangans, Danganronpa: One Shot. Hooray! But, more relevantly to this post, we also posted the rules to a game that we've been playing for a long time-- a game through which you can score your performance at guessing how a fangan's kill order will go after viewing only its prologue.

Said old game was also invoked when we began watching DRDT, so I thought it would be a fun trip down memory lane to see what my genuine initial predictions for the entire killing game were after viewing just a little over an hour of Despair Time content.

While all of us non-cast-and-crew members obviously don't know the entire kill order at this point, I can rest assured that these predictions, well... ain't it. But, that's part of the point! To prove that even the creators of this predictions game can be terrible at it, and that there's no shame in making a guess and then changing your mind!

... Oh boy.

SPOILERS for DRDT through the end of Chapter 2, and IMPLIED SPOILERS for SDR2 and v3!

Well, no use in dilly-dallying. Here's my predictions sheet:

(god damn why is the quality so bad--)

If you haven't read the rules of our game, I'll quickly summarize them here. You have to predict the killing game using the most standard formula: one Chapter 1 victim and killer, one Chapter 2 victim and killer, double kill in Chapter 3 with one killer, one Chapter 4 victim and killer, one Chapter 5 victim and killer, and four survivors with a "surviving" (until Chapter 6) mastermind. These roles are listed out in rainbow order (Chapter 1 death = red, Chapter 6 = purple), and victims are marked with an X while killers are circled. The survivors are circled in purple, with a cyan star on the suspected mastermind.

At the end of the game, you gain points based on how far off you were, such that a low score is good. It's +2 points for getting the role wrong (victim vs killer/mastermind vs survivor), with an additional +1 point per chapter for how far you are off from the characters' last.

Although the quality is low, hopefully you can figure out what I predicted using those instructions-- or the image ID, if it's still too tricky. And, of course, I'm going to go through all of my choices below, starting with

XANDER in the role of CHAPTER 1 VICTIM

"Accirax," you may ask. "Why are you acting so doomed about your predictions when you literally got 1/4 of the confirmed deaths correct?" Unfortunately, my friend, I was already spoiled about Xander's death before I started watching DRDT. I'm very grateful that I had no idea about the circumstances of Xander's death (AKA, him stabbing Teruko) going in. But, I think I'd seen some thumbnail somewhere of Xander's BDA and knew he was a goner.

Hence, this was a free 0 pointer for me. I'm not that cool.

ARTURO in the role of CHAPTER 1 KILLER

Now, why I thought Arturo of all people would be the one to kill Xander is beyond me. I think my rationale was that, at the time, Arturo was giving me early death vibes, and this was the only spot I could put him in?*

This is one of the predictions that I know is wrong, because the Chapter 1 killer spot has already elapsed. The best I could do now points-wise is if Arturo is the Chapter 3 killer (I'd get +2 points for being two chapters off), which is definitely still feasible! Still, I wonder now if Arturo's vibe is too obvious for being a killer, and if he would ever be willing to put ~Julia Rosales'~ life in jeopardy by attempting to escape. J certainly isn't doing herself any favors with that Felicity reveal, at least.

ROSE in the role of CHAPTER 2 VICTIM

*This is where things get... a little complicated. As I already said, I had been spoiled to the fact that Xander was the Chapter 1 victim. However... I also thought I had been spoiled to the "fact" that Rose was the Chapter 2 victim?

I really don't know how this happened. I have a distinct memory of seeing a Tumblr post containing something that sort of looked like what I imagine an Ultimate Art Forger Lab could look like(?) talking about how the characters needed to investigate to figure out who killed the Ultimate it belonged to. I thought I remembered seeing Rose's face, but this was before I had ever watched any DRDT content. So, it's possible I had the wrong fangan, or accidentally stumbled into someone's AU.

It was pretty funny looking back on my Chapter 2 viewing experience, though. When Teruko got Rose's secret, I was like, "oh, it totally makes sense that DRDTdev would give Teruko Rose's secret as a natural way to hear about Rose's backstory before she dies. Clever." And then we got to the day of the motive reveal, and Rose is there, and David says that Arei of all people is missing, and my jaw dropped. "Spoilers," indeed.

It sucked for me at the time of making this sheet, though, because Rose was, like, the only woman I got survivor vibes from (other than Teruko). But, I thought I couldn't mark her as such! Of course, Rose could be a Chapter 3 victim for all I know, meaning that being "forced" to put her in this spot could actually be good for my predictions. However, scoring 0 points on Rose is fully off the table now, which is a bummer.

DAVID in the role of CHAPTER 2 KILLER

"Why couldn't you have put Arturo as Chapter 2 killer--" I also thought I had been spoiled that David was the Chapter 2 killer. If I didn't make Arturo the first killer, the earliest I could have put him would be Chapter 3 victim, which is hardly early at all. And yes, I thought I'd been spoiled on three out of "four" of the canonical deaths when I originally watched the series. That's just my life (/lh).

At least this one is obvious to figure out why I thought it was the case. I started watching DRDT in May of 2023, about a month and a half after 2-11 dropped. Hence, I knew DRDT was on hiatus, but I was under the impression that it was a hiatus after Chapter 2 had finished. I'd also seen 2-11's thumbnail, recognized it as David, and (along with having spoilers about David's "true personality") concluded that David must be the Chapter 2 killer.

Live footage of me watching 2-11 for the first time:

"Ah, there he goes... Man, we're gonna have to wrap this murder up quick, huh? I guess that's why he's admitting to it... Haha, 'Teruko, we fucked up'... WAIT, WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S A HIATUS ON AN UNSOLVED MURDER?!"

I decided quickly afterwards that I no longer believed that David would be the Chapter 2 killer.

Finally, we're done with roles that already happened/that I had "spoilers" for! You'd think that would automatically make them better (because most of them, at least, have not been disproven), but there are still plenty of things that contradict what I believe will happen now, at least.

LEVI and HU in the role of CHAPTER 3 VICTIMS

Relatively, though, this one isn't that bad. Don't get me wrong, these two aren't my leading candidates for Chapter 3 victims, but I'm not actively opposed to this happening.

The idea of Levi nearly evading dying at the end of Chapter 2 only to actually become a victim in Chapter 3 is a little puzzling, but still narratively on the table, imo. So much happens in a DRDT Chapter's worth of daily life that Levi could definitely still serve enough of a narrative purpose to justify his continued survival/eventual victimhood in that Chapter. Especially if that purpose had something to do with the fact that he was injured-- for instance, if it's important for an Arturo arc of learning that he actually enjoys taking care of others, or if the killer has to exploit Levi's injuries in order to have the strength necessary to take him out.

Meanwhile, I've long held the opinion that Hu will be a big character in the Chapter 3 Daily Life by virtue of not having done a whole lot in the Chapter 1 or 2 Daily Lives-- she definitely has content, but the majority of the important stuff occurs in the Chapter 2 Trial. Currently, I'm of the opinion that that spike of content wouldn't result in a same-Chapter death, but following in the footsteps of Xander and Arei, it definitely could. Same with Levi if he's a Chapter 3 focus, honestly.

J in the role of CHAPTER 3 KILLER

I really still want to believe that J will be a killer. Why? It's because, in my opinion, Ultimate Effects Artist is a talent that is totally optimized for being a blackened, whether it actually happens or not. You know why the idea of J and Arei swapping places was so popular? Because Ultimate Effects Artist is the kind of talent you give someone if you want to pull a trick like that off!

However, all of that "murder is despicable" talk is really cramping my style. Why would J ever become a blackened after opposing the idea of murder so openly?

(It'd be pretty funny if it was all an act so that people would use that as an argument to her credit down the road.)

It's possible she could have a crisis of faith/breaking point that would change her mind, but I doubt that would occur as quickly as Chapter 3. Or result in her killing two people. Sigh.

AREI in the role of CHAPTER 4 VICTIM and EDEN in the role of CHAPTER 4 KILLER

OKAY HEAR ME OUT BEFORE YOU ACCUSE ME OF CALLING EDEN EVIL--

Chapter 4 is, oftentimes, the sacrifice chapter, right? It's a killer that makes everybody cry, because they'd never normally do something like this, but ultimately decided to kill in order to spare their friends and take the bullet themselves. I'm, like, 99% sure that's what I was imagining for Eden. Whatever the motive may be, Eden would be the small and scrawny sacrifice killer in sort of a reversal of the buff curse...

... taking out the mean bully girl that everybody hated as the victim, if she had to choose someone.

I'M SORRY I'M SORRY STOP HITTING ME WITH ROCKS-- (/j)

But yeah, I definitely remember predicting that part of the surprise of the case was that the small nerdy girl was able to take out the Ultimate athlete mean girl. I don't know how I managed to deduce that Eden and Arei would have an important relationship with one another after the prologue (in which they don't really talk at all, to my memory), yet managed to get it so horribly wrong. Predicting that Eden would kill Arei was just in my DNA, I guess, even if I originally envisioned it for a different chapter.

In the light of Ace being declared the Chapter 2 killer, this one is just embarrassingly wrong. Evidently, Eden would never stoop as low as to kill Arei. The good news for me, I suppose, is that Arei will only net me +2 points, as the role was correct (V=V) while the chapter was 2 off (4->2).

As for Eden being the Chapter 4 killer, that's not one of my top spots for her. If I had to pick, I'd probably guess either Chapter 3 victim (especially if paired with Charles Ch3 Victim, this could really knock the wind out of Teruko's sails if needed), Chapter 5 victim (allows her a long period in the story that isn't a survivor nor a killer), or just a survivor (and/or mastermind). If she were to be a killer, then maybe I'd predict Chapter 4 along the sacrifice angle? Not with Arei, though.

MIN in the role of CHAPTER 5 VICTIM

+6 points (5->1) (V->K) on Min is... not the greatest score. In fact, it's only one fewer than the general max possible character score of 7, reserved for Chapter 1 deaths mistaken as Survivors and vice versa.

I think my original prediction for Min was that she would not necessarily be Teruko's support character emotionally, but that she would be a useful aide when it came to solving the mysteries of the Class Trial. Then in Chapter 5, to force Teruko/the other innocent students to solve the high-stakes Trial on their own, she would have to disappear.

Looking back on it, I really enjoy how Teruko is far and away the best at solving the Class Trials in DRDT-- she would have already earned the title through her connections to, like, literally every character and theme in the story, but making her the principal mystery solver really hammers the idea that she should be the protagonist home. Having Min be on Team Spotless for even one Trial might have diminished that effect, so it makes sense that she became the first blackened. Girl was too powerful to live, smh.

WHIT in the role of CHAPTER 5 KILLER

Personally, I've always gotten the vibe that Whit is one of DRDTdev's Special Little Guys. Perhaps it was the way that he showed up in three character introductions-- Charles', Hu's, and his own-- that made me think he had Favorite Character Privileges. As such, even when (get ready for a truth bomb) I didn't really like Whit after watching the Prologue for the first time, I always thought he had late game energy.

(I don't know how much it really comes across from my blog, but I'm actually fairly critical of new series when I pick them up for the first time, unless I've heard many positive recommendations from friends/online personalities I admire. Other than the spoilers, I hadn't heard too much about DRDT before I started watching it, so, unaware of DRDTdev's writing skills, I was worried that Whit would essentially be a poor man's Kokichi. As someone who really likes Kokichi, that biased me against Whit. Then, of course, I actually watched the series and Whit won me over very quickly. And the rest is history :) )

I’m not really sure why I went killer over victim, other than the possible “I’m making Min the victim and therefore Whit has to be the killer.” Maybe it was that Kokichi-ness that made me think that he'd be the man behind the slaughter? ... Even if Kokichi wasn't actually the blackened in that case? It might've also been an effect of wanting him to be just that much closer to surviving, to fully break the hearts of everyone who was rooting for this Special Little Guy to survive.

Like, uh... me. Um. Well, I do genuinely currently think Whit will survive right now, so... I'm willing to take a +3 if that's true!

TERUKO in the role of MASTERMIND

Yeah, I predicted that Teruko would be the mastermind because I'm a basic bitch (/aff). Uh, I'm not being affectionate towards myself, to be clear. I'm only being affectionate to those who still hold the (fairly, I think) popular opinion that Teruko will be the mastermind of DRDT. She's a popular choice because there's a lot going for her! I still ranked her as third most likely back in my mastermind analysis!

Everyone who plays Venus' and my game is forced into the same default formula (to make comparative scoring easier), and that formula locks in the protagonist as a Chapter 6-er, because of how frequently that is the case. Even so, I feel fairly confident now that Teruko will survive until Chapter 6 anyways. The more times she says "I'm the Ultimate Lucky Student and I can't die" and then doesn't die, the weirder it would be if she suddenly did drop dead in, like, Chapter 4.

As for whether she actually is the mastermind... dude, I have no idea. Back at the time I wrote that post, I named J and Rose as my most likely candidates, but now J has gone on a whole anti-murder bend and I'm growing increasingly worried that Rose is going to be the Chapter 3 killer (probably unfounded, but still). That would leave Teruko as the most likely option, but Teruko's behavior at the end of Chapter 2 felt anti-mastermind coded to me, too, even if she forgot about it...!

We are not reviewing my mastermind theories here and now. Next!

CHARLES in the role of SURVIVOR

If you're a giant fucking nerd (/j), you might have noticed that I said I made my DRDT predictions after viewing "just a little bit over an hour of Despair Time content." However, the Prologue is under an hour. What gives?

Well, I... broke the rules of our game, actually. You're supposed to make your predictions sheet after viewing the Prologue only, but I went straight from watching the Prologue into Chapter 1 on the same day, and I forgot to make my sheet until watching Chapter 1 Episode 1. Sue me.

At any rate, I'm sure you can figure out how watching 1-1 would make me think that Charles would survive. Obviously, I knew that other characters beyond Charles would get focus in later episodes, but that still doesn't change the fact that DRDTdev chose to highlight Charles and Teruko's relationship as the first thing we saw in the first chapter of their story. Even without that extra content, though, he's also very reminiscent of Danganronpa's "Jerk" archetype, which survived in every canon DR game.

All that said... obviously, I don't think he's going to survive anymore.

I've been saying that Charles is a Chapter 3 victim-- at least since that analysis I just linked, even-- and I will probably continue to say it until proven false by the story itself. He is simply arcing too fast, and Whit needs to be confronted with that grief he prefers to ignore, no matter what his eventual placement is. We got one real Trial with Charles to prove what a smarty-pants he is, but now that he's pulled that "out of your element" card, he's off to break down into two or more simpler substances. AKA, decompose.

If he's not a Chapter 3 victim, though, Survivor is at least back on the table.

ACE in the role of SURVIVOR

Here we have it! Proof positive that I (falsely) believed that Ace would be a survivor all on my own, without taking into account anyone else's opinions! My incorrectness is mine and mine alone!!! (/j)

So, yeah. Funny coward man go brrrr and character arc into survival, except then he didn't. I have to imagine that's the basic premise behind why so many people believed that Ace would survive. I don't really have much to say about this choice beyond that.

I don't like that I'm already tanking another +6 points (S->K) (6->2) from Ace, though. Save me Xander-zero-point spoilers, you're my only hope.

VERONIKA in the role of SURVIVOR

Whaaaaaaaat was I cooking here?

I guess I kind of remember. I think I was imagining Veronika along the lines of a poor man's Sonia (like I said, critical) due to her more apologetic attitude towards rambling and presenting others with horror concepts in the Prologue. With my prediction that Whit would die in Chapter 5, I guess I might've also been thinking that Veronika could then fill in that "comic relief" void in his absence? I also had Ace there, though. Moot point; every DRDT character has the capacity to be hilarious.

There are a lot of places I could see Veronika landing in this killing game, but survivor really isn't one of them. I could see Veronika as a Chapter 3 victim or killer for The Vibes, Chapter 5 victim or killer if she takes on more of a main antagonist role, or Mastermind also for The Vibes. But survivor is just... odd. At least from this point in the story, what business does the "fangirling over acevi dying" girl have taking up one of those coveted survivor slots? Surely either someone would think to kill her or she would decide to kill before four more chapters elapse!

That being said, locking in Veronika as a late game character isn't terrible in my eyes. Being "barred" from making Rose a survivor, I remember that Veronika was the girl who I initially got the second most late game energy from. Those Chapter 5 or Mastermind scenarios won't score terribly here if they come to pass.

NICO in the role of SURVIVOR

I want to mention here that, despite my other spoilers, I did not know that Nico was nonbinary going into Despair Time. Therefore, I didn't make Nico a survivor under the premise of "I'll have two girls, two boys, and one enby survive!" I don't really remember why I did make Nico a survivor, though.

My best guess is that I put them there for cast composition purposes. From the Prologue, all of Charles, Ace, and Veronika are pretty over-the-top in their own ways: Charles is overly condescending, Ace is really loud, and Veronika is an exaggerated fangirl. Adding in a quieter character like Nico would have been a nice way balance to the others... or at least, so I thought with only the Prologue to go off of. Now I know that Ace and Nico surviving together was incredibly unlikely to be the case.

Speaking of Ace, now that he's dead (and therefore can't be a survivor), my opinions of whether Nico could survive have definitely gone up. However, I still don't think that Nico surviving is particularly likely.

There's definitely potential for redemptive survivors in DRDT with the "fighting your fate" theme they seem to be setting up. But, I think that's more likely to play out with someone who might have committed murder before the killing game (like Levi) or someone who did terrible things, but never went so far as to physically attempt another student's murder (like David), than someone who actually attacked someone else and nearly succeeded. For media in general, I think it's much easier for audiences to forgive something that happened off-screen and/or to characters that barely exist than something that we saw visible evidence of on a character who many people adore. Nico's attempted murder just seems like a big hurdle to overcome on their path to survival, dude.

That being said, I've written before that for both in-universe and meta reasons, I don't think we'll ever see Nico as a blackened, which already eliminates, like, half of my options moving forward. Logically, that would conclude that if I don't think that Nico will become a victim, then they're likely to survive. I do (currently) think that Nico will probably be a victim sometime in the future, even if I'm not certain in which chapter. For the sake of my score on Nico specifically, I guess I'm rooting for Chapter 5. I already know that they wouldn't be robbing Min of a perfect zero, at least.

And that's my tally so far, a total of 14 points out of a possible... well, I actually don't know what the highest possible score is, both because math is hard and because I don't know what bonus rules, if any, will come into play in DRDT's future. It's 14 points across 4 characters, which comes out to an average of 3.5 points per character.

Comparatively, most of our game sheets have come out somewhere in the high-30 to mid-40 points range (predicting is hard). Across 16 characters, means that it's usually an average of, like, 3 points per character. So, I'm doing worse than usual, but not by a whole lot...!

But, how well I do isn't what matters. The important thing is that I had fun while making it, and got to think about what patterns and possibilities can arise when you look at the basic facts of a character's simplified personality and talent in time with their role in the story!

So if you want to have fun making a predictions sheet like this of your own, you should totally go read Danganronpa: One Shot's Prologue (before Chapter 1 starts airing on Friday) over at @av-multifangan and fill out that game's prediction sheet. That would mean that this shameful shameless attempt at cross-promotion would have succeeded at one of its desired effects! Or, if that's not your cup of tea, you could also fill out a predictions sheet for DRDT moving forward, and just acknowledge that Xander, Min, Arei, and Ace were placed after the fact. Who knows, maybe I'll make a sheet like that too, so we can compare.

Thanks for walking down memory lane with me, and I hope to be back with more DRDT content soon!

[dykedvonte]

If Ulysses has a million haters, then I'm one of them. If Ulysses has one hater, then I'm THAT ONE. If Ulysses has no haters, that means I'm dead. If the world is with Ulysses than I’m against the world.

[starbuck]

regarding the passport gender marker thing: hooray that the order is blocked but also “trans people can get corrected passports now”???? is there currently a form that has an option to change the gender marker? because, if not, then no! we can’t!

[cheemken]

Hey Knight I just had a great idea before I fell asleep

Another champion villain AU, but the Champions are all working for their regions Villain teams

Diantha working for Team Flare because she agrees that only the “worthy” people should live, people who do good for the world

Iris working for Team Plasma, either from the beginning or when they reestablished themselves in BW2. Idk why she’d join but she knows how to bring the power out of dragon Pokémon and how to control them, and one of Plamas goal is to capture the three dragons

Cynthia working for Team Galatic just for her own curiosity. She wants to see how far Cyrus is able to go, and maybe even gain control of the legendaries herself. Maybe the story of Volo has been passed down in her family and she wants to see if she’s able to complete what Volo wasn’t able to

And the other Champions joining their own villain teams, idk what Geeta would do considering there isn’t really a villain team, it’s just a group of kids who were bullied. Maybe she helped Turo and Sada with their research but she took it to far and brought dangerous Pokémon to the present time. Letting the Koridon/Miradon kill the professors so that she could take their research for herself

Ohhhh👀👀👀

Okay but fr Cynthia and Leon would probs double cross Cyrus and Rose hahaha

Ofc, Cynthia is a given considering her track record in our villain au hahah but that is interesting tho, if the story of Volo got passed down in their family, and they treat it like some cautionary tale, a warning yknow, Volo was a name in their family that none should ever speak out loud. But Cynthia, ever the curious child, wanted to know more. And learn she did. Found out what he really did, what he wanted to achieve, and he was close in accomplishing his goals. Yet he failed. Cynthia doesn't do failure, she's great w a lot of things, she prides herself w that, a lot of people look up to her. But she has to admit, it's rather boring lately, and then the story of Volo came across her mind again, and she wondered if she could do what he wanted to do. And she won't fail ofc.

She let Cyrus do all the work, tho she gave him what he needed to know abt the legendary Pokémon. They both knew that Cynthia shouldn't really ruin her image just yet, their plan would fail. So yeah the events of DPPt, up to the point of Giratina showing up. And everyone was at the edge yknow, they're waiting what would happen, then Cynthia steps in, catching Giratina's attention. Gira knew Cynthia was familiar, a spitting image of him, and there's a tug within him, in his already tainted heart, to bow his head, to submit to her commands.

Cynthia looked at Cyrus. The man was waiting for her to finalize their plan, everything was already in order, they have hold of the Lake Trio and even the Creation Trio. Cynthia smiled at him, but there was smth abt it that Cyrus did not like.

"a world devoid of spirit.. that sounds boring, don't you think?"

"what are you planning, Cynthia."

"well, a world without spirit, no one would have the energy to make ice cream, Cy. That's not the ideal world for me."

"what would be the ideal world for you then?"

Chuckling to herself, she was quite curious just how much Giratina would actually listen to her, without uttering a single command. She smiled at him, smiled at her childhood friend, oh, she will miss him, maybe, who knows. Then she smiled, "this." She snapped her fingers, and quicker than the light itself, one of Giratina's tendrils impaled Cyrus straight through his chest, killing him instantly. A few of the grunts screamed, the admins stood there, watching Cynthia in horror. Dialga and Palkia were struggling even more beneath the chains, how pitiful, but she can help them. As long as they'd follow her every word. She then turns to the admins, terrified, hands on the red capsules on their belts, but Cynthia laughs, "do you think that'd be wise?" They raised their hand in quiet surrender. This was easy. She never got how Volo failed.

Then w Leon, idk since I did have this au abt Sonia back then, it does have the same energy, anyways hahaha yeah yknow peeps looked down on Sonia, Leon did not like that. No one believes her abt Eternatus, abt how it was the (cause) of the Darkest Day, and he heard rumours how she was just trying so hard to impress people since she's filling in Prof Magnolia's shoes. Then he hears abt Rose and like all that energy for DMax or smth yeah, and ofc Leon believed Sonia, and he's gonna help her prove her theories are actually true. So he played along Rose's game. Let him summon Eternatus, and both of them are standing before it, w Rose letting Leon capture the legendary pkmn. Rose praised him for his good work as usual, but just as he was abt take the Master Ball from Leon, the champion merely looked at him, smiling, "thanks for your help, Chairman. But.. Sonia needs this more than you."

And before Rose could react, Leon's Charizard and Haxorus attacked him, feasting over his body. Leon just watched, uninterested abt the death of the man who helped him rise to fame. Instead he looked at the master ball in his hand, smiling to himself, "Sonia is so gonna love this!" Pls ur honour do you see my vision in them becoming villains together ik I said Leon is in a polycule but I'm also still fucking trash for lionheartshipping let me have this one small thing ncmxnx hahaha

Geeta tho like imagine tho after Sada and Turo's death, she took in Arven, telling the others that it's the least she could do as she was the one who was w Sada and Turo last, it's their final wish. Ofc it wasn't, but they all got convinced by it. And just cndmdn yo Geeta feeding Arven lies abt his parents. How they were the ones to bring dangerous Pokémon in their world, how they took it too far, how they took her studies abt it. And ofc, Arven believed all of it, he was so young, and his parents were always so focused on their studies more than him, but miss Geeta was w him now, and she's so much better, she gives him attention, she's always there for him. His parents didn't even listen to Geeta to stop, and it shows how they really didn't care abt him at all. Imagine how his encounter w his AI parents would be tho, if they actually tell the truth of what happened. Arven couldn't catch a break man bcmdnd hahaha

[thebananwithaplan]

(( Banana out here trying to rewrite his own history with his sense of humor.))

[troglobite]

.

[strawberryteabunny]

I do really agree with Austen about a better marriage with someone of good, steadfast character who can respect and treat you well, rather than someone you might have a passionate connection with but don’t actually know how they’ll treat you years or decades down the line. Like okay, I do find Mr. Collins a horrific bore, but we don’t ever get the sense from him that he’d be cruel to his wife- which in that time period when divorce was so inaccessible and women’s rights so few is incredibly important. Wickham? Idk. We know he lies, gambles, and has a habit of seducing young girls- I don’t have much hope for how he’ll treat Lydia as she gets older or if their finances take a hit.

I will say though that it could have been possible for the Bennet girls to become governesses- 1813 is a little early but just a decade or so later governesses would start to become increasingly popular and not much care was taken about their education, just their class. I can’t say how the Bennets specifically would fare because they also might not have been of good enough character (Lydia’s scandal would have hurt them a lot in that case too) but it was starting to become more of an option.

In the Victorian era as the idea took shape that a lady cannot do any kind of work, governessing became the only possible occupation for high-class women that lost their fathers (or husbands) and had no other way to support themselves. From everything I’ve read though it was still a very miserable way to live, because you weren’t one of the servants in the house but you also weren’t part of the family- so you were just alone, and with almost no marriage prospects, because a gentleman had better options and a working-class man would want a wife that was actually useful to him, not someone who was just preparing for marriage to a gentleman. (Successive finishing schools and governesses just churning out more Mrs.Bennet-types…)

The state of womens’ education was abysmal at this time, since again the upper class (and now, upper middle and middle class as they imitated the rich and fashionable) wanted their women to be purely decorative, so women would learn to speak a bit of some foreign languages, an instrument, a bit of painting and fancy needlework- but any practical skills that could potentially be put to use to work were forbidden. These same women, when they became governesses, were equally useless at teaching other girls- because you can’t educate your daughters to be good teachers at things like history, mathematics, geography, cooking, sewing, etc. or you’re implying you expect them to have to become governesses!* It’s an endless cycle of women receiving and perpetuating terrible educations. And once a governess gets too old, she has no marriage prospects and few skills, and they often died in poverty at that point. (In earlier centuries, a governess was only for the very wealthy, so they were paid well, well-educated, and could count on receiving support even after ‘retirement’ or being kept on for multiple generations, and sometimes even became friends with their pupils or were considered family, but that’s not how an upper-middle class Victorian family saw their household staff)

*the exception was usually daughters of clergy, who were in a weird limbo of being considered well-bred but also grew up expecting to work, so they usually received a bit better education as children themselves. But most women suddenly finding themselves needing to work as governesses had generally gone to finishing schools instead, which taught “ladylike” skills on the assumption that you would never need to work or support yourself financially. (Even with the reality that there weren’t nearly enough eligible bachelors wealthy enough to support all these girls and their social-ladder-climbing ambitions… yikes.)

If none of them married, how desperate would the Bennett girls actually have been?

Well the only dowry they have is £50 apiece from their mother’s small inheritance, per year; so that’s a total of £250 generated by Mrs. Bennet’s inherited investments per annum.

The Dashwoods (four women) are living on £500 a year when they are forced to live in Barton Cottage (with good-will making the rent presumably ridiculously low thanks to Sir John Middleton’s good nature, to say nothing of all the dinners and outings he invites the ladies to, which will help them economize on housekeeping costs for heavier meals.)

So there would be six Bennet women left to live on half as much as the Dashwoods are barely scraping by on. £250 is roughly considered enough to keep ONE gentleman at a barely-genteel level of leisure (presuming he does not keep a horse or estate or have any major expenses beyond securing his own lodgings/clothes/meals at a level becoming of a gentleman.)

None of the Bennet girls have been educated well enough for them to be governesses to support themselves, so…yes, their situation would heavily rely on mega-charity from others to just help them survive, much less maintain them in the lifestyle they’ve been accustomed to. The Dashwood women have NO social life beyond the outings provided by Sir John and the offer of Mrs. Jennings to host the older girls in London–otherwise they’d be stuck in their cottage, meeting absolutely no eligible men, creating a cycle of being poor and unmarried and too poor to meet anyone with money they could marry.

If the Bennet girls don’t at least have ONE of them marry well enough to help the rest before their father dies, they are really, truly, deeply fucked.

They may joke about beautiful Jane being the saviour of the family, but…it’s true. Mr. Bennet failed his daughters several times over in A) presuming he’d have a son, B) not saving money independently from his income to support his family after his death when it became clear he wasn’t going to have a son, C) not educating them well enough to enable them to support themselves in even in the disagreeable way of being a governess, D) not making any effort to escort his daughters to London or even local assemblies to help their matrimonial chances because he just doesn’t feel like it, E) throwing up his hands and shrugging when faced with the crises of Mr. Collins and Wickham.

Much as we are relieved on a romantic level that Mr. Bennet’s support of Elizabeth saves her from parental pressure to accept Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet is NOT A DICK for pushing for the match, because on a material level it very much means they get to KEEP THEIR HOUSE and gain a connection to the powerful patron Lady Catherine de Bourgh, which could be VERY advantageous for the other unmarried girls.

And the scandal of Wickham very nearly scuppers the chances of ANY of the other girls, and Wickham is a further DRAIN on the family finances, not a man who is going to substantially be able to support them. It is SUCH a disaster, and of course there’s not much Mr. Bennet can do until they are found, but he’s away in London and doing…what, exactly? Mr. Gardiner takes over and manages everything and Mr. Bennet seems happy to just let him.

Mr. Bennet does the ABSOLUTE LEAST, and actively damages his children’s futures by his inaction AND by his one action to support Lizzie’s individual needs being prioritized over the collective gain, which…I mean, Lizzie is going to be JUST as homeless and destitute as her sisters when he dies, so much good being Dad’s Favourite is going to do her. :/

[pyrotechnicdarts]

one day ill make that post about how c3 attempts to be critical of organized religion but ultimately fails because its fails to separate the concepts of organized religion from individual faith and only displays a surface level understanding of why organized religion is critisized in the first place

[houseofhyde]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?��

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, college au, first lesson, dumbification, praise, he's so nerdy, squırting, unprotected, mdni.

nerd! nanami who ends up teaching you a few ‘fundamentals’ of squirting after you end up gushing out by accident.

“oh, my,” he’d huskily croon, taking a short glance at your body that’s laid flat on his timber desk. mousy eyes zero up ‘n down your entire frame before he groans, feeling your legs snake around his slim torso. after another hourly long session of cramming your brain with pounds of boring information, you’d probably forget by the next day, you told nanami that you wanted to try out ‘penetration.’ and now, that came with you gushing straight out with his meaty shaft buried snugly deep inside of you. he grows quiet, smacking his lips as he feels your slobbering cunt dripping wetly like a running never-ending faucet. it’s almost adorable with the way your face scrunches up and you’re clawing at the buckle of his drooping belt with shaky hands. “we haven’t gone over that area yet, sweetheart,” and you’re moaning, feeling your back tickle against the scattered piles of marked papers that laid directly underneath you. “ah, ah. don’t close ‘em,” he purrs, staring as your stick-glossed quavery legs try to snap themselves shut. “let me examine the wet problem a bit closer.”

“w- was that supposed to happen?” you breathe through rushed pants, frantically chewing on your bottom lip as you watch him pull out. he’s slow, feeling your slight muscles tense and spasm as you drenched the entirety of his stilled dick with molasses of your webby slick. “f- fuck,” you whimper, and nanami’s pressing a pointed thumb down against the pearly top part of your tender clit. gradually, he’s swirling a plethora of exaggerated shapes alllll around your tender entrance, lowering his head once his turgid cock’s fully out of you.

with a placid hum, nanami nods. “don’t fret, sweet thing. it’s normal,” and you prepare a deep, heavy breath as you try to peek down, watching nanami re-adjust his clear-framed glasses. “but, do you think you can do that again? i’m . . having a bit of trouble with my vision,” and he softly presses a chaste kiss against your cunt. shortly after, a slimy dewy web of stringy juices merrily glues against his lips. “i believe if my hypothesis is correct . . if ‘m closer like thiiiis,” and you moan, feeling the cold lenses of his glasses press right up against your puffed folds. “you’ll help me solve just how much of a wet girl you can get for me this time.”

openly, nanami eyes at your sopping pussy that’s just pouring from all areas with so many dewdrops of slick. a shimmery stream of your syrupy arousal cascades down the slot of your entrance and oh- it’s so pretty. at least to him.

if you squinted enough, you could see the obscene mirroring reflection of the shiny glossed view that rests between your legs from the clear lenses of his glasses. “clitoral glands,” he starts to ramble, rubbing a thumb near the top bulb-shaped part of your twitching heat. “clitoral body,” and you moan, feeling him swerve his digit down lower. “but let’s skip to . . . her,” nanami coos huskily, and you gasp once his round thumb plugs itself inside you after just a few loose inches. you swallowed that single digit right up oh-so blissfully.

like a hidden trick of a magician—his finger disappears inside of your cunt, and it presses against a particular small texture right above your lower opening. “. . that pretty urethra of yours.”

there - that’s where you felt the exact pressure of yourself gushing out, creaming down his cock with such a vivid risqué spray.

you’re still getting over it as your jaw dangles open—mouth cutely wholly ajar and all. as nanami continues to toy with your slobbering clit, he silently grumbles whatever extra clitoris facts underneath his breath. a single finger that was tucked inside of your gummy orifice gradually transitions into two, and you let off the sweetest moan that rang against his ears.

“such a pretty pussy from an even prettier girl,” and his words smokily deepen as he loudly ‘pops!’ both fingers out of your drenched slit. it’s all puffy now, drooling from each slippery flap. nanami sits up before re-aligning his milky-covered tip against your sobbing cunt.. “mini pop quiz,” he grumbles, letting off a deep sigh once his flushed crownhead languidly slides its way between the split of your folds. you’re laid back against the desk with a pout twisting across both sides of your lips.

pop… quiz?

nanami adjusts his crooked glasses by shoving them slightly back with a middle finger before humming. “riddle me this,” and a sweet moan drags its way past your throat once he’s smearing his bulbous tip across your sticky entrance.

left-to-right and it’s hypnotic. “what is the majorly important gland of the clit that helps lubricate the vagina properly?” and nanami presses a large hand on your tummy, simpering at the cute silence for an answer. with a snicker, he tilts his head at your quirked brow. “oh- c’mon. this is easy, we talked about this two days ago.”

“t . . the um-” you stammer, the throbbing of your clit increasing with each delicious second that passed. with your mind joggling its empty memory, you inhale a moan that was desperately trying to escape from your spit-stained lips. “the clitoral glands?”

“close, but no, dumb girl,” and with a smack, nanami whacks his swollen tip against the front of your weeping pussy. you finally release that moan you were holding onto with heave after heave puffing out your chest. “try again. this time, actually use that brain for me, yeah?”

you pout, and after about four seconds you left off a whiny grump. “is it . . the skene’s glands?”

“good girl,” and you let off a needy mewl once he rubs a palm against your pussy. his personal way of praising you without words, even after calling you a ‘good girl.’

it’s a soft, enticing rub that smears the entirety of your slick around his entire palm, coating it right away.

you’re so wet - pathetically drenched that you stick your candied juices all over the prints of his hand.

“it’s very important that you know about the skene’s glands. just like how important it is for me to teach you how soaked you are,” and you don’t even realize it, but the second he spanks against your cunt once more with his palm, you’re squirting . . again.

it’s a thick shiny geyser that ends up spurting out of you with a loud pssssh! and your toes curled in ecstatic rapture. you’re whining at how sudden and abrupt it was, and nanami just shakes his head with a wry smile. a hand maneuvers in a circular rotation against your pussy as you finish your three-second monumental high. “f- fuuuck, fuck!” you whimper out the same colorful syllables through your lips as your eyelids droop.

as you’re panting, still feeling the scattered bundles of paper rub and prick against the back of your skin, you eye nanami through murky peripherals. pretty ‘n glossed-eyed, you let off a shaky puff before moaning. “did . . did i pass?”

“not quite,” nanami takes his glasses off. they were still a bit soaked from earlier, a bit of your own droplets of literal juices fogging the lenses before he gave it a sweet lick. filthy. nanami squints at your twitching body before slithering a fat thumb down your tender, convulsing pussy for the nth and last time. “think we still have more basics to go over,” and he positions his head right back down between the eagle-spread valley of your legs, whistling riiiight between your driveling, puffy slit.

“besides,” and you whine once he gives your cunt its final, sloppy spank. “my only criticism— is that, we could work on that squirt velocity a little bit more,” and he pats your cunt before staring straight at your pulsating entrance, hungrily licking his lips.

“i wouldn’t mind training her, heh.”

[dear-ao3]

best brownies in the known universe (at least, according to my grandma)

some year and a half ago when i was getting ready to move out i combed through all the family recipes that lay lost to time and one of the ones that i found was my grandmas brownie recipe. idk where she got it from (nor can i ask cause she has dementia) and its a printed out email she sent to my mom in june 2000. but by george these the best brownies i have ever tasted. would she be pleased that i am sharing this recipe with my vast following? absolutely.

YOU WILL NEED:

5 tablespoons butter (unsalted) 1 ounce unsweetened baking chocolate (or as much as your heart desires) 2/3 cup unsweetened good cocoa powder 1 cup sugar (white) (superfine preferred, normal works fine) 1 cup sifted white flour (can use gluten free) 1/2 teaspoon baking powder as much cinnamon as your heart desires (your heart needs to desire at least some cinnamon. its essential to the recipe) 3 egg whites 1 egg splash of vanilla extract (again, non negotiable step!)

preheat your oven to 325 degrees. grease a square baking pan (9x9 preferably).

in a small saucepan over medium heat melt the butter and baking chocolate. while that is melting, sift together the flour, baking powder and cinnamon into a small bowl. once the butter and chocolate is done melting add the cocoa powder and cook it together for 1 minute. add in the sugar and stir. it will get very thick. this is correct.

set that aside to cool. while thats cooling take a large bowl and put in your egg whites, egg and vanilla. beat it up with preferably a whisk but you can use a fork if youre fresh out of whisks. once the chocolate is cool enough to not scramble your eggs dump it in the eggs and mix it together. add the flour in gradually and keep mixing until its smooth and happy.

spread into your greased baking pan. put it in the oven for EXACLTLY 18 MINUTES. very crucial step. they will come out slightly under done. that is what we want. as they cool they will continue to cook in the pan. we dont want them to get hard and sad. they are not good when they are hard and sad. do not overbake them. you will be sad.

slice them up and as the official last step on the original recipe says: EAT ENJOY AND MAKE MORE! (theyre very good with mint chocolate chip ice cream)

[slimyenemy]

if you're cool we're cool and i'm not doing anything you don't want me to (we should still talk though because i have no idea what is going on and don't want to either lose you or hurt them at all if they care) and if you're not then none of this matters and you suck and everyone who's creepy and gross to me is getting cursed literally regardless real and true as always😮‍💨