#solutions thoroughly

[egophiliac]

bring your son to work day

[strangewonderful]

is anybody here like a technology expert who can tell me why my discord mic will randomly stop working on my computer when im using it and then nobody will be able to hear me and i literally need to go into the voice settings and reset the input device to make the mic work again? only for it to stop working again between 1 second and 1 minute later. it happens no matter if i'm using my computer mic, external wired, or wireless headphones & i have been dealing with this for a year and it's driving me bonkers fucking yonkers

[vigilskeep]

"Fortunately unless hes being a bitch to other people about it keir usually thinks this is endearing" Keir confirmed for liking being wanted (don't we all?)

why would you call him out like this

[gifti3]

Nightbringer should have completely changed the mechanics of the game

[maxiwaxipads]

Manufactured SEEDs

Basically, the concept is that SEEDs once served as a “positive” force meant to permanently remove or separate negative emotions that were deemed unnecessary.

(I wish I could elaborate but I don’t really know how) (I wanted the idea that “SEEDs” have always existed or something unique to Fragaria Memories without being inspired to anything if that makes sense?)

Assuming that SEEDs existed during the time of Legendary Red, what if “Legendary Red” made the SEEDs but backfired and twisted the story that they saved the world of Fragaria from the SEEDs.

Maybe the SEEDs couldn’t be completely destroyed for whatever arbitrary reason, and the Strawberry King took responsibility to guard the last remnant of existing SEEDs left from this world of Fragaria?

Eldritt’s purpose is to keep the origin of SEEDs and the truth of Legendary Red a secret. 

<- But at the same time, what good is keeping the truth hidden(?)) “To keep the world idyllic”(?) (How would revealing the truth about Legendary Red and the SEEDs affect the world? 

(Maybe we can connect this to time loop theory(?)) (Do you think Halritt wants to keep the world happy by all means necessary) (and time loop is his only answer)

Do you think their existence evolved during their entrapment by the Strawberry King? They’re indiscriminately trying to feed from negative emotions because of this insatiable hunger they had for who knows how long?

How did they escape? Why did the Strawberry King disappear?

Lovers to the same lies— Protectors to sanctity, memories to sanity Red-splattered puddles dye into black I, the shadow to which you belong … strangers to the flesh. Fumbled darkness, the pitch-black mold. A stiff neck … Unable to turn. (Clocks unfortunately twist … A head rolls down.)

Edlritt - “What only needs to be known is that…” Eldritt - “We both want the SEEDs eliminated.” “So, Merold, as long as the motivation exists—we will both be quiet.” Eldritt - “Is this clear enough for you?"

[zanderbobs]

Hey guys maybe if you have an issue with the way your housemate has cleaned something or left a bit of a mess maybe don't clean it up and then tell them a whole day after instead of just. You know. Asking your housemate who is literally in the next room to just clean it up

[steevejr]

‘

[rulesforthedance]

I have been sleeping with earplugs every night since EIGHTH GRADE and now I have the most disrupted sleeping environment I've ever had and I use the earplugs like once or twice a week

[torchiiko]

hate brushing my teeth when im tired. obstacle to Bedtime. but i Have to

[emergencyplumbingil]

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When Sarah noticed her water heater struggling to keep up with her family’s needs, she felt stressed and unsure of where to turn. I do not know whom to call, she confided to her husband as lukewarm water trickled out during their evening showers. Frustrated and overwhelmed, she decided to reach out to her neighbor, Emily, for advice. Emily didn’t hesitate for a moment: Call Emergency Plumbing of Highland Park. They’re the best local plumbers. They always answer the phone and schedule same-day service.

The technician, Antony, arrived promptly as scheduled. His friendly demeanor immediately put Sarah at ease. We specialize in water heater solutions, he assured her, and replacing water supply lines is one of the most effective ways to improve performance. Let me take a look.

When the job was complete, Sarah couldn’t believe how fast it had gone—and how immaculate her utility room looked. Antony cleaned up thoroughly, leaving no trace of the work behind.

Emergency Plumbing was so affordable, especially considering same day the top-notch service.

If you’re looking for a plumbing company that delivers fast work without compromising quality, offers free estimates, uses modern tools, and provides unmatched customer care, look no further than Emergency Plumbing of Highland Park. We also service Northwest suburbs of Chicago IL. Your satisfaction is always our priority.

[thebibliosphere]

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[sitten1115]

I know landlords suck and all, but damn is there one thing i think they should have the right to do (as they dont, at least in New York state).

I think landlords should be allowed to say you cant smoke inside the apartment. Smoking inside just makes everything disgusting. It discolors the walls and the smell sinks in so you can’t really get rid of it (there’s paints designed to cover up the smoke smell, but thats literally just a cover up, not a way to get rid of the actual smoke smell from inside the walls) it makes all the carpets smell horrible, and it just leaves a residue on everything.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced to attend a charity gala for val, you and bucky navigate a new life in the spotlight. the only caveat is, he’s pining for you — and he’s pining hard.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: (post-tb*) bucky barnes x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light nsfw, very mild smut, friends to lovers, yearning bucky, confession of feelings, bucky is silly & charming, lots of fluff, heavy making out, neck kissing, sexual tension, body worship, light dry humping, groping & lots of touching, really sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this might be one of my favorite fics I’ve written lately ngl :’) I just adore a softer side to Bucky where he’s happy. If enough people like this fic, I have a part 2 planned! ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Frivolous events have never been your forte.

Thousands of crystals dangle from a gaudy chandelier, hanging high from a scaling ceiling in the middle of the ballroom. Light dances in luminescent refraction, spilling onto the pale marble below.

It’s mesmerizing, a worthwhile distraction that effectively silences the hum of conversation buzzing around you. Excitement blankets the air, teeming with business disguised as laughter.

In the space for reflection, you find yourself more discomforted by your dress than the atmosphere. Philanthropists, chairmen, politicians — it all felt exceedingly ‘larger-than-life’ for you.

The New Avengers Foundation Gala was the solution to a cut in funding Valentina had experienced in the wake of O.X.E Group’s dismantlement.

In the upper wings of the hall, were showrooms dedicated to the new mightiest heroes of a futuristic generation. It was all too polished, too modernized, too corporate — it was somewhat soulless, each of you washed down to a mere moniker.

Attendees, patrons, and donors alike were thoroughly engrossed with Valentina’s peacocking display — and the press loved it, too.

Banners hung from the rafters, bearing a glamour shot of each member of the team, all wearing new gear that held an exaggerated flair. It was strange, seeing your face plastered there — haunting, really.

Unfortunately for the team, you were all along for the ride; a tumultuous, unpredictable ride that left you feeling mildly uncomfortable.

It was as if you were living in a skin that didn’t belong to you, catering to people who saw you as an accessory, a curiosity.

Indigo silk barely touched the floor beneath you, off-the-shoulder sleeves accentuating your neckline as if you had something to show. The wardrobe wasn’t something you’d selected; Val chose it.

Constricted within your fabric coffin, you continued to marvel at the general splendor of the pavilion, cradling a half-drank glass of champagne.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnes’s eyes had followed you across the room for the past hour, his gaze disarmingly soft. It was to check in on you, he’d told himself, but it extended beyond that.

To any outsider, he resembled a man yearning for someone who didn’t have a clue, wistful and contemplative. Friends don’t look at one another in the way Bucky looks at you.

Discomfort rippled from you in waves, slithering like some fever over your skin, tugging at the corners of your thoughts.

Whenever you took a step, you felt as if you might collapse from the pressure, or simply from the balancing act on stilettos.

From afar, Bucky was deliberating going to you, noticing the way Valentina had swarmed in with calculated, measured steps. She was dangerous, even still; and he didn’t trust her with you.

“God, you do clean up nicely,” Valentina’s biting tone sank into you like teeth, spiking your nervous system. “You know, I started to think you might’ve been a little hopeless.” She chimes, champagne in-hand.

Swiveling, you’re faced with your boss, the corner of her mouth pulled into a half-smirk. After everything, you’re still wary of her, never fully bringing your guard down in the process.

“Thanks,” With a low mumble, you can’t quite decipher if she’s paying you a compliment or mocking you — maybe it’s somewhere in between. “I’m not used to this.” You confessed, fingers tense around your glass.

“You’ll have to work on your posture,” She chided, clicking her tongue with faux disapproval. “Looks bad in the pictures.”

It was all optics with her — a team of government rejects rebranded as the new face of heroism, rebuilding the legacy left behind by shoes too big to fill. Admittedly, she made you nervous; too sharp, too clever, a well-dressed viper.

Withholding the urge to retort with a quip of your own, you forced a smile, noticing photographers swimming in your peripheral like sharks.

“Turn around and give them a smile, yeah?” Valentina uttered, low enough for only you to hear. A hand fell flat against the back of your arm, turning you just in time to be bombarded by flashes of light and camera clicks.

With pearlescent teeth and a wolfish smile, she stood firmly beside you, guiding you through it. Your own smile was threadbare and pensive, as if it pained you to play along.

It all seemed scripted, rehearsed, fake. Everything lacked authenticity, and it grated on you through the photographs.

Bucky was already in-motion, weaving through the gathering crowd, departing a conversation with an investor mid-sentence. He wouldn’t call it a rescue mission, but he knew you, knew how anxious it made you.

His brief stint in Washington as a congressman afforded him time in the spotlight, pressed beneath mountains of questions and constant prying.

Quietly, he slipped in from the fringes, coming to stand beside you. Valentina noticed, but made no motion to dismiss him, allowing the press to make a frenzy of it all.

Vibranium graced the small of your back, a kiss of ice through the silk that clung to you, the gesture comforting. Realizing that Bucky had joined you, you began to relax, anchoring yourself to his presence.

When the cameras receded, the weight within your chest had lifted, replaced by relief as you turned to Bucky. “Thank you,” You murmured, appreciative. “Don’t go anywhere.” It was a soft plea, one that he heeded.

“Mr. Barnes,” Valentina spoke as if he’d irked her in some regard, polished nails tapping against her champagne glass. “Suit’s a little outdated, but we can work with that.” She remarked condescendingly.

Bucky huffed, hovering near your right side, one hand shoved into his pocket. “Yeah, well,” He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’m a little old-fashioned.” His own wry joke prompted him to smile.

With a snarky hum, Valentina dismissed his jest, peering over her shoulder as an older man approached, a New Avengers pin on his lapel. “Ah, Senator Locke. It’s a pleasure to have you at our little event.”

Involuntarily, you stayed close to Bucky, glued to his hip whenever the crowds grew thick. Even with his newfound status as an Avenger, many people still saw the Winter Soldier, a Soviet machine, capable of such destruction.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Ms. Fontaine. You’ve done excellent work, keeping Americans safe with the team you’ve assembled.” He chimed, gaze flickering toward you and Bucky; you, in particular.

“The safety and security of our citizens is our highest priority. The Avengers work with that at the forefront of their mission,” Smooth, calculated and completely fake. “Your contribution is appreciated.”

Bucky bristled, holding back a scoff as he attempted to maintain some level of cordiality. A majority of the people in-attendance held Valentina in some high regard.

Every syllable that dripped from Valentina was steeped by a facade of altruism — she was purely in this for personal gain.

Senator Locke glanced at you, perhaps for too long, prompting you to shift your weight. The stilettos dug into your heels, feet aching as you cleared your throat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. You’re certainly much prettier in-person than on a television screen.” Locke nodded, hand outstretched for a shake. Knowing that you’re left without options, you keep the gesture brief.

Through a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, Bucky bites his tongue, keeping himself in-check when the Senator brazenly remarks about your appearance. He was the essence of ire, stewing quietly beside you, digits clenched into his pocket.

“Oh,” It was all you could muster before Valentina shot you a pointed glare through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Senator. I suppose I wanted the world to see a new side of me.” God, it sounded so ridiculous.

“I would like to speak to you further about your involvement with the Avengers. Have you been to Washington?” He continued, and Valentina seemed poised to interject, capitalizing on the opportunity — in her own way.

“Senator, my team is incredibly busy with global threats and outreach efforts,” With another pensive, venomous smile, she tapped her now-empty glass. “Though, I’m certain she’d entertain a dance.”

The more he spoke, the more livid Bucky became, silently seething as he prepared for a scare tactic. He turned around, and one swipe of his phone had told him where Senator Locke’s address was.

As the proposition of a dance was placed into the open, you gawked, jaw unhinged as you closed your mouth. Unfortunately, you couldn’t object — you were playing the part, catering to strangers for funding.

Waved over by another gaggle of shareholders, Valentina hummed, heels clicking over polished marble. “Senator, if you’ll excuse me.”

As she departed, you were left with Locke and Bucky. However, Bucky had a scheme of his own, throwing on a charming smile, maliciously deceptive as he cleared his throat.

“So, about Washington …” Locke began, but not before Bucky could interject.

He leaned down, low and calculating, murmuring something indecipherable into the Senator’s ear. You couldn’t quite discern what was being exchanged between the two, but Locke’s face had turned as white as a sheet.

“I deeply apologize for the offense, M—Mr. Barnes, I …” As pale as a ghost, the man hastily nodded several times over, swallowing the lump within his throat before stepping away. “Pardon me.”

Bewildered, you watched in stunned silence as the Senator quickly retreated, weaving back through the sea of patrons to find Valentina.

It left you shocked, brows creased in confusion, craning to glance at Bucky with a hint of amusement. “What was that all about? You looked like you scared him into an early grave.” You mused, head cocked to one side.

A hint of smugness crept onto his features, turning to look at you, visibly playful. “Told him that I knew his address and how to track him.” Bucky chimed, gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

“Bucky, you didn’t!” With a conspiratorial gasp, you were swift to follow, abandoning your lukewarm glass of champagne on the table behind you. “How did you know where he lived, anyway?”

“Google.” Holding up his phone from the confines of his pocket, his tone held a charming lilt, more upbeat now that Locke and Valentina were gone.

Smooth jazz reverberated from the ballroom, a live band dresses in finely-tailored suits situated in one corner. There were plenty of people dancing already, a good place to assimilate and disappear from prying senators.

With a bubbly laugh, you slipped inside with him, heartbeat beginning to settle, anxiousness receding altogether. Having him by your side seemed to ease whatever discomfort you’d experienced before.

“Thank you for that,” A sigh of relief escaped you, hands twisting together, fingers locked before your navel. “I don’t like being here, and I don’t …” Trailing off, you felt Bucky’s gaze shift to you.

A tender stare settled over your countenance, openly admiring your beauty; it was involuntary, revolving around you as if you were the sun itself. “It’s alright.” He murmured, able to understand your frustration.

Pushing a tremulous exhale through your nose, you mustered up a smile, palm running over the underside of your forearm. “Sometimes I miss the way things were before we became Avengers.”

Valentina would’ve labeled you ungrateful, shaming you for being apprehensive at the opportunity presented to you. Maybe you should’ve been happy about it all, but the public light wasn’t for you.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, lips pulling into a half-smile, placating. “Me too.” Despite his short-lived career as a congressman, the current limelight made him miss it; just a little bit.

The friendship you formed with Bucky was meaningful to you, but some sliver wanted more, craved something else. It whispered between stolen glances, hands brushing but never firm, eyes following one another around a room.

Between rooms of shareholders, media, and senators, he was the prettiest thing here — the only thing interesting enough to keep you grounded.

Broad shoulders were accentuated by the fit of his blazer, white dress shirt complete with a bowtie; so handsome that it made you pause. Bucky was always attractive, but more so now, inches apart and smiling.

“Before he comes back, interested in a dance?” Bucky propositions, his question seemingly innocuous. He narrowly avoided dancing at a previous Congress gala, but this seemed as good a time as any.

Smitten, you attempt to swallow the twinge of nervousness that pools within your belly, still rubbing at your arm. “I might step on you, if that’s okay with you. These heels are killing me.”

Bucky chuckles, unperturbed by the idea of being stepped on mid-sway. “I think I can handle it.” He offers a hand, metallic palm shimmering beneath the crystalline glow, visibly reassuring.

Steeling yourself, flesh slips into icy metal, soothing the heat that’s made residence in your skin. Slowly, the both of you step out onto the ballroom floor, over sparkling tile, intermingling amongst the crowds.

Some time ago, he was somewhat adverse to touch — felt undeserving, felt as if he’d ruin something good. When your hand slipped into his, he found himself craving it, but only if it came from you.

There were plenty of fleeting moments; moments that still whispered from the recesses of his mind, bright spots slipping through the dark. You grounded him; you were a sanctuary.

A slow jazz ballad blankets the room, chandelier glistening overhead, idle chatter humming in the spaces between. Gently, Bucky’s hand finds your waist, digits slipping over satiny, azure fabric, the texture soft.

It was muscle memory for him, lamenting over memories from nearly a century ago; for you, it was somewhat awkward. Joined hands drift to your sides in a classic waltz, something slow and idle.

Baccarat Rouge 540 — it’s Bucky’s cologne, an amalgamation of woodsy scents, imbued with strains of amber and a spice of something floral. It’s rich, a smell that you commit to memory, being this close together.

As you slowly turn about the floor, you decide to shatter the silence, gaze fluttering toward the stubbled slope of his jaw. “You’re really good at this,” You muse, hushed. “Very smooth.”

A bemused huff escaped him, accompanied by a glint of pearlescent teeth. “It’s been a long time,” He confessed, keeping you close. “You haven’t stepped on me yet.” Bucky remarks teasingly.

“We just started, there’s still plenty of time,” Playful, you return his quip with one of your own, minding his feet as you shift to the right. “Hopefully Valentina isn’t upset about the Senator thing.”

“She’ll live,” Bucky murmured, still sore about the entire ordeal. She was vicious, calculating; there was always an ulterior motive with her, wreathed in shadows. “I don’t trust her with you.”

While you were flattered by his concern, you felt that you could handle yourself, despite the uncertainty. “I’ll be alright, Buck. I think she took advantage of my discomfort, that’s all.”

“That’s my point. She’s dangerous.” Through pinched brows, his gaze fell to you, wrought with something incendiary. He was protective over you for a multitude of reasons. “I want to keep you safe.”

His cadence softened to a gentle lull, one that filled your stomach with butterflies. The way he stared at you — it didn’t seem strictly platonic, but maybe you were reading into it too much.

“Thanks.” Little more than a mere whisper, you danced with him still, swaying to the melodramatic hum of the music. The both of you seemed to settle, enjoying the presence of one another; he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

The heel of your stiletto happened to wobble, but he was swift in steadying you, hand tight around your waist. “Easy,” Bucky murmured, a brief chuckle bubbling from his throat. “I’ve got you, doll.”

It was an innocuous nickname, sweet; Bucky had called you it only on a handful of occasions, and all of them were typically playful.

The way he said it this time almost held a weight to it, as if there were underlying implications.

“Still haven’t stepped on you,” Teasingly, you muster up a smile, one that makes Bucky’s heart stop. It’s accompanied by a flutter of lashes, a soft laugh, a gaze tender enough to melt through him. “Yet.”

Bucky huffed, giving you a look as he drew you closer, involuntarily. The distance between bodies had grown thin, breath hitching within your throat when you realized it.

Shy, your hand came to perch against his chest, digits brushing over his bowtie, throat stirring with a low hum. Silence settled in between, a tenuous pause full of unspoken feelings, thoughts left unsaid.

Through parted lips, Bucky decided to break the ice, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. Jazz continued to fill the ballroom with the croon of trumpets and gentle piano, the both of you waltzing in tentative steps.

“You look really beautiful.” Bucky murmured, swallowing the growing lump within his throat. It wasn’t often that he paid compliments like these, but his charm was still perfectly intact, albeit rusty.

He’d been on a handful of dates after the coding in his brain had been broken; none of them were fulfilling. There was a lack of true understanding, a baseless connection.

Until he met you, and he found himself fearful — you were something to lose. You left him feeling seen in ways he didn’t think possible, comfortable to be himself, just Bucky Barnes, the rawest iteration of his heart.

Flustered, you smiled at him, attempting to keep your heartbeat from teetering off of the edge. “Thank you, Buck,” Smiling still, you mustered the courage to look at him fully. “You … You look really handsome, too.”

Bucky chuckled as if you’d said something humorous, vibranium palm cold over yours, thumb lightly tracing your knuckles. “It’s the bowtie, isn’t it?” He mused, wisps of dark hair framing his countenance.

“Mm-hm,” Dimples formed at either corner of your mouth, gaze softening as he gently spun you around. “It ties everything together.” Your tongue-and-cheek joke almost made you cringe, nose wrinkling.

“Funny. Did you mean to make that joke?” He teases, and you feel heat warm your features, smitten as you look elsewhere. God, you were perfect — beautiful beyond comprehension.

“Accidental,” With a soft huff, you clear your throat, deciding to press the matter further and be serious. “Really, Bucky. You look wonderful.” The tender cadence of your tone had magnetized him.

“I don’t hold a candle to you,” Bucky utters, voice thick with a pleasant husk, one that itches at the back of your mind. “Nobody in here does.” It’s that soft admittance that makes you shiver from delight.

His eyes never leave you, and suddenly, everything feels too real, too close; the flush of his lips entice you, and you’re left wanting.

Stunned speechless, you quiet, stewing within the tension that brews between the both of you. It’s been simmering for months — part of you wondered when to let it snap, but you’re afraid of the consequences.

Bucky deliberates on what to do next, what to say; your mouth is dangerously close, lips parted, gaze innocuously doe-eyed. He’s imagined it often, what it might’ve been like to kiss you — and it’s always the sweetest fantasy.

“Bucky,” Words hang heavy within your throat, confession sizzling away like floating ash. There’s so much left unsaid — he knows it, and so do you. “Do you really mean that?” Serious, you let your voice hush.

The both of you have danced around the burning flame smoldering between you for a long while, now. It was beginning to reach out, take you both, and Bucky found himself preparing to take that plunge with enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” He says it softly, as if it’s reserved only for you, and he feels nervous. You make him want more, more than he ever thought possible. “I mean it, doll.” Bucky utters, and he’s a second away from bridging the gap.

In a room full of people, you’re comfortable enough to simply exist, fading into the background, and he fades with you.

It’s as if time slows, suspended in the moment — you want to live in it, blinking in sluggish flickers of your eyelashes. The erratic hum of your heartbeat sings a melody beneath your chest, hand absently clenching around his metal one.

He’s thinking of kissing you — any unsteadiness shifts into certainty, and the longer he stares at you, the more his resolve crumbles. Bucky tilts closer, enough for you to feel his breath feather over your mouth.

“Kiss me, Bucky.”

That’s all it takes — it’s his name on your tongue, spoken with such tenderness that he fears he’ll fall apart in front of you, unraveling.

A hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and he’s moving inward, lips a mere breadth apart. His mouth is almost on yours, disarmingly gentle, and then it’s all ripped away.

“Bucky!”

Congressman Gary’s voice pierces through the tension, deflating it entirely, and the tension slithers away into a state of dormancy. The music begins to come to a close, a sense of finality present as you recoil, features burning with heat.

When he realizes how close you were, he’s left frustrated, noticing that you’ve already receded. Soured, his gaze floats past your shoulder and toward Gary, who seems eager to speak with him.

The smile you give him is cordial, a kindly facade that does little to mask your true feelings. He can see it, lingering beneath your eyes — you’re disappointed, but you smother it anyway.

“Sorry about that.” Bucky mumbles a grousing apology, but you’re quick to dismiss it. He tries to turn on the practiced politician’s charm — but it falters when he thinks about kissing you.

“It’s okay,” Reassuring, you squeeze his metal hand and step away, allowing him space to speak with Gary. “I’m going to find Yelena.” You nod, and he’s reluctant to let you go, but he does anyway.

With a soft nod, Bucky watches you go, slipping away through the crowd in your indigo gown. He’s cursing himself, left sorely shattered in the wake of it all, his head swimming, thoughts scrambled entirely.

He doesn’t register whatever jargon Gary throws his way — something about shareholders, but Bucky is too preoccupied with watching you leave to care.

Your feet are killing you — a raw blister has rubbed into your heel, splitting skin, pangs of a dull ache shooting into your legs. As soon as you cross the threshold into the Watchtower, you’re discarding the stilettos, bare feet crossing over cold tile.

For the duration of the gala, you avoided Valentina, speaking cordially with those who approached, but it was exceedingly difficult.

Bucky hadn’t left your mind — he’d invaded it, a feverish haze that you didn’t want to escape from. The dance left you wrought with exhilaration, wondering if whatever you felt wasn’t misinterpreted like you thought.

The team disperses not long after arrival, a mutual exhaustion from an evening of prying eyes, camera flashes, and being brandished like a polished accessory.

In the inky gloom that pools through tinted window panes, moonlight catches over dark flooring, the night unobstructed by clouds. A pair of stilettos dangles from your hand, footsteps light as you stop to lean against the island.

Relief washes through you as you rock the balls of your feet against the tile, happy to be rid of your high-heels. It’s quiet — too quiet, save for the sound of footsteps behind you.

“Kicked the heels off quick.” Bucky’s timbre cuts through the hush, warm and amiable as he makes a round to the refrigerator.

His bowtie is loosened, first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, blazer draped in a pleated heap over one shoulder. The sight is devastatingly handsome, causing your breath to hitch within your throat.

“My feet are already thanking me,” You remark, leaning against the dark, polished granite. Bucky takes a swig of water, vibranium hand closed around a cool glass. “How was your talk with Gary?”

He was still feeling the stinging disappointment of not being able to kiss you at the gala. Bucky was attempting to discern how to broach the topic with you, or at the very least, come clean about how he felt.

It was easier said than done, wanting someone that he thought he was entirely undeserving of. The way you stared at him, leaned in, said his name — it was all he could think about, consuming every waking thought.

“Nothing important,” Bucky shrugs, ogling you from over the rim of his glass. “Could’ve sent a text.” He muses, body jostling with a soft scoff.

“Oh.” You hum, your tone sounding somewhat awkward. Whatever happened at the gala was something you were desperate to talk about, addressing unspoken feelings.

That’s all you can muster, a meager ‘oh’ as you fumble about. Swallowing the lump within your throat, a gap of silence settles between, thick with a cloud of tension.

Bucky deliberates, still clutching onto his glass as if it’s anchoring him to reality. It begins to splinter beneath the pressure of vibranium.

“Well, I … I think I’m going to go change and lay down. I’m eager to get out of this dress,” Sheepishly, you shuffle around the island and slowly begin to make your way towards the corridor. “Goodnight, Buck.”

As you awkwardly make for the mouth of the hallway, Bucky calmly places his glass into the sink, bristling with a newfound determination. He makes the choice to go after you, finish what began at the gala.

With measured strides, he’s following after you. He watched you leave once already tonight without kissing you — he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“Wait.” He stops you, a gentle palm on your waist, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled want. “You’re gonna run off on me like that, doll?”

Listening to the pace behind you climb in intensity, you whirl around, nearly colliding into Bucky as he plants a chaste kiss against your mouth.

It’s disarming, but fleeting, brief — he’s wading into your waters. “Bucky, what …” You whisper, doe-eyed and awestruck.

Exhilarated and breathless, you’re stunned when his stubbled mouth fans over yours, and the contact is too hurried, too hasty. Yet, he burns your lips with the kiss, and you’re left wanting more.

“I should’ve done that sooner.” He confesses, tone dropping to a warm timbre that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. Your breath hitches, gaze wide-eyed and wanton.

“You should’ve.” Breathless, you concur, lashes fluttering as they kiss the skin beneath your eyes. Fingers tense around the backs of your stilettos, and you’re waiting.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, blue eyes burning as he peers down at you — azure dress, dazzling eyes, taking his breath away.

He exhales; the sound is sharp, poignant, excited — his gaze traces over your countenance, across delicate features and the curve of your mouth.

His body is close, chests nearly brushing, hand still hovering around your waist. “May I?” Bucky’s tone softens, a humming purr that makes your knees wobble.

“Please, Buck.” Lips parted, and you’re careening up on your toes to meet him halfway. He dips down, mouth clamoring for yours, lips brushing in a heated swarm.

Stifling a gasp, your hand drops your stilettos as if they’re a meaningless thing, listening to them clatter against the tile. They both gather against his chest, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Passion bleeds through his lips, certain and steady, vibranium hand shifting to cup your jaw. You shiver from the contact, icy metal sweeping over burning skin, other hand holding your hips.

It’s fireworks — months of pining, of dancing around smothered feelings, only to explode to the surface. Satisfaction ripples through you, a warm elation that curls around your bones.

Wisps of brunette tickle your cheeks, his hair soft as it brushes over your face. The pleasant scratch of his beard grounds you, a reminder that all of this is real, visceral — not a fantasy.

There’s a lull in the kiss as you draw away, chest constricting with soft, excitable sighs. “I’ve been waiting on you, Bucky Barnes.” You whisper, unable to keep yourself from beaming, teeth and all.

“Wish I got the hint,” Bucky grumbles, his metal thumb circling over the soft flesh beneath your jaw, pressing a kiss to your crown. “You’re beautiful.” He murmurs, appreciative as he cups your face.

“I wasn’t very good at dropping hints,” The softness of your confession pulls a chuckle from him, arm still caging you against his body. “I just — You’re incredible, Bucky.” Your words come as a surprise, but aren’t unwanted.

A rosy pallor clings to his features, slipping beneath his beard as he plants another kiss to your forehead, gaze warm as it follows the curve of your mouth. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart.” He admires your sentiment, nonetheless.

“I know,” Insistent, you gently tap his chest, fingertips hovering above his collarbone. “I know that I adore you just the way you are.” Affection curled within your tone, sweet and tender.

Bucky paused, a slow smile spreading over his features, lashes fluttering a time or two. There was something raw about the way he stared at you, as if you were the thing he lived for, breathed for.

A comfortable bout of silence slipped between, his hand still stroking over your jaw, fingertips circling your cheekbone. “I think you’re perfect.” He stated, as if it were fact.

A hitch formed within your throat, taken aback by the sincerity of his words. His stare never wavered, exceedingly soft as you coaxed him in for another kiss; and he didn’t protest.

It was soft, wrought with ardor, something that stole every wisp of air from your lungs. Bucky only craved your touch — you were what he wanted, everything he wanted.

Physical intimacy wasn’t something he’d experienced for years; between HYDRA, the ice, scrambled memories, on the run … It never allowed him time to let it sink in, that he could be desirable.

The way your hands caressed over his chest pulled a low grunt from his mouth, lost within entangled lips as he reciprocated.

“Do you …” Murmuring against his mouth, Bucky stilled, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Do you want to come to my room?” You asked, insides stirring with butterflies.

A brief pause settled between the two of you, the idea being turned over within his mind. The implications were there — what you wanted, what he wanted.

“I’ll follow you, doll.” Bucky murmured, cadence low and warm as it curled around you, eliciting a brief shiver. His vibranium hand smoothed over the small of your back, and he stooped to retrieve your shoes, too.

Hushed, the both of you strolled for your room, at the very end of the main level. It was a corridor you shared with Bob and Ava, typically quiet with minimal disturbances.

The rhythm of your heart had kicked into a gallop, slamming beneath your breast as you traipsed barefoot over cold tile, Bucky sticking close to your side.

He was smiling, and so were you; anticipation hung heavy, a subtle expectancy that you were eager to entertain. As you came up to your door, you pressed the button, letting it open with a soft hiss.

The room you’d concocted for yourself was home — warm and comely, surrounded by all facets of your personality, vibrant with color. It was very lived-in, bed partially made, items scattered over your vanity.

Bucky had been inside a handful of times, drinking in the details when he slipped inside behind you. He placed your stilettos down, pacing forward with a tender gaze.

“Always thought you had a knack for decorating,” He teased, cadence disarmingly gentle, little more than a soft husk. “Smells good in here, too.” It’s all you — floral scents, sweeter aromas that he’s associated with you.

“It’s a mess of colors,” You muse, nose wrinkling as he moves to sit down on the edge of your bed, forearms resting against his knees. “It’s the honeycomb lavender scent, if you’re interested.”

Bucky chuckles, flashing a glimpse of pearlescent teeth, canting his head to one side. “Yeah?” He muses, gaze boring into you like fire, melting right through you with ease.

“Mm-hm, I can get you a bottle.” Playful, you step closer, lingering within arm’s reach. Being around him like this still feels surreal, as if reality hasn’t fully settled in.

Gently, he reaches for your hand, coaxing you closer until you’re standing in-between his legs. “Might take you up on that.” He utters, palms settling over your hips, thumbs tracing circles over your dress.

Soft fingertips shift to caress over his hairline, carding into brunette tresses. It pulls a low, content sigh from his lips, mouth still upturned into a light smile, gaze tracing across your figure.

He holds you tightly when you dip down to kiss him, lips flush, colliding in a passionate kiss. Hands trace reverently along your sides, and you shiver beneath the gentle contact.

Metal fingertips find the zipper at the middle of your spine, hesitant; he looks to you for consent, and you’re quick to nod.

“Let me.” In a hushed tone, you gently tug at your dress, unraveling azure fabric from your body. Bucky unzips you with care, dragging it down until it kisses the small of your back.

The dress piles in a heap at your feet, leaving you in your undergarments, eliciting a sigh from his mouth. He appraises you with rapture, metal palm akin to a touch of ice to your hip.

“You’re gorgeous.” Bucky huffs, mesmerized and awestruck as he coaxes you into his lap. Your knees come to squeeze at either side of his hips, sweet breath feathering over his face.

“Thanks,” Flustered, you accept his compliment without protest, hands loosely gathering over the bowtie that he’s partially undone. “So are you.”

He cracks a smile, a brief chuckle splitting through his chest as he plants a kiss to your jaw. “Hm,” He hums, low and content, hands caressing over your hips. “You mind if I …”

“You don’t have to ask, Buck.” Through fluttering lashes and another dizzying, pretty smile, he leans forward to kiss you, mouths connecting in a flurry of passion. He’s tender, but not excessively so.

Mouths mold together, his stubble scraping over your maw, a reminder that this is all real. Your breath hitches, excitement pooling within your belly.

His kiss makes your legs quiver, fingers gingerly shifting towards the buttons still holding his dress shirt together.

Digits tense over his sternum, each action marked by a gentle affection that Bucky craves. His hands leave your hips, moving to tug his bowtie off, encouraging you to remove his shirt.

It’s sluggish, meant to savor — he’s still kissing you even as you’re untethering each button, pushing the white fabric off of him.

Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. He finds a purpose with you; something clean, something gentle.

A flicker of nervousness stirs within him; he hasn’t had something like this in decades. You’re something sacred, something to lose, and he looks at you like you’re the sun, as if he hasn’t felt warmth in years.

He’s still in a white, sleeveless undershirt, material stretched snugly over his burly musculature. The silvery glint of dog-tags sparkles beneath the dim lighting of your bedroom.

A tangle of now-faded scars sits at the divide where vibranium kisses flesh, drawing your gaze there, oozing with empathy.

Lips collide, and collide again — a tangle of heat and brewing desire. He kisses you as if you might slip right through his fingers, stopping only to let his mouth press over your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, feeling his hand settle over your hip, the other slipping to stroke over your ribs. Metal smooths across your body, caressing until he cups your breast.

Soft fingertips trace over his chest, moving to gently grasp at the nape of his neck, threading over his hair. He continues to lavish your neck in sweet, lingering kisses, kneading at your clothed chest.

Desire pulls at the fringes of your mind, creeping in like some haze. His mouth peppers a trail, from beneath your jaw to your collar, and back up again. He repeats it a time or two, stroking your hip.

His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin.

One of your palms settles over his vibranium bicep, firm and icy underneath your flesh. Bucky shudders as if it’s a phantom sensation, lips parting with surprise.

Your embrace is fearless, and you touch his arm as if it’s just that, just him; not an instrument of destruction like he used to believe. His mouth finds yours again, bleeding passion.

Quiet, he grips you tightly before standing, ensuring that one of your legs settles over his hip. Bucky moves you back into your pillows, pressed further into the mattress, lips still joined.

He settles between your legs, pulling a soft moan from your mouth, noses brushing over one another. Your hand idly drags along his metal forearm, the other gliding beneath his undershirt, feeling along his abdomen.

Your fingertips are like kisses of silk — affectionate, tender, and delicate. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, as if he were something to covet, someone worth loving.

Coming to rest on either side of him, your knees idly squeeze at his ribs, hand continuing to ascend. Bucky indulges you, using one arm to tug off his undershirt, dog-tags dangling toward your collar.

Something incendiary resides within his gaze, warm and smoldering intermingled with adoration. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.

With a soft sigh, you’re turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. His mouth is ceaseless, constant — you’re lost within his lips.

The warm flesh of his hand returns to knead at your breast, rolling over flesh, tingles of bliss shooting through your body.

Bodies bump together, flush; Bucky shivers when your hips seem to grind against his own, producing a friction that nearly shatters his resolve. He wants to; he thinks about it often.

He’s deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if you’re the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments.

Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten. He moves toward your throat again, dipping further until he finds your collarbone.

“Bucky,” Another low, pleading moan ripples through your chest, a sound that he’s desperate to hear more of. “Bucky, please.” You sigh, satisfied and yearning for more.

There’s a moment of him continuing — metal fingers fisting into the sheets, walking the fine line of restraint. Desire rages between the both of you like a burning wildfire.

Again, he lavishes kisses over your chest, trailing towards the soft juncture between your shoulder and throat. After leaving his mark there, he finds your mouth once more, and kisses hard.

Reciprocating, the heat of entangled mouths lasts for what feels like a lifetime; it’s like fireworks dancing in your belly, nerves electrified, and you’re soaring, floating.

It slows to a crawl when he draws away, settled comfortably between your thighs. “I want to do this the right way.” He drawls, hot breath feathering over your visage.

“What’s wrong?” Thinking it was something to do with you, the sudden pause in your heated proclivities struck you as concerning.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bucky doesn’t stray far, still hovering above you, propped up on one arm. The other moves to cup your jaw, warm and soothing. “You deserve a first date before all of this.” He muses, a twinkle in his eye.

Relieved, you can’t help but smile, flustered and completely enamored with him. “For a second, I thought I’d scared you off.” You murmur, sweet and playful as you trace your fingers over his chest.

“Not in the slightest,” He utters, and for a second, he looks razed. “You’ve got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart?” Bucky’s tone drops to a husky purr, and it makes your head spin.

“I have an inkling,” Through an excitable sigh, you relax when his lips press against your jaw, lingering and affectionate. “You might have to show me.”

Bucky huffs, gaze somewhat half-lidded, eclipsed by both ardor and desire. You can tell he wants you, but he wants to show a little chivalry; it’s ridiculously attractive.

“I want to show you, believe me,” He assures, lips still climbing over your cheek, sealing beside the corner of your mouth. “I want to take you out first, that’s all.”

“When are you taking me out?” You muse, lips still tugged into a smile. The fact that he cares enough for this means the world to you, and to him.

Bucky couldn’t recall the last time he’d really taken a girl out, and meant it. The look on your face was enchanting, full of mirth and delight as you caressed his collarbone.

“After recon in Kaunas,” He chuckles, moving to lay down beside you. Still, he doesn’t go anywhere, drawing you right into the warmth of his chest, hand holding tightly to your hip. “Gives me time to figure out how to impress you.”

The laughter that tumbled from your lips made him feel alive; it got a faint smile out of him, mouth crinkling at either corner. “You don’t need to impress me,” You assure. “I just want to be with you.”

With a nonplussed hum, his brows furrowed together, chest falling as he exhaled. “You’re perfect,” Bucky murmured, planting a kiss against your crown. “Me too, doll.”

Exhaustion began to creep up, and you were too tired to throw your pajamas on, comfortably curled into his side. He continued to caress from your hip to your spine, his breathing evening out.

“Don’t go anywhere, Buck.” Through a soft whisper, your tone is fringed with grogginess, as if you’re actively staving off sleep. He huffs, with no intention of leaving you anytime soon; or forever, if you wanted that.

“I’m not,” He presses a kiss against your forehead when you begin to succumb to sleep, lightly tugging your sheets around your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[sigmabottomfacts]

this is just one of my weird control freak things but i must say i dislike when my cunt smells different after i get fucked. like in theory it's erotic but in practice once the dick is gone i'm like... its gone sis i wanna smell like myself again

[alexiroflife]

"you can smile?!"

crack, fluff, yuji & megumi <3

kento nanami x reader

Synopsis: you're a no-nonsense woman with a thick, rigid exterior... of course, until your husband shows up

to sum it up: yuji can't comprehend the shift in your aura when nanami comes around

WC: 931

Warning(s): none

"(Y/n) sensei sure is scary, huh?"

Itadori cups a hand over his mouth to whisper to Megumi, watching wearily as you stand afar with your hands on your hips and phone to your ear, surveying your surroundings coldly for the mission you have been sent to supervise with the boys.

"You think so?" Megumi asks tiredly, following Yuji's gaze.

"Duh! I mean, look at her!" the pink-haired vessel hisses. "She's always so serious."

Just then you throw a piercing glare their way over your shoulder, thoroughly irritated by Gojo's voice yapping nonsense to you over the phone as he explains that Yaga has sent another colleague en route to your location.

Yuji shivers, horrified that your glare is directed toward him and Fushiguro when in reality you are staring harshly in no particular direction. Something Gojo says on the call makes you suddenly twitch with anger, and you're barking nonsense into the speaker furiously as the strongest sorcerer chuckles in amusement on the other end before hanging up.

Megumi sweatdrops. "In her defense, anyone would react like that talking to that idiot."

"No, but she's on another level. It always feels like she's two seconds away from snapping!"

You tuck your phone into your pocket with a harsh sigh and pinched brows, making your way back over to the boys with that everpresent sternness in your mannerisms. Yuji pulls away from Megumi, straightening his hands at his sides. "Alright you two, sit tight," you speak firmly. "Another sorcerer is on their way."

"Yes ma'am!" Yuji straightens himself and solutes, Megumi rolling his eyes.

"Why do we need another sorcerer here?" the spiky haired teen asks.

"There may have been a miscalculation of the overall case's severity. They're sending someone else for backup to handle a different task in the same location while we focus on ours," you explain stiffly, tense eyes scattering over the seemingly empty high school for any further strange activity.

"Oh. Who's coming, then?"

As soon as the question leaves Itadori's mouth, you see your blonde-haired, well-dressed spouse step into view from afar. The three of you look over, finding Nanami swiftly approaching.

"Oh, hey! It's Nanami!" Yuji stretches out his arm to wave. "NANAMI! OVER HERE!"

"Stop yelling," Megumi scolds.

Kento shakes his head when he arrives, stepping close to your side. "I could already see you when I was walking over, Itadori," he says stiffly.

Itadori huffs, imagining that this mission will be twice as stressful now that the world's most formal sorcerer is accompanying you, the human embodiment of sincere grit, but when he looks back up at you, the tightness in your face has completely melted away when you look over at your husband.

The said man turns to you, hand meeting your lower back gently as he leans in to kiss your cheek softly. "Hello, sweetheart," he greets affectionately, and you... smile?? Your eyes soften and your cheeks warm, mannerisms completely shifting into those of a love-stricken schoolgirl under Nanami's gaze, making you look almost unrecognizable.

"Hi, honey," you say sweetly, the usual surliness in your intimidating tone nowhere to be found. Nanami's lips curl up slightly, a gentle smile gracing his face.

Yuji's jaw hits the floor and Megumi scrunches his nose in confusion, watching the two of you gaze at each other.

"WH-" Yuji stammers, pointing an accusing finger at you. "WHAT WAS THAT?"

You turn to look at the boy and sigh, hand connecting with your hip again as you raise a brow, normal demeanor slightly returning. "What are you talking about, Yuji?"

"Just then! You- You looked happy!" he shouts. "And you can smile?! NANAMI, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!"

"Shut up, Itadori," Megum warns again harshly, and you snort.

"Do I not look like a person who can feel joy?"

The boy's eyes dart between you, Nanami's hand still resting on your back as the two of you stare at him with blank faces, the brief intimacy of your shared moment having vanished.

Megumi butts in as Itadori's brain fries itself attempting to understand what he's looking at. "I don't think you want him to answer that question."

"I wasn't aware that you've never seen (Y/n) and I greet each other," Nanami says curtly.

"I mean- no I haven't?!" Yuji exclaims. "I knew you were married, but I just figured you two showed affection by shaking hands!"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just because we take our jobs seriously doesn't mean we're robots," Kento says, in fact, very robotically.

Yuji grips his hair in torment, his shock rendering him speechless and unsure of how to process the situation.

You roll your eyes, turning over your shoulder to walk in the direction of the school's entrance. "Come on, you two. Enough dawdling, we have work to do," you direct sternly.

Your blonde partner follows close beside you, guiding you by your waist and looking down at you to say something the boys can't hear while you walk ahead. Your shoulders jump with a soft giggle, a sound completely foreign to the first years' ears. Yuji reels.

"Hurry up, you two!" you call out, tone once again, firm.

Itadori stands still with his back slumped and his brain scrambled, staring ahead quizzically. Megumi glances at him and scoffs an amused breath, slapping his hand on his back and walking forward. "Let's go."

Itadori jerks and looks up, baffled. "Huh? Megumi, don't tell me you think this is normal!"

"It's fine, you'll get over it."

"But I can't! I feel like the world's been thrown off balance!"

"You're so dramatic."