#never scheduling things here again

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[funerals]

!!!!!

[itspileofgoodthings]

.

[gravitasmalfunction]

my controversial opinion is that the risk of discovery and consequences for a business that edits timesheet data should be greater than the consequences for the business for just admitting the scheduling error and paying the overtime that results.

[fingertipsmp3]

There are two wolves inside me. One is trying to convince me to do extensive research for the job interview tomorrow and the other is saying “wing it”

[feisaru]

Beloved Mephisto,

You know naught about love.

(But Mephisto did in fact know

About the suffering brought about by this thing we call "love"

You just believed him to be incapable of it

Too arrogant for it, perhaps

Dear Gretchen,

You failed to notice

In your ignorance

That the devil might feel too)

[dodger-thirteen]

FINALLY GOT MY DAMN TEST RESULTS. Called the urgent care again, was routed to the contact center (CC) again. Talked to the LOVELIEST HUMAN BEING /notsarcasmatall who listened to me explain the situation. They tell me that I should have gotten my results within 5-7 business days, and we are way past that, so they're going to call the location and put me on the phone with them.

So, I told them what happened the last time, when the CC forwarded me to the location and no one picked up and I had to leave a second message asking "WTF mate." They were like "okay, let me call them and talk to them first, make sure you can actually talk to a person there."

So they put me on hold, and I wait a while. They come back and are like "okay, so they have the test results and they say they are on the portal on their end, but for whatever reason, they aren't showing for you. So they said you'll have to make an appointment to discuss the results."

Me: Okay, but then I have to pay my co-pay again.

Them: I know. :( But that's all they're giving me.

Me: Is it possible there just isn't a box checked that should be or something?

Them: Hm...let me call them back.

Only, this time, they keep me on the line instead of putting me on hold. I caught on pretty quick that I was to keep my mouth shut and just listen. They talk to the front desk attendant (FDA) again, who seems to be having just not a good day or hates their job (fair) and is just NOT IN THE MOOD to be dealing with this.

Finally, the contact center person is like "okay, but if [she] makes another appointment, [she] has to pay [her] co-pay again for test results from an appointment [she] has already had."

FDA: *long-suffering sigh* Hang on. *puts us on hold*

CC: You get all that?

Me: OH YEAH.

So we're on hold for a bit, then the FDA comes back to confirm my birth date and puts up back on hold. Waiting, waiting.

FDA comes back on the line.

FDA: The provider will put the results on the portal shortly, when she's done with her current patient.

Then she basically hangs up on us. And my CC person is back on the line with me like "okay, you got all that, right?"

Me: So...they said the results were on the portal, when they weren't, but now because we made a fuss, they are actually going to authorize the portal to show my test results.

CC: Yep!

Me: What a wild ride. Thank you so much for your help.

I am honestly sad that I didn't get a prompt for a review for my CC person because they were awesome and so nice.

[un-bean-lievable]

I maxed out on tags 😭. Anyways I also just find purses annoying to wear and inconvenient. Also if your going about and buying things especially do you just carry around all that stuff?

@ people who carry bags everywhere what do you put in them what is there to bring other than chapstick, keys, phone and maybe a tampon why are you packing a suitcase to be outside for 5 hours

[broke-on-books]

Was gonna post this on the ig spam I never use but decided that joke was too bad for ppl irl so uh. Here you go.

[the-real-daddy-van-der-bellen]

yeah so my psychologist thinks i may be autistic 🫡

no it is not "social anxiety" or "agoraphobia" or "being a cunt of a neighbor" to not answer the door. i am simply heeding the advice of the wise Klaus Eberhartinger: Mach nie die Tür auf, lass keinen rein.

[kurd1shangel]

how to shift whenever (from an experienced shifter)

i see so many people still talking about shifting like it’s this impossible thing, like you have to beg the universe for it or spend months trying every method out there. so here’s the truth, from someone who’s actually been shifting consistently for a while:

you can shift whenever you want.

and no, that’s not just motivational bs, that’s literally how it works when you understand what shifting actually is.

shifting isn’t something you try to do. it’s something you allow. the version of you that already lives in your desired reality? they already exist. your job isn’t to create them , it’s to align with them.

you don’t need to feel tingles or hear signs or vibrate at some perfect level. you don’t need the perfect sleep schedule or the perfect script. what you need is clarity.

clarity that says: “i know what i want. i know it already exists. and i trust myself enough to go there.”

when i shift, i don’t force it. i don’t chase it. i become it.

it’s just a decision:

a breath.

a moment.

a quiet “i’m already there.”

and then i fall into it.

not because i’m trying so hard, but because i finally stopped trying.

once you drop the resistance, once you stop doubting, you realize how easy it is. how natural. how familiar.

there’s no big secret. no magic formula.

just presence. trust. surrender.

and once you taste it? once you know you can do it?

you’ll never stress about it again.

[danysdaughter]

Confidential Affairs

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 4.4k words

summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent

a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.

Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.

Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.

Doing it well was.

And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.

You.

His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.

You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.

And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”

He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.

Then he saw you.

You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.

So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.

“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.

You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.

“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a snort.

God help him, you were a menace.

And he was in so much trouble.

You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.

“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”

“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.

You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.

“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”

He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”

You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”

Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”

You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.

“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.

You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.

“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”

You handed him a folder.

He took it.

You turned on your heel again.

And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.

He was totally, completely screwed.

The office was, for once, quiet.

A miracle.

You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.

Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.

You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”

You didn’t even look up.

“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”

He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”

You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”

He blinked again. “That was brutal.”

“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”

You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.

Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.

It was a toss-up.

The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.

Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.

He barely got a foot down before—

“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”

“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”

“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”

The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Where the hell were you—

And then.

The crowd parted.

Like God herself said let there be chaos management.

You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.

Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.

“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”

Every camera swung to you.

You didn't flinch.

“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”

One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”

You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.

“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”

A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.

You weren’t done.

“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”

The air crackled.

Silence.

Actual, stunned silence.

You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,

“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”

He blinked. “Right.”

You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”

Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.

Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.

“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.

He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.

“I think I need a minute.”

You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”

And that was that.

You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.

Definitely aroused.

He was completely, completely gone.

The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.

You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.

He stared at you.

“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.

You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”

He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”

You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.

“Something?”

He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”

“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”

Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.

Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.

You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.

He wanted to say all of that.

Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”

You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”

He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”

“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”

He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.

You didn’t look at him again.

But you smirked.

Just slightly.

Like you knew.

The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.

Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.

You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.

Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.

Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.

“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”

You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”

He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.

“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”

He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”

“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”

He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”

You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”

“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.

“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”

He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.

You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.

“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”

“She did not—”

“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”

He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your skirt like a man starved.

The event was packed. Too packed.

The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.

You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.

Then it happened.

The shouting started at the back.

At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.

Then it grew louder.

Angrier.

A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.

“Traitor!”

“HYDRA plant!”

“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold.

Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.

The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.

“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”

His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.

He just needed you.

“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.

And then he froze.

You weren’t hiding.

You weren’t running.

You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.

BANG.

“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”

BANG.

“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”

BANG.

The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.

The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.

You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.

And Bucky?

He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:

Holy. Shit.

You were beautiful. And terrifying.

And he was completely, catastrophically in love.

The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.

You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.

Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.

In indignation.

“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”

Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.

Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”

“You are bleeding!”

“I got grazed. Calm down—”

“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”

“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”

“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”

He froze.

“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”

“That’s not—!”

“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”

His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.

You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”

He said nothing, still stunned.

You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”

Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.

Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:

“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”

Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.

And Bucky?

He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.

You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.

So he didn’t.

He just leaned in.

His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.

For one breath, it was perfect.

Then your brow furrowed.

Your palm pressed flat against his chest.

Bucky’s heart bottomed out.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.

He froze.

“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”

Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.

“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”

He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”

You raised a brow.

“Twice.”

Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.

“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”

You tilted your head, watching him spiral.

Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”

His breath caught. “What?”

And then?

You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.

The kiss was nothing like before.

It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.

Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were mad about it.

And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.

There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.

It was you, claiming him.

Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.

Maybe you had.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.

You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.

He shuddered.

“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.

Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”

You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.

Then you shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.

“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.

“Not quite.”

His blazer hit the floor.

Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.

He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.

You noticed.

“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”

“Have you met you?” he rasped.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.

“Touch me,” you said.

He did.

Everywhere.

And he was so gone for you.

You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.

Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”

You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.

And then you pulled back.

Stood up between his knees.

Hiked your skirt up higher.

No underwear.

He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.

You grinned.

Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.

He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.

“You been hard for me since the press room?”

“Since our briefing,” he groaned.

You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.

“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”

And then you sank down.

Slow.

Deep.

All of him.

He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”

You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And the look on your face?

Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.

You started to move.

Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.

“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”

He laughed—barely. “Already did.”

And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—

He lost it.

He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.

You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Yours.

[eraserbread]

your older boyfriend, nanami, has a sneaking suspicion you like arguing with him.

it always starts with something stupid, him denying you a new purse you wanted, or him telling you no when you asked to come to his house. he gave you a good reason, he was tired, and you were too rowdy.

this time, he didn't come visit you when you were in the office on your internship.

nanami was innocent - caught in hours of meetings that didn't align with your work schedule. He texted you a quick apology that night, but you were seething.

it's like he's ashamed of you -- too used to you.

and that's what you tell him when you crawl into his jet-black car the following night.

"if you hate me, just say it." you pout, slamming his passenger door and not bothering with your seatbelt as you sink into the cool leather.

"what are you talking about?" though you're mad, he still plants a hand against the top of your thigh, squeezing the flesh in his way of telling you hello. "I don't hate you."

"you never come visit me at work anymore. and you hardly fucking work, I mean there's nothing that important that you completely forget about me, is there?!"

"god, here we go again..." he mutters absolutely devoid of emotion. he'll let you rant all your feelings out to him, he'll yell back a little bit, then he'll fuck you stupid and sorry... it's just the way things play out with you two. "I didn't forget about you."

you're ranting with your hands, staring into the side of his stoic face as he drives calmly. it's like your anger is lost on him, or perhaps you weren't really angry -- why isn't he cracking..?

"you son of a bitch, you never listen to me!" you're squealing, stamping your foot, and crossing your arms when he just... keeps on driving.

then, he's turning back home and you're left in a scowl staring out of the window. literally all he had to say to soften the mood was I'm sorry, but he wasn't sorry. there was nothing to be sorry for, and you knew he preferred to keep the relationship work-appropriate at work. carving out time between meetings to visit you is not work-appropriate, so he's not sorry. oh well.

so if you wanted to spout baseless reasons to hate him all the way to his front door, he'd listen and take it. until, that door locks and he's rolling his shoulders and pulling his tie loose.

"just, shut up about it."

"s-shut..?" you reply, shocked by the choice of words he's never given you before. every other time you poked at his nerves, he'd just roll his eyes and give you what you wanted.

tonight, instead of giving in, he has you on your hands and knees in front of him, gagged between the teeth with his spotted tie.

he's fucking you hard in his bed, keeping you pressed in doggy as he guides you back with each of his thrusts. his big hand is tangled in his tie, loose digits twisted in your hair so he has those nerve-endings hostage as well. it's a sensory overload, from the sound of his grating voice, to the feeling of your inescapable whines against the gag. it was all just so erotic.

"listen to that -- sweet silence," he grunts in unison with his thrusts. he's got you pierced so stupid and pliable on his cock, that you weren't even worried about anything else. all you can focus on is the sensation of his thick length stretching you to the hilt, springing tears to your eyes as you try and take all of it.

nanami hates it when you run from his cock, it just makes him fuck you harder. but, he was unraveling inside of you, hanging on by the grace of god and slivers of self-control

so when you slide your spent knees further up the bed, trying to free your body from the dirty punishment, he has all the more reason to pull out, slapping a strong hand over your puffy cunt and hooking two fingers inside your hole. he's got his fingers crooked at that perfect angle to coax exactly what he wants from you.

you fingers claw at anything they can grab, sick whiny cries dampening the tie between your teeth as you cum for the third time, sobbing in relief when you feel his hot, thick seed drip down your spent cunt as he unravels in succession.

"so mean... t'me..." you manage to breathe out, shuddering in a limp pile of mess on his bed. nanami steps away like an artist admiring his work, brushing some of your taste from his lips to suck back between them.

"whatever you say." he mumbles, sliding his tie from your skin, but disregarding your frame further.

he was going to take a shower... you are welcome to join him, but only if you

shut the hell up.

[harbours-lighthouse]

YOU GIVE JASON TODD A SCARE

(inspired by this post).

— PAIRING: Jason Todd x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: You're running behind schedule, which means Jason's pushing through the traffic and rain to get to you.

cw: none wc: 1.2K

YOU SHOULD HAVE been home three hours ago.

Jason’s hands tighten around the handlebars of his motorcycle. The leather fabric of his gloves crease, slick with rain and pinching around his fingers. It’s not often that you hang back for so long afterhours, though Jason is well aware that you offer your help without second thought, often forgetting about everything else in favour of assisting where you can.

But it’s been three hours since your usual closing time, and you haven’t sent him a text yet. You always send him a text.

Clenching his jaw, Jason wipes his arm across his face harshly, brushing away the rain that lingers on his lashes. It’s not the vibrations of the engine beneath him that’s sending his thighs subtly shaking—no, it’s the adrenaline slowly inching into his system, the panic he can feel twisting inside his chest.

What if you’re alone in the pouring rain? Soaked to the bone?

The traffic light blinks green, and Jason squints through the sheets of rain while kicking back the stand. The line of cars jolt forward, brake lights dimming as tires roll across rain-soaked asphalt.

Exhaling sharply, Jason’s eyes constantly search around him, feeling as if he’s some sort of cop looking for the slightest infraction. None of Gotham’s cops do that here, but it’s what he’s seen in the few movies you’ve made him watch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Jason murmurs beneath his breath, body leant forward as rain pricks against his skin, tapping violently against his leather jacket.

“Where? Tell me where…”

The traffic lights ahead glow a bright red, blurred by the onslaught of water, and Jason holds down several curses and a groan. He can feel the dread in his stomach, wrapping around his intestines as he slowly comes to a stop behind a white KIA.

He needs to reach your workplace—he has to see if you’re still there, and that, maybe, your phone is just dead. It must be, because he tried to track down the location of your mobile, but nothing had come up. No blinking blue dot on his screen revealed your location to him, and nothing on Earth would get him to ask Oracle to step in. He has this under control. He’s not going to panic. Not yet.

As cars rumble around him and the bike’s engine rattles beneath him, Jason silently berates himself for not having some sort of conversation about things like this with you. He should have given you instructions on what to do if your phone dies, or if you can’t get home for some reason—he could have prevented all of this if he had just given you the right steps to take. And what if you’re in more danger than he thinks? Wouldn’t it be his fault if you weren’t prepared at all or trained to some small degree in order to defend yourself? If anything bad has happened to you, that would fall on him. Without a doubt.

A horn blares behind Jason, echoing painfully in his ears. The lights have flashed green, the neon colour reflecting off the cars as they lumber forward again. He would have sent the guy a rude gesture over his shoulder, but you’re running through his head—bright eyes made gentle when they lock with his, and your words quiet and low like always. He’s sure that you speak quietly for him personally, like it’s your mission in life to never speak abruptly around him, and he’s never been able to explain to you why that matters to him.

But you’ve never needed him to explain anything. You’re too intuitive for your own good. Too understanding. Too good.

“Jason!”

His heart stops. Beats once. Skips a beat. Beats erratically again. That couldn’t have been…was that…you?

Swivelling his head around frantically, Jason pays no mind to the driver behind him angrily blaring his horn, the sound filling up the street. He knows he just heard you, however faint it was over the rain.

“(Name)! Baby!” Jason calls out, voice thick with worry.

“Jason!”

Yes, that’s you—that’s you.

And you’re flailing your arms above your head, jumping up and down on the side of the curb.With his pulse drumming inside his ears, Jason barely gives it a second thought as he floors it, weaving through the moving cars and crossing lanes to reach you.

People surrounding you glance at him wearily as the engine roars, but you don’t pay them any mind as Jason screeches to a halt directly in front of you.

You barely blink and Jason’s kicking the stand and hopping off his bike. For a moment, you think he’s angry as he strides up to you, with his brows pinched together and his jaw clenched.

Your mouth opens pitifully as you prepare to stumble out your rehearsed apology, but your words die on your tongue as strong hands wrap around your biceps, and Jason grapples you to him. A huff of air escapes you as you’re shoved against his chest, but the shock instantly melts away, and you grab fistfuls of his jacket in your hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you say into his shoulder. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, and you let him tighten his grip around you, even if it feels like your ribcage might snap.

“My phone died.” Your voice shakes, and you squeeze your eyes shut as rain taps against your scalp. “And Meggie wanted me to help her with something after closing, and then her ride ditched her so we were trying to figure out an uber for her cause the taxis are terrible and—”

“Stop talking.”

You inhale sharply. “Okay.”

The silence feels tense, and the rain pricks into your skin like needles, sharp and relentless. But it’s nothing compared to the turmoil you feel on the inside, the guilt that’s threatening to send you into tears—but you can’t cry. No, this isn’t about how you feel, this is about Jason.

“Sweetheart,” Jason murmurs against your scalp, and you catch the tremor in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“I—baby, don’t do that again.” Jason pulls away, and he brings his large hands to cradle your face. You’re reminiscent of a wet alley cat, your hair sticking to your skin and your coat hanging from your frame, heavy with water. But he’s never seen you look as remorseful as you do right now. Any anger or frustration lingering in the back of his mind vanishes within an instant, as if it weren’t even there to begin with.

Purple and pink light from the overhead billboards reflect off your face, haloing your hair. You look beautiful, but more importantly, you’re okay. You’re safe, and he’s holding you in his arms. Despite the rain, despite the chill that clings to the air, your skin is still warm with life.

And that’s more than enough for Jason.

Shaking his head, he brings a hand to gently push against the back of your head and press you closer to him again. He presses a firm kiss to your temple, as if to hammer into your skin the relief surging through him.

Bystanders glance your way, eyeing what simply looks like two people embracing each other with an overwhelming amount of emotion. Feeling the panic in his chest slowly start to ebb away, Jason lets his lips fall to your cheek where he presses featherlight kisses.

You hum softly, fingers tightening around the creases in his jacket.

“I love you, Jay,” you say quietly, because you know he needs to hear it.

Jason’s heart rampages against his ribcage.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

© harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

[n0tsketchyy]

Headcannon that Alfred has a secret Instagram account. He just posts about the insane household accidents at Wayne Manor with literally no context. 

His most popular post is simply captioned "Master Tim set the kitchen on fire attempting to make toast. Again."

Somehow, the account has over 500,000 followers of people growing increasingly invested.

His other popular posts include:

Muddy footprints acrross a gorgeous ceiling: “I have many questions about how Master Jason's boot prints came to be on the ceiling of the east wing corridor. He refuses to explain beyond claiming it was 'definitely Tim's fault' and that 'gravity was being unreasonable today.' Master Bruce has requested I not ask further questions.”

A photo of numerous coffee mugs hidden in bizarre locations: "The ongoing archaeological expedition to retrieve Master Tim's forgotten coffee cups continues. Today's discoveries included one inside a houseplant, two behind the grandfather clock, and one inexplicably on the chandelier."

A broken window with an arrow through it: "Master Damian's archery practice has once again violated our agreement about 'appropriate indoor activities.' Master Bruce has been informed."

A ceiling covered in colorful splatters: "Master Dick insisted his acrobatic skills would allow him to carry an entire birthday cake while performing a triple somersault. The ceiling disagrees."

An image of a completely disassembled grandfather clock with parts meticulously arranged on the floor: "Master Barbara asked for the time. Master Timothy decided the clock was 'running 0.002 seconds slow' and required immediate intervention. Dinner will be delayed until the main entrance is passable again."

The east wing covered in rubber ducks: “Master Dick claimed it was 'for science.' When pressed further, admitted it was retaliation for Master Jason's previous week's glitter bomb incident. Have scheduled additional therapy sessions for all parties involved.”

Alfred never mentions Batman or vigilante activities, but the posts are so outlandish people straight up have conspiracy theories about them.

Follower: "Time travelers. It's the only explanation for how they survive. They redo the timeline when things go wrong."

@ ManorMishaps: "If time travel were involved, I would hope they'd prevent incidents rather than merely surviving them. The toaster budget alone would benefit from such intervention."

Follower: "Alien research facility. The purple slime? The color-changing ceiling? ALIENS." 

@ ManorMishaps: "I believe you've been watching too many science fiction programs. Though I must admit the ceiling phenomenon continues to baffle our contractor."

Follower: "These are clearly stunt performers for action movies. No normal family could cause this much property damage." 

@ ManorMishaps: "An interesting theory. However, I've yet to see any of our incidents recreated in Hollywood. They lack the imagination."

Follower: "Wait, is that a BATARANG in the background of the third pic???" 

@ ManorMishaps: "I believe you're seeing the shadow of an unusually shaped serving spoon. Nothing to see here."

[humanjarvis]

good heart

synopsis: zayne wonders if he’s mean. you reassure him otherwise.

tags: fluff. comfort. zayne is self-conscious and cute  pairing: zayne x reader word count: 641

a/n: surprise (not rly) first zayne fic :] it’ll be interesting seeing how i want to write him since i’m probably the most similar to him irl #neurodivergence. also posting the most depraved and fluffiest things i’ve ever written in the same week who said versatility

“Darling, have I ever been…mean to you?” Zayne asks hesitantly.

You’re cuddled on his sofa with your knees resting against him, halfheartedly watching a nature documentary. Brilliant rays of afternoon sunlight pour in through the floor-length windows, drawing most of your attention away from the grasslands and toward the trio of squirrels leaping over leaves in Zayne’s backyard. At his question, you raise your head from its place on his shoulder, squinting at him playfully. 

“Hmm,” you draw out, as if actually taking the time to consider his question. He blinks at you. “Nope! A little impassive, sometimes, sure,” you grin, poking his adorably neutral face. “But never mean.”

He forces out a weak smile at your teasing, gently lowering his gaze to your intertwined hands. 

When you don’t receive the usual politely packaged retort, you furrow your brows in worry. “Why do you ask? What’s wrong?” 

Still fixated on your interlaced fingers, Zayne clears his throat. “At the hospital today,” he starts, “one of the younger patients said I was…mean.” He bites the word out as if it tastes bad, the mere association of it with his character destabilizing his being. 

Perplexed, you unclasp your hand from his to lift his chin. “What happened?” 

“All I did was tell her that if she wants to feel better, she’ll need to take her medicine daily.” Now it’s your turn to blink at him. “Perhaps it was the tone I used, I’m not sure. I haven’t encountered this before.” 

Deep in thought, he moves to bow his head again, unconsciously avoiding your gaze out of unwarranted guilt. With a frown, you grab his face between your hands before that can happen, climbing over his lap to straddle him. 

“The Zayne I know is worried that doing his job makes him mean?” you ask, peering into his startled hazel eyes. “C’mon, Zaynie, she was probably just being stubborn. You of all people should know what it’s like to avoid taking medicine.” Lifting his top lip as if to inspect his teeth, you drive your point home when he flinches away. As his face flushes pink, you feel his cheeks warm under your hands.

“I’m aware that children…and adults…are hesitant to follow doctor’s orders at times,” he says, clearing his throat. “But I also know I'm not the most…expressive of people. I’ve gotten so used to behaving freely when I’m with you that I wasn’t monitoring my mannerisms in the pediatric ward today. I must have appeared quite intimidating to a vulnerable child. The thought made me uncomfortable. It made me wonder if…I’d ever made you feel that way as well,” he grimaces.

With a fond sigh, you tilt his face up to yours to kiss his nose. This time, his blink is slow and confused. 

“The only one you're being mean to is yourself,” you start, pinching his cheeks lightly. “No matter what’s on your face or in your voice, I know what’s in here,” you say, placing a firm palm over his chest. “You wouldn’t be Dr. Zayne without your directness. You wouldn’t be my Zaynie, either. And I happen to like both versions of him very much.” 

As you press another kiss to his nose, the corners of his full lips quirk up. “I suppose I should be nicer to him, then.”

“You’d better. Or else he’ll have to write ‘I am nice. I am kind. I have a good heart’ over and over again until he understands. Surgeons don’t have time for that.” 

“I'm sure I possess the cardiovascular fitness to work it into my schedule,” he quips. “I have a good heart, after all.”

As the joke lands, you give him an exaggerated wince, removing a hand from his smiling face to fake a retch. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. Subjecting me to that? That was a little mean.”