#and all i can do to try and understand is continue to be open to learning

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Morning routine- Yandere kidnapper! x fem reader!

This is incredibly Yan nanami coded, and I refuse to apologise

@snail-day you understand the vision

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

There is starting to be a routine to these days now.

He likes to let you sleep in most mornings, preferring to get up himself to do the chores and get breakfast ready for the both of you. Today he has chosen to make you a treat and go for pancakes, allowing them to come to room temperature on the kitchen table while he gets you up.

Your routine begins with the unlocking of your hand cuff while he peppers your face with kisses. Even though by now you've mostly settled into your role as his sweet little lady, he cannot be too secure. (Especially after the incident with you trying to break open the child safety locks in the bathroom cabinet) he always without fail will check for any bruises or sores to kiss better as you lay limply in his arms. You used to be much more of a wriggler he remembers but he supposes you probably still have some of the sedative in your system. No worries, he can simply carry you to the bathroom. Sitting you down onto the little shower stool he installed after your last accident caused you to hobble round the home for a few couple months. He decided the stool was a good precaution to avoid any further accidents between you two.

He unbuttons your sleep shirt easily before turning the water on, making sure it's just perfect before he cleans you off from the night before. Taking extra care when his fingers graze your inner thighs to only wash off the memories of last night with a tenderness he didn't show you then. Tilting your hair back to rinse shampoos and conditioner- a small fortune spent on what goes into your routine. Once you're clean it continues, he wraps you warmly and sits you down to your ten step skincare routine. Always setting a two minute timer exactly for him to brush your teeth. You're still so lethargic for this, opening your mouth without resistance. Before you'd end up spitting out blood by the end of it, but now he can be much more gentle.

Again he carries you to the bedroom, drying your hair before he picks out a new outfit for the day. Your wardrobe consists mainly of sundresses, not because he prefers how you look in them. But because they are just far more accessible for the both of you, easier to slip on and off. He helps you up again, you can walk now but he just wants to be safe when it comes to you, taking your arm to carefully lead you to the table.

By now your pancakes and hot chocolate are lukewarm as he cuts them into bite sized pieces. Gently feeding you as he calls out sweet little praises, dabbing at the syrup that falls down your chin with a delicate sigh. Your eyes don't react much to this anymore, each swallow is wary as if you wonder which bite will contain the sedative that keeps you frozen on the sofa while he is at work. But if you refuse to eat he is not above forcing nutrition into you by any means necessary. For all the gentleness that he performs now, it has cost you every sharp tooth and nail you fought with.

Once the plate is clear he gives you the little cup of your vitamins and pills. He tries to make sure your diet is well rounded but unfortunately it is hard to keep your vitamin d levels up from within the flat. Perhaps one day the two of you will have a garden with a tall fence around. Then maybe you could go outside for a bit each day, maybe without supervision. But for now you'll only feel the sun on your face through an open window. The pills have changed since you first were brought to your new home, originally it was only sedatives and birth control. One to keep you complacent and the other because a baby right then would have not helped you to settle down. Now the sedition is at a much lower dose, carefully weaning you from it to avoid any long term effects, and the birth control has swapped places with the prenatal vitamins, just in case any happy accidents occur. On some days they change, after your last accident he withheld any pain relief for a week to make sure you learned the lesson properly. He wouldn't want to have to teach you again.

He takes the cup up to your lips waiting for you to swallow them, you open your mouth when finished to prove no pill was stashed away. Your obedience is rewarded again with another flurry of kisses, trailing down your neck to the collarbone. He only stops once his alarm goes off, reminding him to leave for work in ten minutes, grumbling as he fixes his tie and loads the dishwasher.

He takes you to the living room finally, placing you down on your side of the sofa, a blanket draped over your shoulders and a second left over your legs. He reminds you that there is a snack plate and a lunch box ready for you in the fridge for when you get peckish. There are different hobbies to occupy you within arms reach, all of them domestic and soft just as he wants you to be. Embroidery, knitting, reading. The remote is available but he has most things on child lock so there isn't a point. He places a sippy cup of water down on the table as though that's nothing out of the ordinary before he crouches in front of you expectantly.

You lean forward and graze your chapped lips against his forehead. He brightens up and returns the kiss to you with all the passion you lacked.

“Goodbye my heart, I'll call you once I'm on break.”

He reluctantly makes his way to leave, making sure to not slam the door on his exit. Leaving you to collapse into the nest of pillows and wait.

He didn't even leave your cane to help you get around.

[prettydaisygirl]

Oh god I love all your fics you are so amazing ♡♡♡♡

¿Can I have another firefighter au about James? That beautiful man driving me crazy. Sorry, but not sorry. .

Maybe where this time, if there's a dangerous fire in the reader building and he can't find her in her apartment or anywhere and he's so nervous going outside that he starts asking everyone if they haven't seen her.

And he doesn't realize that she comes back from work and runs to hug her and we're all happy.

hi nonnie thank you so much for this req! I love my man Chief James, he is so hot. Hope you're having a wonderful day, lovely <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who can't be found during a fire ✿ 977 words

cw: fem!reader, apartment building fire, everyone is okay, James panicking

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

James hears the call the moment it comes in. It’s not you, but it is your building. Of course he recognizes the address. No one seems panicked or alarmed, which isn’t surprising given your building’s fire alarm goes off every other day it seems. 

As Fire Chief (and as your boyfriend) James takes the call more seriously than the others do. He doesn’t blame them for it, though he does yell at them to pick up the pace. After a while it does start to feel like a ‘boy who cried wolf’ situation. The fire truck gets loaded up, the boys all step in, lights go on, and they’re off.

Things change the closer they get to your flat. The plume of smoke billowing into the air creates a tension that makes everyone antsy, and the visibly growing fire when they when the truck onto the street has them all jumping into action. Especially James.

Because now, he’s worried. He hasn’t heard from you in a few hours, which wouldn’t normally be unusual, but right now your building is on fire. James’ heart pounds, he shouts orders at his crew and they get to work. His eyes scan the crowd, everyone looks terrified and panicked, but he’s not looking to see how the bystanders feel. He’s looking for you, and your face is not here. 

Some of his men begin to pull out the hose, some pull out ladders, and James and a few others run into the building to search for any remaining people trapped inside. James wants to beeline directly for your apartment. 

He can hear various shouts of ‘clear!’ as he jogs his way up the stairs. He still does his job, looks around to check for others, but his main mission is to find you. To see your face and know that you’re okay. 

The smoke pours through the halls, clouding his vision. He knows the path to your apartment by heart, and he follows it without hesitation. He doesn’t find anyone else on his way there. The fire has grown significantly by the time he reaches your flat. He flings the door open roughly, the lock crumbling under the strength of his hand and the heat of the fire. He doesn’t care about your door, shouting your name as he pushes into your space. He checks your bedroom, your bathroom, the kitchen, but you aren’t anywhere.

This, understandably, causes him to panic more. He double checks everywhere, but as the fire continues to build, he knows he doesn’t have much time. He rechecks every room and hallway on his way down despite the fact that he’s already checked them once. 

“Did you find anyone?” He shouts to his crew as he walks out. Water sprays down from hoses, slowly helping contain the flames. He hears various responses of ‘No, Chief!’ ‘No, Sir!’ But the denials don’t help the adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. He stomps through the crowd, his height giving him an advantage as he pushes through people. He’s not trying to be rude or rough, but he feels like he can’t even intake a full breath. 

He calls for you, your name leaving his lips in sharp gasps. He can’t find you, he can’t see you, he’s fully on the verge of a panic attack. It’s very unlike him, but the tightening of his chest is distinct. 

He practically runs over Remus, whose face morphs into one of confusion when he sees the look in James’ eyes. “You alright, Chief?” He asks, and it’s only then that James even registers Remus’ face.

“I’m- I can’t find-”

“Looking for your Angel?” Remus asks, then gestures across the street to where you’re standing by your parked car, phone pressed to your ear. “She just got here, came looking for you while you were inside.”

James doesn’t hear the tail end of Remus’ words, already halfway to you. You stand as he approaches, the phone still pressed to your ear as he gathers you into his arms. You hug him back with your free hand, managing to end the call with a final ‘yes, I’m okay. I promise’. He buries his face in your neck, at least as much as he can with his uniform on. 

“I thought you were inside, Angel,” He forces his breathing and heart rate to calm now that you are back in his arms and he knows you’re safe. “I thought you were trapped, I was so scared.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, hugging him back just as tightly. “My last meeting ran late and then my boss wanted to speak with me and…”

“It’s okay, as long as you’re okay.” He pulls back, eyes glancing over you from head to toe one more time. His hands grip at your waist, and he finally deems you safe. “I need to get back and help, but I couldn’t focus until I knew where you were.” James leans down to place a long kiss to your lips, longer than he should allow, but he’s the Chief so who will tell him off? He pulls back, then presses a quick one to your cheek. 

“Is everyone okay?” You ask, the gravity of the situation coming back to the front of your mind. “Is my stuff going to be okay?”

“Everyone is fine, they made it out safely and we already checked the building.” He assures you, sliding his hands down your arms. “I’ll do my best to save your things, it’ll be alright, yeah?”

“Yeah…” You say like you aren’t convinced, and truly he isn’t either. He’d seen the state of your apartment when he’d gone inside. 

But the two of you will figure that out after this, together. And, really, he thinks he might get to use this as an excuse to ask you to move in with him. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[dismalflo]

Hey! Can I request poly!marauders (or any one of them individually) with Reader who’s feeling anxious and just wants to be held because the pressure helps?

Thank you!

hi, darling! thanks for requesting! <3

poly!marauders x reader who is comforted while feeling anxious ✩ 900 words

“Alright, dove?”

Remus’ voice pulls you out of your haze, your eyes fixed blankly on the fireplace. You’ve been focused on your breathing – in for five, hold for five, out for five – hands balled deep into the sleeves of your jumper.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that settled there sometime after lunch, something tight and coiled, anxious and unmoving. You’d hoped it would ease once you got home. That maybe the familiar warmth of the flat, the sound of James’s laugh from the kitchen or the way Remus hums when he reads or Sirius’ lighthearted grumbling, might untangle it.

But it hasn’t.

You don’t look up. Just give a small nod and a non committal hum. 

Remus is quiet for a moment before you feel the cushion dip, he settles at the far end of the sofa. 

“S’funny,” Sirius says from behind you, where he leans in the doorway, an apple half-eaten in one hand. “That’s the same noise you make when you’re not alright.”

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s softness under it too. Like he’s offering you an out. Like he's saying you can say you're not fine, and I’ll still be here.

You try to smile, but it comes out crooked and small. Your shoulders are tight. Everything is tight. The sleeves of your jumper are twisted around your fists, and your lungs still won’t work properly, each breath catching halfway in.

Remus shifts again, the sofa creaking just slightly. You can feel his eyes on you even if you don’t meet them. When he speaks, his voice is low and careful.

“Dove… do you want a hug?”

You glance up, just for a moment. There’s no pressure in his expression, just calm warmth. Understanding.

You nod again. A little surer this time.

“Alright.” He opens his arms, patient and open, giving you space to decide. “C’mere, then.”

You move slowly. Anxiety makes your limbs feel leaden, like wading through something thick. But you go, inching closer until he can gently gather you in. His jumper smells like cedar and old pages, and the warmth of him is immediate. You press into it quickly.

“There you go,” Sirius murmurs, suddenly closer. You hadn’t noticed him moving, but he’s rounded the sofa, tossed his apple core in the bin, and dropped down beside you without fanfare. He throws an arm over your legs, pulling them over his lap as he shuffles closer, chin resting on your shoulder like it’s where he’s always belonged.

James arrives not with a bang but a door creak and the wet slap of bare feet on hardwood. You hear him before you see him, humming, off-key and content. It cuts through the fog like light.

“Without me?” he asks, mock-offended, when he sees you all bunched up together. A pair of joggers sit low on his hips and a towel is draped around his neck. His curls are dripping wet, water tracing a path down his throat you can’t quite focus on.

Sirius snorts, not lifting his head. “You’re slow, Prongs. Not our fault you shower like a bloody princess.”

“Oi,” James protests mildly, strolling in. “Rinsing conditioner takes time. This–” he gestures to the halo of wet curls–“is art.”

“You’re beautiful,” Remus says dryly against your temple, fingers tracing slow circles along your arm, grounding you, matching the rhythm of your breath. “Maybe bring all that over here, hmm?” he continues, with a subtle tilt of his head towards you.

James’s face shifts and softens. The theatrical pout fades, replaced by something gentler. He meets your eyes, and something in your chest settles. Their attention never feels too much. 

He crosses the room in three easy steps, tossing his towel toward a chair. He slides into the gap Sirius left, nestling in like he’s always belonged there.

“Hi, darling,” he says softly, brushing a cool, damp finger over your cheek. “Bit of a day?”

You nod again. But this one feels different. Your voice is still stuck somewhere behind your ribs, but your body answers for you, leaning into him. Sirius shifts, arm tightening around your legs just enough to remind you he’s still there. Remus’s hand never stops moving, steady and sure.

James opens his arms, mirroring Remus. “You want a squeeze, yeah?”

You hesitate for only a moment, then move into him. He wraps you up, warm and solid, chest still damp from the shower. Remus curls tighter at your back, and Sirius shifts to press in at your side, his knee bumping yours.

You’re cocooned now.

Held between them, it’s everything you needed. Compression. Containment. Warmth. The kind of holding that tells your body it doesn’t need to brace anymore. That you’re safe. That there’s nothing to run from.

Someone – maybe James, maybe Remus – starts humming low under their breath. Sirius mutters something about “sappy gits” but doesn’t move, he just tucks himself closer, forehead resting on your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself too.

You exhale. A real breath this time. Unmeasured, unforced. And it doesn’t catch.

The knot in your chest is lessening. 

“Love you,” James says into your hair.

“Mmhmm,” Remus echoes.

Sirius gives you a firmer squeeze.

You don’t speak. Just nod, curled safe between them.

And let yourself be held.

masterlist <3

[reachartwork]

re: "outlawing AI"

i am reposting this because people couldn't behave themselves on the original one. this is a benevolent dictatorship and if you can't behave yourselves here i'll shut off reblogs again. thank you.

the thing i think a lot of people have trouble understanding is that "ai" as we know it isn't a circuitboard or a computer part or an invention - it's a discovery, like calculus or chemistry. the genie *can't* be re-corked because it'd be like trying to "cork" the concept of, say, trigonometry. you can't "un-invent" it.

even if you managed to somehow completely outlaw the performance of the kinds of linear algebra required for ML, and outlawed the data collection necessary, and sure, managed to get style copyrighted, you can't un-discover the underlying mathematical facts. people will just do it in mexico instead. it'd be like trying to outlaw guns by trying to get people to forget that you can ignite a mixture of powders in a small metal barrel to propel things very fast. or trying to outlaw fire by threatening to take away everyone's sticks.

the battleground is already here. technofascists and bad actors without your ethical constraints are drawing the lines and flooding the zone with propaganda & slop, and you’re wasting time insisting to your enemies that it’s unfair you’re being asked to fight with guns when you’d rather use sticks.

as a wise sock puppet once said; "this isn't about you. so either get with it, or get out of the fucking way"

-----

Attempts to prohibit AI "training" misunderstand what is being prohibited. To ban the development of AI models is, in effect, to ban the performance of linear algebra on large datasets. It is to outlaw a way of knowing. This is not regulation - it is epistemological reactionary-ism. reactionism? whatever

Even if prohibition were successful in one nation-state:

Corporations would relocate to jurisdictions with looser controls - China, UAE, Japan, Singapore, etc.

APIs would remain accessible, just more expensive and less accountable. What, are you gonna start blocking VPNs from connecting to any country with AI allowed? Good luck.

Research would continue outside the oversight of the very publics most concerned about ethical constraints.

This isn’t speculation. This is exactly what happened with stem cells in the early 2000s. When the U.S. government restricted federal funding, stem cell research didn’t vanish, it just moved and then kept happening until people stopped caring.

The fantasy that a domestic ban could meaningfully halt or reverse the development of a globally distributed method is a fantasy of epistemic sovereignty - the idea that knowledge can be territorially contained and that the moral preferences of one polity can shape the world through sheer force of will.

But the only way such containment could succeed would be through:

Total international consensus (YEAH RIGHT), and

Total enforcement across all borders, black markets, and academic institutions, at the barrel of a gun - otherwise, what is backing up your enforcement? Promises and friendly handshakes?

This is not internationalism. It is imperialist utopianism. And like most utopian projects built on coercion, it will fail - at the cost of handing control to precisely the actors most willing to exploit it.

Liberal moralism often derides socialist or communist futures as "unrealistic.", as you can see in the absurd, hyperbolically, pants-shittingly mad reaction to Alex Avila's video. Yet the belief that machine learning can be outlawed globally - a method of performing mathematics that is already published, archived, and disseminated across open academic networks the globe over - is far more implausible. literally how do you plan on doing that? enforcing it?

The choice is not between AI and no AI. The choice is between AI in the service of capital, extraction, and domination, or AI developed under conditions of public ownership, democratic control, and epistemic openness. You get to pick.

The genie and the bottle are not even in the same planet. The bottle's gone, Will.

[blossomcola]

omg pt2 of risky lara with u two catching manon being pervy and lara letting her join in please

i accidentally turned this into ot5 katseye and free use with the reader... i hope you like it!

pairing. ot5 katseye x fem reader

content warnings. degradation, fingering, gropping, hair pulling, humiliation, toys, overstimulation, scissoring.

we all know that lara is a loving and charming woman who would clearly be the sweetest and most romantic girlfriend in the world, but what happens when her group mates have a certain weakness for her girlfriend and she has no problem sharing her girl?

manon being the one who enjoys this the most because for months she’s been dying to get her hands on you... of course she wouldn’t try to make a move because you’re dating her friend, but if the opportunity arises she wouldn’t let it pass! her excitement is more than evident and you realize it when manon takes her toy box out of her closet... yes, she is the type of girl who loves toys. no matter what your preferences are because she doesn’t let you say anything about it, just by making you lie on her bed with your legs open for her and at her complete disposal, having no choice but to stay here and accept whatever she gives you regardless of whether you can take it or not :( manon is a bit naughty and doesn’t care if she’s being too hard for you or if you feel like you can’t cum again, she will not miss the opportunity to do whatever she wants with you and she doesn’t care if that means playing with your sanity, you’re just her doll.

sophia can be at the same level of cruelty depending on her mood, just as she can be heartless with you, she can also be super gentle and fuck you as much as you like or prefer, but she decides what mood to have with you! she prefers to start slowly and increase the intensity slowly, so sophia would first make out with you while she desires you to the point that your juices soak her hand and slowly run down her wrist, but she doesn’t care! sophia would go a little crazy for your taste so she would proceed to bury her face between her thighs and eat you out until her jaw hurts, regardless of whether you are very sore and feeling overwhelmed <3 and of course she also loves toys, but unlike manon, she has a big adoration for her strap, which is so big and thick that with just a glance you know it will be hard to take... and well, you know you were right the moment she’s fucking you missionary in her bed, legs shaking on her shoulders because the head of the silicone cock is hitting that spongy and sensitive spot inside you but she seems to understand that every whimper from you means you want her to push her cock deeper and deeper into you.

i fear that daniela is a girl who loves scissoring but in a way where everything is messy and sweaty, basically it means she can fuck until the bed breaks but it’s not a problem because you can continue on the floor! it is evident that she would choose to be on top because she needs to be in control of things for several reasons; first of all, it’s because daniela, being a dancer with years of experience, knows how to move her hips and that means she would use her dancing techniques to fuck — and secondly it’s because she knows that you’d probably get whiny soon after you two started getting wild and would probably have a hard time keeping a steady pace that doesn’t lose consistency... it doesn’t matter much what the reason is because daniela ends up on top of you anyway! maybe she’ll even hold your wrists above your head so you just have to lie under her and worry about making cute noises while she does all the work because pretty girls like you deserve to get laid and be cared for and looked after.

my dear megan... girl recently out of the closet so she doesn’t have the luxury of saying or showing off her experience or bragging about at least something, which is a fairly good thing because she would be somewhat afraid to act and her actions would be clumsy most of the time. among all the girls she would be the most “normal” because she is not yet a depraved freak, she may be kinky but she hasn’t developed that part of having a big confidence yet. even though lara has authorized them to do whatever they want with you, megan keeps asking every five seconds if you are sure and if what she is doing is okay, regardless of whether she’s doing something as simple as taking off your shirt or something more serious like about to touch you.

[nikito0x]

Time Travel Crack(-ish?) TGCF AU

Xie Lian accidentally travels to the past, taking over his own younger (child's) body.

He opens his eyes and he is very confused for a hot second, recognizing all his surroundings and wondering what in his husband's lovely name is happening, when, suddenly, he hears familiar bells and light is engulfing him.

Less than five minutes after arriving into the past, he has ascended. As a child.

Luckily he manages to mostly understand his situation and get himself together for long enough to consider his options and what he should do next.

Gods - gawking, whispering - surround him, child-like emotions overtake him and his rational mind comes up with the best solution he can think of on such a short notice.

Xie Lian jumps from Heaven back to Earth.

He will be known as the first child to have ascended. His legend will spread throughout the land. And, while mortal again, his prowess with spiritual energy will be unmatched. But that is for later. After he finishes crying about his missing husband.

When he lands back down to the mortal realm, tears running down his cheeks and a babbled explanation at hand about too many strangers surrounding him, the people and the heavens assume the poor kid didn't really know he ascended to godhood. In his eyes, he heard an earsplitting ringing of a bell, then got struck by what looked to be lightning, and finally got surrounded by a bunch of gawking strangers. Of course the poor kid got scared!

Everyone seemed a little dismayed at the misunderstanding, knowing that now he has jumped down he cannot go back to heaven unless he ascends again. But that's impossible... Right?

In the next years to come the prince would ascend a couple more times... And he would continue jumping down to the mortals... Again and again. But this time with a sack full of excuses.

"Doesn't heaven need their gods to be more educated before they are given this great responsibility?" He would question, three years after his first ascension, at the age of 10.

"My people need me more than heaven needs another god," He would declare, another three years after his second ascension, at the age of 13.

At his fourth ascension at the age of 15, the young prince would just groan in annoyance, turn around and stomp off towards the exit, chiding heaven itself, "I still have work to do, damn it! Leave me alone!"

The people of Xianle make a parade for each time the prince ascends, wondering when he will accept his rightful place. Temples are built in his name. Tales of his character and good deeds spread like wildfire.

With each ascension, Xie Lian's spiritual powers also grew to match. He could hear prayers, though he wasn't officially recognized as a god.

Jun Wu... Jun Wu is flabbergasted to say the least...

Xie Lian, in the meantime, prays for patience from his husband that isn't quite himself yet.

And little Hong Hong-er suddenly wakes from a deep sleep, quite confused, "...Patience??" He goes back to sleep.

What about the gods? What do they think of all this?

One thinks, "The prince's sleeping robes are quite exquisite. I should take note and acquire similar wears for myself!"

Another ponders, "How is the bell still whole if it falls every couple of years with his ascensions? Can a bell be in love with a living being?" The civil god starts researching.

A third one pathetically tries to spread rumors about the prince because he is jealous that this youngling ascended so young when he barely managed it in his 40/50's. He fails miserably.

A fourth one is tired of trying to chase him down so the prince would finally take over his godly duties. How do they miss him every time!?!?

A martial god wants to fight him to test her battle prowess.

Most of the rest? Well, they are deluded they'll manage to convince him to marry them once he ascends again and finally decides to stay.

Hong Hong-er suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to slaughter some gods. What is that number that floats around in his mind? 33? 35? Maybe he's imagining it...

And Xie Lian? He misses his husband. Feng Xin and Mu Qing think he's a good person & friend if a bit eccentric, praying to his non-existent husband and all...

As for Xie Lian's parents... Well. There is an old saying. If you cannot assuage the tide, then follow its current.

In other words. If you can't beat them, join them.

TBC?

[ttsblogg]

I’ll find you.

Rob Rausch x f!reader

a/n: i watched love island s6 and woah what a cowboy… i can’t believe there are like no fics about Robert.. he’s very handsome! anyways this may or may not be a two parter..🤭 enjoy! - tt🫧

“Theres no way! What the fuck!” Rob yelled out, standing behind y/n with his arms wrapped around her.

Y/n had just been eliminated from love island while coupled up with Rob and he was going crazy.

“I’m so sorry, y/n!” Serena said as tears fell down her cheeks. “It’s okay.” Y/n whispered, trying to maintain a steady voice but failed due to her emotions getting the best of her.

She was very upset about the situation, her and Rob had a really good connection going. As well as her relationship with the girls, they were so tightly connected to each other, almost like they were all sisters. She certainly understood why the girls picked her. She didn’t feel any sort of resentment towards them, she understood how much pressure they were in and would’ve probably picked herself if she was in their position. But it still made her upset that all of this had to come to an end.

“No! No, I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” Rob said, tightening his grip around y/n. She just tapped his arm and whispered, “It’s okay, Rob.” wiping her tears away. Aaron and the other boys were loosing it, trying to convince him to stay and yelled at the girls for choosing y/n, they loved her and loved her connection with Rob. They didn’t want them to leave.

“No it’s not okay, this is so stupid.” He said. Y/n didn’t know what to do in this moment, she was too stunned to move. That is until she heard, “You guys should’ve just picked me. It’s obvious the boys are talking about me! I haven’t found a good connection here, so what’s the point of keeping me here.” coming from JaNa.

That’s when y/n pulled herself away from Rob’s embrace and walked towards the girls. The cameras move with her as she walked up to them, she saw the tears streaming down their faces. How they all looked miserable and disappointed. Leah was the first one to notice y/n come up to them. She stood up and hugged her tightly.

One by one all the girls came up and joined the group hug, but y/n’s eyes were set on JaNa, who’s face was filled with guilt. “JaNa, can I just say, you deserve a chance at love. Please don’t ever doubt that for a second. You deserve to be here and try different things. Please, please never forget that. I truly believe you will find your person. I love you and yes it hurts to leave but I promise I’ll be okay. I’ll be rooting for all of you.” She said as tears streamed down her face. JaNa quickly gave y/n a tight hug, thanking her and saying how sorry she was. “I’ll be okay.” Y/n responded.

As she continued saying her goodbyes she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to find a teary eyed, Rob. Her heart broke at the sight. She’s never seen him like this. “Can we talk, please?” He asked, his voice breaking in the process. She nodded and lightly pulled away from the girls.

Rob wrapped an arm around her as they walked to the dock. The rest of the islanders watch at they walked away. They didn’t say it but this was one of the worst nights they’ve had here in love island. Once Rob and y/n were seated at the end of the dock, they sat in a sad silence for a couple minutes, taking in what just happened. “Fuck, I don’t understand why they thought to pick you. Like I-.” He said with his head down, his hands were covering his face trying to hide his tears. “It’s okay, it’s not an easy decision to make. Please don’t be upset with them.” Y/n said, rubbing his back. Unsure on how else to respond. “I’m literally leaving with you, there’s no way I’m staying.” He said, lifting his head to look at her. His eyes were completely bloodshot. “No you’re not Rob.” She said. Rob opened his mouth but y/n interrupted before he could say anything. “Please Rob. The whole point for you coming back was to fully go through with this experience. As much as it hurts me, I don’t want to hold you back from continuing to doing that.” She said as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“There’s no point of me continuing this experience though. You’re not going to be here.” He answered. “You might think that now but maybe that’ll change, you’ll never know that if you don’t stay.” She said holding his hand in hers. “Don’t do that.” He said. “Don’t say that. I want to be with you.” He said, breaking down. Y/n didn’t answer but pulled him into an embrace.

They stayed like this for a couple minutes until y/n pulled away. “I have to start packing.” She said lightly tapping his back and getting up from her seat. “Me too.” He said holding her hand as he stood up.

Y/n quickly turned around. “Rob, please don’t. This is already as hard as it is. I-I” she paused for a moment, knowing she was going to regret the words that were about to leave her mouth. “I want you to stay. I want you to have fun and explore. Let this be our last test to see if our connection is stronger than any other you might have.” She said. Rob just looked up at the sky, he didn’t know how to feel, all of this was too much. There was a huge part of him that didn’t want to stay just so he can be with y/n and there was a small part of him that understood where she was coming from. And he hated to admit it but she was right. And that’s what broke him the most.

“Look at me.” She whispered placing her hands on his cheeks. He looked down into her eyes. His heart breaking even more as he watched more tears fall from her eyes. “I promise it’s okay. Please stay.” She said. Rob couldn’t answer her. All he did was nod his head and leaned down, giving her a hard kiss. Y/n kissed him back harder, before pulling away, “Okay, I really have to go pack.” She said with a lightly laugh. “I need a minute.” was all Rob said.

Y/n understood and nodded her head. Knowing he needed space, Rob wasn’t an emotional person so she knew he needed a some time to pull himself together.

While y/n packed her bags, the girls helped her and kept apologizing. “Is Rob leaving?” Kaylor asked wiping her tears away. Y/n shook her head. “I told him I wanted him to stay.” She said, earning gasps from some of the girls. “What? Why?” Nicole asked. Y/n sighed and paused from putting her things in her suitcase.

“I just want him to fully experience this. I told him this could be our last test to see if we have a stronger connection than anyone else he might meet. Of course, I would love for him to come with me but I also don’t want him to regret not staying because that was the whole point of him coming back. As much as it would break my heart knowing there’s a chance he will find someone better, I just want him to be happy.” She said honestly.

“Fuck, babe. You’re literally better than me. I would’ve literally been like yeah you’re coming with me motherfucker.” Leah said, making y/n and the girls laugh. “Yeah, I mean as horrible as this sounds I hope he doesn’t find someone with a better connection but I also just don’t want to hold him back from finding one either, like I said I just want him to be happy.. even if it’s not with me.” Y/n added, placing the last few items in her suitcase and closed it up.

Y/n hugged the boys goodbye as it was time to officially leave the villa. “We’ll definitely see each other again, sis. I’ll take care of the cowboy don’t worry.” Kordell said making y/n laugh. “Okay, brother. I appreciate it, thank you for everything.” She said pulling away from their hug. “I’ll miss you, baby sis.” Kendall said pulling her into one last hug. “Me too, big brother. I’ll see you soon.” She said before pulling away from their hug leaving the only person to officially say goodbye to was, Rob.

He came up to her placing his face in between her neck and shoulder as his arms wrapped around her tightly. Y/n closed her eyes, trying to hold back more tears as she hugged him back. Rob whispered sweet nothings loud enough so she only heard. They must’ve been there for while as the producers intervened saying it was time to go.

As they pulled away, Rob gave her a few pecks, the last one lasting a little longer before he whispered. “I’ll find you.” A single tear from her eye fell at the sound of those words. “Okay.” She half smiled and pulled away from him.

She waved goodbye to everyone as she walked away. Her eyes finding Rob one more time before turning the corner and leaving the villa.

[jimpagne]

Or you could flip it on its head and say that you are acting like a cultist, stupid solo, or ignorant Army because you are refusing to accept that they are, indeed, together. They literally told us this yesterday in big loud letters to shut up those doubting them after the sightings. I really do not know what more these two have to do to make people like you see it, and it is incredibly disheartening, imagine how they feel. They are more devoted, committed and loving than any straight couple I know of personally, and they show us this time over. If you still chose to ignore it because YOU need to hear it in full from their own mouths, than that is on YOU, and again, makes you no different from the cult. How about you leave those who know, who see, respect and support them alone. Thanks

Someone severely lacks reading comprehension, I see.

Where in my post did I ever discredit their bond? All I said was to NOT ENGAGE WITH NOR SPREAD STALKER CONTENT and to be careful before spreading information because it could be potentially false.

I never said to truly write off eye witness accounts, but to do the rational thing and take them all with a grain of salt. Because do you know what taekookers do? They hear a rumor, run with the rumor, and won't let anyone else tell them otherwise. They ignore any other voice of reason, ignore when people in other spaces try to disprove something or provide better insight. They also consistently ignore what HAS been stated and vetted by saying "what this person said is lying", or "Jungkook and Taehyung can't be open about their relationship because they're being controlled by the company", or blah blah blah, whatever suits their narrative.

Do you want Jikookers to end up like that? Is that what you want? For us to have someone come online and say "I saw Jimin and Jungkook at [location] doing [blank]", having everyone spread and believe it without any HEALTHY doubts or any disclaimers, and then later having it proven to be untrue?

Am I saying majority Jikookers move like that? No. Absolutely not. I am saying that if we continue to endorse this behavior, the slope becomes a lot more slippery.

All I was doing was proposing safer techniques to deal with candid information like this, but you only saw me say "don't be like a cultist" and got triggered.

The fact is: Everything is speculative until directly proven otherwise. Theories are theories until fundamentally proven true. If you cannot recognize that, that's a dangerous way of thinking.

Like I said, at the end of the day Jikook being a couple in and of itself is still speculative. That is the cold, hard truth. That's not saying "they're not real" or "they could never happen", that's simply saying that we must respect the possibility of it not being true, and that we should create a somewhat respectful boundary between us and them before making theories and promoting them as 100% facts.

You can believe that they're real, but it's completely normal to hold doubts about something that hasn't been completely confirmed. One thing that is 100% real and 100% vetted is their mutual love and respect for one another as two people who have been friends for well over a decade. They endured some of the greatest hardships of their lives together, so anyone who says that they hate one another of course is completely delusional.

Though it is true that a lot of the claims that Jikookers make are often proven to be true later on, that doesn't mean that every theory made by a Jikooker by default is true. This is why it's important to be mindful.

If you don't understand that, that's entirely on you. If you want to endorse stalking or dangerous behavior by leaking their locations or their hotels, you go on right ahead. Just letting you know that it's scary and dangerous, and I wonder how you would feel if someone followed you around and constantly compromised your privacy to millions of people to get back at the people who 'doubted them'.

Being right at the expense of someone's personal life or security is not always the best. Spreading unvetted information without a disclaimer on the internet is still dangerous regardless of if you have no ill intent behind it.

Also, surprise suprise, I am a Jikooker. I am just one who tries to be mindful about information and sources before completely believing in it. A lot of Jikookers on my timeline were wary about the sources, not because they were antis or moving like taekookers who were desperate to disprove it, but because it's just the natural thing to be inquisitive about secondhand information.

I hope you reread my post and think a little more critically about it before jumping on me <3

[emeraldmabel]

Kento Nanami Merch

Just a little fluff piece. Reader is an otaku and Nanami doesn't get it.

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

"Is that another plushie of that hero guy?" Nanami sighs loudly, rolling his eyes while you open the package.

"Sure is!" you respond cheerfully, ignoring his attitude. You continue opening the package and pull out an Eraserhead phone charm, too.

"Sweetheart, where are you even going to put it? Isn't the 'Rubberhead guy' shelf in your office full?" he asks, hoping you will realize you should return these new collectibles.

You and Nanami had been dating for over a year, but you still weren't living together. He has stopped by after work to have dinner and brought in the package that was sitting on your front porch. Nanami doesn't understand your love of anime and manga, so, of course, he doesn't understand your desire to collect merch of your favorite characters. To him, it's just clutter.

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "Eraserhead, or Shota Aizawa, not 'Rubberhead guy', and no, it's not full. There is plenty of space on it." You begin walking to your office and Nanami follows.

As he walks into your office, Nanami sees a new shelf has been hung on your wall. You also finally hung up the most recent painting you completed of a different beloved anime character, freeing up more space on another shelf. Nanami just doesn't understand your obsession with these fictional men, and, frankly, it makes him feel a little... insecure, though he isn't ready to admit that to you.

"Oh, you hung up that long haired, fire guy's painting and you put up another shelf, moving all that Sundown guy's stuff over there." You had found just the right spot for Eraserhead and you turned to look at Nanami.

Feeling exasperated, you sigh "Kiyoka Kudo and Twilight or Loid Forger. Kento, I've told you all their names a hundred times, and it's printed on the boxes, but you still don't remember. It's like you don't listen to me."

"Darling, I do listen! I swear. I... I just..."

You are running out of patience for this conversation. It isn't the first time Nanami has been critical of your collection and you are reaching a breaking point. You throw your hands into the air, shaking them towards Nanami as punctuation for your words. "What is it, Ken? You always give me so much shit for my collection. I don't get it! It's my money and my house. I can do what I want!"

Nanami is stunned. He didn't expect such a strong reaction from you. Realizing his mistake, he steps closer to you and reaches out for your hand. Looking into your eyes, he says, "I'm sorry, my dearest. You are absolutely right. I have no say in what you do with your money or your home."

You try to slow your breathing, as you absorb his words. He is still holding your hand, gently rubbing his fingers over knuckles. Nanami falls to his knees and pulls you towards him so his face is nestled into your soft tummy and his arms are wrapped around you. He holds you like this for a few moments before saying, "I am sorry. I feel so ridiculous, but I- I think... I think I'm jealous of these characters... how much you clearly love them."

Unsure if you heard him correctly, you ask, "Kento, did you say you are jealous of fictional characters?"

He nods, the side of his face still pressed to your stomach.

You grin, suddenly understanding everything. "Ken, do you know what I like about these characters?"

He shrugs. "You find them attractive? Though I don't understand the attraction to Eraserhead as he is so scruffy and unkept "

You laugh as a bit of satisfaction blooms in your chest. "I knew you knew their names! But, no, it's not just because they are attractive. They all have traits that remind me of you."

Surprised, Nanami pulls back from you and looks up at your face. "Really?"

"Really. Eraserhead is so dedicated to his students, guiding and protecting them because he is the adult. Twilight is dedicated to his job and family, and to making the world a safer place. Kiyoka Kudo has a strong moral compass which he does not compromise on following, and he protects the woman be loves from danger."

"You make it sound like I'm perfect. I'm not that amazing."

"You are to me, Ken. I collect these things because, yes, they remind me of the characters and stories that I love, but they also remind me of you. Unfortunately, the world hasn't created any Kento Nanami merch for me to buy. If they did, I would fill a room full of everything you."

Nanami smiles up at you gently, feeling relieved. "That sounds wholly unnecessary."

Smiling back, you say, "I would do it though. You are that important to me."

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

A couple months later, Nanami is over at your house again for dinner and he is carrying a very long box. "What's in the box, Ken? I didn't order anything."

"I ordered this. It's for you. Please, open it." He sets the large box on the counter.

Pulling out a knife, you carefully cut though the tape on the box. Pulling open the flaps, you start laughing. You are face to face with a body size pillow of a shirtless Kento Nanami.

"So I can always be with you in bed, even if I'm not here. But don't stop. There is more."

You pull out the pillow, giving it a good hug before setting it on a chair. Under the pillow you find a custom Kento Funko Pop, a keychain that looks like his tie, and some stickers. "For your desk, your keys, and your water bottle or notebook. Wherever you want them, really."

"Ken, this is- I don't even know what to say. Thank you." You wrap your arms around Nanami's neck and reach up to give him a kiss.

"No thanks necessary. I just wanted to get you started on your Kento Nanami merch room."

Admiring the pillow again, you ask, "Who helped you with that picture on the pillow? You look so hot!"

Nanami blushes. "It was Gojo's idea. He took the pictures. He made me smear oil on my body. He said something about it making my muscles catch the light."

"Well, remind me to thank Satoru with a big basket of sweets, because I don't think I will get much sleep with that pillow in bed with me." you tease.

"The pillow can wait because I'm here to keep you awake tonight."

[themetalvirus]

yes, fuck cops. but also if you think you understand WHY cops are bad, you should probably dig more into why. if you're completely self assured that you know the full breadth of why the system of policing is so rotten, you have failed yourself.

[aemiron-main]

Rewatching alien covenant like god i almost forgot how much i enjoy this movie. Plus the gay androids are a bonus.

[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:

[arolesbianism]

Was going to do some oni file digging but got too distracted playing the actual video game. Anyways look at her <3

[valleydolli]

౨ৎ Golden Brown ౨ৎ

Knight!Sukuna x Princess!Reader

Summary: You’re betrothed to a Duke from the neighbouring kingdom, but your heart wishes to be with your loyal knight.

“Princess.” 

This is the third time Sukuna has caught you trying to escape your retched palace. You’re trapped. No way out. Even when married, you’ll be here.

Forever bound to the kingdom.

“Yes, Sukuna. What may I do for you? As you can see, I am quite… busy,” you say as you're hanging off the tall wall of your palace. 

“Well, Princess, what you could do for me is get down from that wall. It's a long fall.” Sukuna tells you as he steps towards you. 

You turn your head, looking on the other side of the wall, and your knight is right. Yes, you’ll escape the palace, but you’ll only escape to your death. 

That was not the plan. 

“Fine. Help me then.” Your knight walks over laughing, unbothered by your attempt to escape (this was the 100th time you tried leaving). As your heels touch the ground, you dust yourself off loudly sighing.

“Sukuna, when will you let me leave? I will make sure my parents do not have your head,” you say with a cheeky smile.

Sukuna leans towards your ear and says, “Princess, I will let you leave, I promise you. But only when I am dead.” He pulls away from you, laughing at your angry pout. 

“I will have to make sure that happens soon, then,” you whisper loud enough for him to hear, as you sashay away from today's escape attempt. 

Sukuna continues to chuckle obnoxiously. “Keep dreaming, my princess.”

–

As the day turns to night, you sit at the dinner table, playing with your food, as your father and mother discuss the reason for all your escape attempts… your wedding. 

You are to be wed to a man you would never love. He's a beautiful man. Hair as dark as the night, with earthy green eyes. There is no denying his beauty, but you feel nothing for him; he’s twice your age. You can't laugh with him or smile with him. You feel no joy around Toji, but here you are forced to spend your lives together. 

“Darling, are you not hungry? You should eat, you need energy for your ball tomorrow,” your mother says, laced with excitement. It’s like she’s living through you. Everything at this ball is all catered to her, not you. Not a single thing at this ball will be to your desire, only your mother's.

“I would prefer to sleep, Mother, if that's okay with you.” You don't wait for an answer, pushing your chair back, quickly walking to your chamber with your loyal knight following behind you. It’s as if he’s your shadow. Wherever you go, he follows. Without a doubt. He’s always been with you. He was practically assigned to you at birth, while he was a mere 4-year-old. He was trained to protect you. To be by you always and forever.

“I just don't understand. Why won't they listen to me? I am not ready to be wedded or bear heirs for the throne!” 

“There are so many things I want to do that I cannot do when tied down to a man. Gosh, I do not even know why I am saying this to you, you wouldn't understand.” Sukuna agrees with you; he wouldn't understand. He’s at the bottom of the hierarchy in this world. His life means nothing. Peasant blood. 

But you? You’re royal blood. 

Your existence is everything to the land. 

But not only the land. 

To him.

 “I just wish this wasn't my life, Sukuna. I'd rather be a farm girl than endure this. Honestly.”

Sukuna begins to laugh at you.

“What is so funny? You are always laughing at me.” You pout.

“You are a funny girl, princess, really. Beautiful and funny, what an amazing combination, do you not think?” Your eyes widen, and your face begins to warm. “Did I embarrass you, my princess?” Sukuna smirks.

“No! I-it is hot within these halls. Look around you, no windows, do not be a fool. Let's just… go to my room,” you begin to walk speedily toward your chambers. Sukuna appears in front of you to open the doors of your room. 

You walk in, kicking off your heels, and begin to undress with Sukuna watching from behind. You’ve never felt uncomfortable being unclothed around him. He probably seen you naked more than your ladies in waiting.

As you get to your corset, you ask for your knight's help. He carefully steps towards you, slowly unraveling the ribbons of your tight corset. It's quiet in the room, still, you could hear a pin drop, nothing is heard but yours and Sukuna's breathing. 

Suddenly, his head falls onto your shoulder.

Your name leaves his mouth. 

He never says your name. 

Ever.

“I… I cannot watch you get married.” Sukuna breathes.

“What? You cannot watch me get married? Whatever is that supposed to mean?” You turn around to look at him as his hands stay steady on the small of your waist. “Look at me. What are you saying right now?” He won't look at you. 

“Ryomen Sukuna. I command you to look at me. Right now.” He slowly lifts his head and looks into your eyes. You sound mad at him, but your eyes say otherwise. You have the most beautiful, expressive eyes. They speak to him. One look, just one, is all he needs to know what his princess is thinking.

“I would rather die than watch you marry that man.”

“What man, my knight, say his name.”

“I would rather be drawn and quartered.”

The corners of your lips twitch slightly, threatening to smile. 

“I need you by my side. This is my life. You are my life, Princess. Why do you think I so desperately try and keep you here in this palace, by my side? Call me selfish, I do not care. When it comes to you, I will be the selfishest person. You joke about your parents killing me. Princess, your parents will do nothing to me if you escape. I’m the one who keeps you locked in these walls. I keep you here because I need you in my life. You have made my life thrilling and captivating. If I could marry you, I would do so in a heartbeat, but…” he stops, wipes his hands across his sweaty face. You can hear his heart beating profusely, and his breathing irregular.

“But what, Sukuna?”

He doesn't dare to speak. He can’t. The words won’t leave his throat.

“How can you do this? How can you drop this all on me? When you know. You know Sukuna. I am to be bound to another. How selfish are you?” You push his hands off you and step back. 

“Yes! You’re right, I am selfish. Especially when it comes to you, my princess.” He walks towards you, and you continue to step back, shaking your head in disbelief. “Every single time I hear your parents speak about your betrothed, I die inside. I’ve been with you your whole life, and almost all of mine too. Princess, I cannot lose you. Not now, not ever.” 

“Sukuna…” You look up at him with watery eyes, never expecting such a confession coming from him, the burly 6’9 pink-haired knight. 

Your burly 6’9 pink-haired knight confessing his undying love to you. 

“Sukuna, you know we cannot be together… So, please… Please stop this, do not do this to me. I beg of you.” Tears begin to fall down your soft skin, and your loyal knight reaches out to wipe away your tears. He cups your face as he apologises,  “I am sorry, my princess, truly… but I cannot do this any longer.” He leans down, kissing you deeply. As if you help him breathe, as if you give him life, which you do, you keep him alive, you keep him happy. 

He pulls away, dropping to his knees. Placing his head against your stomach as he continues to profess his love to you. 

You caress your white knight's face as he… cries, he's crying for you? His cries are silent, which pains you even more. 

He’s hurting. 

Sukuna kisses the palm of your hand and whispers, “I yearn for you, my princess. I have never yearned for anyone, no one but you. I have even kept my purity all for you.” You copy Sukuna's actions and drop to your knees. You smile at him and kiss him longingly. You place your forehead on top of his and stare into his deep red eyes, “What can we do, hmm? If the Church wanted us together, they would have allowed it. You would have been born of royal blood. Or I of peasent.”

“Maybe we shall go against them.” He states. “If we truly desire one another, my princess, it is what we must do.”

–

That night, Sukuna slept with you in your chambers. Holding you close against him. They would do this secretly when they were little kids. You would wander the halls in the night. Knocking on his door, asking him to scare away the monsters from under your bed. Of course, there were none under there, but he would always “get rid of them” for you. Like a true knight in shining armour. From the day you stopped asking made him… sad, if you will. There were no fake monsters for him to protect you from. Now, he had to protect you from real monsters threatening your precious life. 

Your aged betrothed included.

As the night becomes day, you hear the servants of the palace prepare for your ball. You believe they’ve been at it since 4 am. You had to kick Sukuna out in case your ladies in waiting came in, or even your parents. 

Your parents know the two of you have a special bond, but seeing you intertwined with him would alert them to your true feelings towards each other. 

You lay in bed, waiting for your entourage of ladies to come help you get ready. You can’t help but think, do you go against the church? It is really the church you’ll be against, or would it be the King? 

Your father.

“Good morning, my lady. Today is your engagement ball. How are you feeling?” She knows exactly how you’re feeling. You tell her everything. She knows you hate the fact that you are to be wed, especially to an old guy like Toji. But what she doesn’t know is that you’re in love with your knight.

“I feel great, Esme,” you smile. She sends an empathetic smile back to you. All ladies gather around you, readying you for the night. 

You haven’t seen Sukuna yet, and it’s almost time for you to greet everyone, including… him. You need your knight by your side. You can’t do this without him.

“Esme, find Sukuna.”

“Yes, my lady,” she bows, running out the door, asking everyone in sight, “Have you seen the princess's knight?” Only to be sent in hundreds of directions. Almost an hour later, she finds him sitting in the forest behind the palace, cheeks rosy, with a bottle of alcohol in one hand, as he struggles to hold his head up. 

He is extremely drunk.

“Sukuna?” She slaps his face a couple of times before his eyes focus on her. She rolls her eyes. “Get up now. The princess is asking for your presence.”

He sighs, shaking his head like an immature child. “Nuh uh, don’t wanna see her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a bride…” His head falls back, leaning on the tree. “She shouldn’t marry him. Should be m-me,” he hiccups.

Oh. 

Wow, she feels so stupid. It was right in her damn face. How could she not realise? She doesn’t know what to say. There is nothing to say. They can’t be together; the church won’t allow it. Not only is he of peasant blood, but he’s a bastard child. Marrying him would damn the princess to hell. 

“Sukuna, you know that is quite preposterous of you to even think you could marry the princess. You know how this works, do you not?”

He grunts at her.

Of course, he knows, but he doesn’t care, and neither do you. You would rather be rejected by the church than lose him. Same goes for him.

“Let us go, Sukuna. You cannot disobey the future Queen. No matter how close the two of you seem to be…” She knows saying that will work on him. It’s a fact. You are the future Queen, whether he likes it or not. He can’t say no to you.

Sukuna lugs himself towards your chambers behind Esme. She turns to him, looking him up and down reluctantly opening the door because–

“Sukuna! You look disgusting!” You shriek.

He’s not even the slightest bit mad at your reaction; he looks and smells awful. And you? You look like you were perfectly sculpted by God himself.

“Everyone, get out.”

All your ladies scramble to leave except your head lady, Esme. She’s hesitant. She’s put two and two together. She knows. She’s shocked you were able to keep it a secret.

“Esme, you too.”

Sukuna turns to look at her with dead, expressionless eyes. “I thought you said we cannot disobey the future Queen, Esme?”

She nods her head before bowing and leaving the two of you alone.

You point towards to door to your bathroom, “get in the bath.” He doesn’t move. Of course, the most rational thing you can do is throw your shoe at him.

“Okay! Christ.”

You run your sponge across his body. Yes, you’ve seen each other naked, and no, you have not done promiscuous acts with one another.

“Why were you drowning yourself in beer? You know I hate the smell.”

“Sorry.” He muttered

You stare at his grumpy face remembering what you spoke about last night. He doesn’t want you to marry Toji, he wants to have you to himself. “Maybe you should objected at my wedding if it’s making you so upset, hmm? That would be funny.” You jokingly giggle. 

His eyes squint.

You’re joking, but he actually would.

“Sukuna, I was kidding. You would not dare.”

–

The ball has begun, you’ve been sitting on your throne alongside your parents, waiting for Toji to approach you.

Which he soon does.

He stands tall and proud, striding towards you.

“My Princess,” your betrothed says, bowing down slightly.

Sukuna scoffs beside you. Loud enough for Toji to hear, but he chooses to ignore it. 

“May I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may.” You place your hand into his as he leads you towards the middle of the ballroom. While your knight burns holes into the back of Toji’s head. You scowl back at him, mouthing, “stop.” His eyes twitches a little before he does. Storming off to grab a beer.

“I know you do not wish to marry me,” you hear Toji say. Your eyebrows furrow, “What makes you say that, Duke?”

“I could be your father. I am sure you do not want another father. Am I wrong in saying this?” You don't speak; you bite your bottom lip, waiting for him to say something because you will say nothing. 

“It is good for our kingdoms, Princess. Our blood, our lineage, would be unstoppable.”

“You already have a son–.”

“And his mother was a peasant girl. He’s illegitimate; he cannot take the throne after I have passed on. The church would never allow it, and they would never allow you to be with him.” 

The air escapes your lungs, you try to push Toji away, but his grip around you is too tight.

“You have no idea what you are saying right now, Duke. If you please, I think our dance is over. I am sure we will have many more to come.”

You rip yourself out of his grip, walking out towards one of the many balconies. Sukuna catches a glimpse of you leaving, turning to make sure Toji doesn’t follow behind you. 

He doesn’t. 

He’s looking at Sukuna. And Sukuna is looking at him.

Sukuna makes his way towards him, breathing in and out, calming himself down so he doesn’t punch this ass in the face.

“What did you say to her?” His chest is heaving, Toji places his hand upon his chest. 

Who the fuck—

“Calm down, boy. You know what would happen if you laid hands on me.” 

He’s right, he’d have his head in a second.

Sukuna carefully pulls Toji’s hand off of him, before asking what he said to you, but you quickly make your way back, noticing them together.

“Princess.” They both bow.

*Play Golden Brown Teehee*

“Sukuna, I love this song, remember? From when we were children?” 

“I remember.” He softly mutters

“Dance with me.”

“I do not wish to dan–.”

“I command it.”

You bring Sukuna to the middle of the room, bowing at one another, before placing your fingers against one another, covering your sight. You slowly bring your hands down to your lips. Both of you wish your hands were out of the way so your lips could lock, just like last night. 

You dance together, only staring into each other's eyes. The ballroom is filled with guests, but you don’t notice them. You only notice Sukuna, and he only notices you. 

But everyone in the room notices the pair of you. The Princess and her knight, dancing like lovers. In front of her future husband. 

It feels like you’re little kids again, dancing through the gardens and twirling like a ballerina. You don’t want it to end; you want to be with him forever. 

“Do not cry.” He whispers to you. “I will always be by your side. I was born to be by your side. Even though we are not to be wedded. I will never leave you. Till death do us part.”

“Till death do us part.”

—

The ringing of wedding bells are heard all over the kingdom. Today is the day. 

Five months. 

For five months, you’ve been dreading this day. 

For five months, you’ve been begging your parents to let you not wed. 

For five months, you tried to escape the palace. 

All for what?

For you to be in the same position you were trying to escape. 

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Your father asks you.

You’re standing outside the church, arm in arm with your father. The kingdom all gathered, ready to witness the wedding of the King's only child. His precious daughter. 

The music coming from the organ was beautiful, heavenly if you will. The room is filled with royals from around the world, but your eyes are fixed on him. 

Just… him.

Standing tall in his uniform. But his eyes… they’re shut. He refuses to look at you. If his eyes meet yours, tears will stream down his face. 

He will not cry. 

No. 

You’re meant to be with a man of royal blood, and that’s what will happen. 

This is how it should be. 

“In the presence of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we have come together to witness the marriage of Toji Zenin and Y/N L/N, to pray for God's blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.” The Archbishop starts, but you hardly listen. You want Sukuna to look at you, but he truly has not opened his eyes since you walked in. 

But when the Archbishop says, “First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.” 

His eyes open.

“Maybe you should object at our wedding, hmm? That would be funny.”

He waits. 

And waits.

And waits. 

…

...

“I object.”

Authors Note: Okay, I'm sorry about the summary, but like that is literally the hardest part, I don't care. But I hope you enjoyed, I spent all day trying to make this better than how it was to beginning with and I can definitely saying like 2/3 months I've gotten better in my eyes! but i definitely could have made this longer but I need to focus on only you arghhh. *strangles self* okay, okay, i’m done, i swear. :3 oh wait i really like the little banner thingy i did! i mean i didn’t do the drawing but like you know what i mean 🙄 okay BYE

© 2025 @valleydolli please don't copy or translate any of my work. all rights reserved. (I will find you if you do.)

[dcxdpdabbles]

Bruce: Attention, please. I understand a majority of you had plans this weekend. I want to be considerate of your time, so I'll make this brief. Lex Luther has hired a boy to seduce Wayne Enterprise secrets out of Tim. I need you to be weary at the gala. Dismiss.

Tim: Hold on hold on. I'm going to need a LOT more information than just that.

Bruce: I said dismissed Tim. Your siblings have plans.

Dick: *Raises a hand*

Bruce: Yes?

Dick: I can tell this approach is from the parenting books Uncle Clark got you, which is great. Thank you for trying, but we really need more details B. You can be considerate of our time by properly using it.

Bruce: hmmmm. Alright, if everyone feels this way. I suppose I can explain

Batkids: *Nodding*

Bruce clicking on the computer to show a picture: This is Daniel Fenton. His family used to own Fenton Works until the unfortunate loss of Mrs. Madeline Fenton in a car accident. Mr. Jack Fenton was convinced a ghost killed his wife. He was arrested after he crossed state borders chasing it and went on a rampage in downtown Gotham. He was deemed mad with grief and has been in Arkham for the last four years. Neither Jasmine nor Daniel were able to keep the family business afloat and were eventually bought out by Luthor.

Steph: I remember Mr. Fenton. He made that weird ray that was just throwing green goo on people. Besides scarying a few civilians, he didn't do anything bad. No one was harmed.

Bruce: That was the Fenton children argument as well. They were unable to get Mr. Fenton out of Arkham and into a different institution. I fear corruption is at play. During his stay in Arkham Mr.Fenton, has continued to create inventions, though no patent has been filed. All funds from said inventions are being made by local Mafia families instead.

Jason: Those thieves are preying on a grieving man. Rumors has it, Mr. Fenton isn't even aware his wife is dead. His mind blocked it, but he's slowly deteriorating. They're trying to squeeze out every drop of cash they can from him before his mind is completely gone.

Bruce: Exactly, and his children know it. Recently, Clark overheard Luthor offer Daniel a deal. He steals Wayne Enterprise secrets from Tim - probably got the idea after reading the article of Tim coming out, no doubt - and Luthor pulls enough strings to get Mr. Fenton out.

Tim: That's horrible. Is there any way we can help the Fentons instead? Move Mr. Fenton to a different place?

Bruce: I'm working it, but I believe Luthor is blocking my attempts. He did the same to Miss Fenton's college and loan applications. The pair are in a finical crisis that does not seem to get better no matter what they do. Luthor has employed similar tactics before.

Damian: Thus trapping the Fenton siblings in a box, unable to defy Luthor. They may be so desperate they would agree to anything after this many hardships.

Bruce: Exactly.

Tim: Alright I'll sleep with him

Cass: Literally, no one said you needed to sleep with him.

Tim: It's will be tough but I'll take one for the team.

Duke: Tim, that's not what B is saying at all.

Bruce: Wait, wait. I think Tim wants to sleep with Daniel Fenton. Hold on, let me consult the experts *opens parenting book*

Bruce: This isn't covered in the book. I don't know what to do.

Dick: I do. Tim, you're not sleeping with Daniel Fenton, but you are going to pretend his seduction is working. We're going to stop Luthor and the Mafia families controlling Arkham. We need to buy time to do that.

Tim: Kisses and over clothes stuff only. Got it.

Damian: Life has been hard for you since Dowd left you, hasn't it Drake?

[vaspider]

While I'm writing things that I've been intending to write for a while... one of the things that I think that a lot of people who haven't been involved in like... banking or corporate shenaniganry miss about why our economy is its current flavor of total fuckery is the concept of "fiduciary duty to shareholders."

"Why does every corporation pursue endless growth?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

"Why do corporations treat workers the way they do?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

"Why do corporations make such bass-ackwards decisions about what's 'good for' the company?" Fiduciary duty to shareholders.

The legal purpose of a corporation with shareholders -- its only true purpose -- is the generation of revenue/returns for shareholders. Period. That's it. Anything else it does is secondary to that. Sustainability of business, treatment of workers, sustainability and quality of product, those things are functionally and legally second to generating revenue for shareholders. Again, period, end of story. There is no other function of a corporation, and all of its extensive legal privileges exist to allow it to do that.

"But Spider," you might say, "that sounds like corporations only exist in current business in order to extract as much money and value as possible from the people actually doing the work and transfer it up to the people who aren't actually doing the work!"

Yes. You are correct. Thank you for coming with me to that realization. You are incredibly smart and also attractive.

You might also say, "but Spider, is this a legal obligation? Could those running a company be held legally responsible for failing their obligations if they prioritize sustainability or quality of product or care of workers above returns for shareholders?"

Yes! They absolutely can! Isn't that terrifying? Also you look great today, you're terribly clever for thinking about these things. The board and officers of a corporation can be held legally responsible to varying degrees for failing to maximize shareholder value.

And that, my friends, is why corporations do things that don't seem to make any fucking sense, and why 'continuous growth' is valued above literally anything else: because it fucking has to be.

If you're thinking that this doesn't sound like a sustainable economic model, you're not alone. People who are much smarter than both of us, and probably nearly as attractive, have written a proposal for how to change corporate law in order to create a more sensible and sustainable economy. This is one of several proposals, and while I don't agree with all of this stuff, I think that reading it will really help people as a springboard to understanding exactly why our economy is as fucked up as it is, and why just saying 'well then don't pursue eternal growth' isn't going to work -- because right now it legally can't. We'd need to change -- and we can change -- the laws around corporate governance.

This concept of 'shareholder primacy' and the fiduciary duty to shareholders is one I had to learn when I was getting my securities licenses, and every time I see people confusedly asking why corporations try to grow grow grow in a way that only makes sense if you're a tumor, I sigh and think, 'yeah, fiduciary duty to shareholders.'

(And this is why Emet and I have refused to seek investors for NK -- we might become beholden to make decisions which maximize investor return, and that would get in the way of being able to fully support our people and our values and say the things we started this company to say.)

Anyway, you should read up on these concepts if you're not familiar. It's pretty eye-opening.