#train car inspired

[killstiles]

Master Bedroom Huge elegant master carpeted and beige floor bedroom photo with blue walls

[silverdgolden]

DINO-TRAINS || REXY THE LARGE ANIMAL CAR

“Well howdy! Welcome, to the Jurassic Yard!”

This cheerful animal car may be old, but she’s aged like a fine wine and she KNOWS it. Though her days of racing and fighting are long gone, she now works as the yard master and resident tour guide, showing new trains around the Jurassic Yard with the same enthusiasm she had since day one! Despite her friendly demeanor, this truck still packs a powerful punch in a fight and can take down an engine! The wiring on her skirt crackles with a harsh electrical charge, her legs still strong and perfect for a kick in the head, though her most deadly weapon is a fortified jaw with razor sharp teeth that can bite clean through steel beams! She’s not force to be reckoned with if you’re on her bad side, best stay on her good side, or her and her… exotic, pets may just show up on your stoop!

-

Rexy is a design that has existed for about two years now, and with this new line of dino trains I’m making I figured why not bring back a classic! Based on the ever iconic Tyrannosaurus Rex from the Jurassic Park/World franchise, this train is a love letter to the older designs of the trains along with the original Jurassic Park film. Her skirt and general design is meant to resemble the Jeep Wranglers seen within the original film that take the characters right up to the T.Rex enclosure. The large wired-poles attached to her belt are inspired by the electric fences around the T.Rex paddock, seen snapping by the claws of the giant. With a classic explorer hat and bright amber eyes, what’s not to love about this train! There’s also some Easter eggs in her design for those who know the film well!!!

-

P.S. I already have some Dino trains planned, but if there’s any dinosaurs you would like to request be turned into trains, either put them in my requests or tag me or whatever! I’ll give you a hint for the next Dino-Train: The LONGEST carnivore to ever roam the earth…

[sanchoyoscribbles]

magical girl who works as a junior mechanic in her grandpas garage and is studying for her license, the whole series would be about her teaching safe driving concepts and fighting monsters that embody bad habits like road rage, tailgaiting and not using ur turn signals 🛑

[always-a-king-or-queen]

As a boy king in Narnia, Edmund Pevensie once swore privately to the stars that should his siblings ever die in battle, he would die with them. Protecting them to the end, so their fear might be lessened by the thought that they weren’t alone. 

But irony would have it that the bloodshed of war did not bring about their end, but rather a train built of steel and glass, hurtling from its tracks onto the greenery of a steep English hillside.  

Edmund does not forget the promise he made so long ago, in another world he can no longer access. He remembers that promise in his final moments, as the train flips and rolls and flings him and his siblings like rag dolls. He feels it burning deep in his heart, feels the stars smiling somewhere in the distant past as he wraps his arms around Lucy and Peter and shuts his eyes a final time. 

Only a few minutes before the derailment, the three of them sit in an otherwise empty train compartment, silent and each occupied by their own thoughts. Edmund is gazing out the window at the flashing scenery when he gets the sensation that something is horribly wrong. 

There is a faint tingling that crawls suddenly up and down his spine, chilling him to the bone, and he sucks in a breath, eyes going glassy as the scenery blurs outside the window. For a moment he is back in Narnia, standing by Peter’s side, hair windswept and helmet tucked beneath one arm as he surveys the battlefield before them. He can almost see the army sprinting towards them over the lush grass, can almost hear the roars and yowls and screeches from both sides, can almost smell the tang of unspilled blood. His sword is nearly tangible in his fingers, heavy in his grip, the engraved hilt cold and familiar against his palms. 

The tingling against his spine swells into a roaring pressure, and Edmund is pulled roughly from the battlefields of his memory, jolting back into the present with violence. This feeling– this horrible, gut-wrenching, bone-crushing feeling that grips his throat and lungs– this is how he felt before his first battle against the Witch and her army. A sense of impending doom, scraping against his teeth with aggression and burning his heart; he knows it all too well. 

Edmund swallows again, missing the distant weight of his sword in his hands as he fully returns to himself. The train is shuddering slightly as they advance along the track, English countryside flashing by outside the windows. Next to him, Lucy hums the haunting melody of a dryad, idly sketching daisies in a blank page of her journal; across from Edmund, Peter flicks through a newspaper, brow furrowed with an intensity Edmund well recognizes from his brother’s days as High King. They are alone in the carriage, the rest of their traveling group crammed into a different car, and for the briefest, most traitorous of moments, it almost feels like their old days, just the four of them. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, together against the world. 

But Susan is no longer with them, and these are not their old days, and something is terribly wrong. 

“Pete.” Edmund keeps his voice even-keeled as always, and his brother doesn’t look up from his paper, simply answering with a distant “Hmmm?” that Edmund knows well enough to translate that he isn’t fully listening. Lucy, on the other hand, flicks her gaze towards Edmund, eyes bright and curious as always as she tips her head. Edmund doesn’t meet her questioning stare. If he dared to, she would read his face in an instant, and he doesn’t want to scare her without necessity. 

But then, he reminds himself with a self-directed scoff and a shake of his head, her title was Valiant. 

It will take more than his current fears to scare her. 

So Edmund pushes away his misgivings and tries again. “Pete,” he says a second time, louder than before. 

This time there must have been an edge to his voice, a sharpness that he’s rarely allowed to frame his words since his days as a bully. Peter looks up from his paper, seeming suddenly to recall that this was the tone Edmund always used in times of peril, and instantly recognizes the expression on Edmund’s face. Calm and controlled, but with an undercurrent of panic flickering at the edges. Panic that was not befitting of a king of Narnia, but that Edmund sometimes couldn’t keep from slipping onto his face in the early days. After all, he had only been a boy then, a boy king in a strange world. Now they are back in their own world, but it is foreign to them, and sometimes he is afraid.  

A touch to his arm. Lucy is leaning towards him, face earnest and undaunted. 

“You sense something, don’t you, Ed?” she asks him simply, and his final facade crumbles. 

He nods wordlessly, hands gripping the flaking leather seat of the train car. 

Peter moves to sit beside him, and Lucy watches them both, waiting. Edmund glances towards her. “Lu,” he says quietly, and reaches for her hand. She takes his willingly, her fingers squeezing his own, and he half-smiles, his other arm stretching towards Peter. 

The High King grasps his brother’s hand firmly, and Edmund exhales, his heart soothed by the wordless reassurance of his siblings. 

“I don’t know quite what is going to happen,” he tells them softly, voice gentle as a winter snowfall and soft as a shaft of sunlight in the western woods. “But something is coming.” 

He sees Lucy the Valiant swallow, her fingers trembling just slightly in his, and Peter the Magnificent lifts his chin, cold fear burning in his eyes. 

Edmund grips their hands tighter. 

“I won’t let anything happen,” he says fiercely. “To either of you.” 

It is a vain promise, but they cannot peer into the future. They cannot foresee the grinding, twisting metal and searing flames that await them, mere moments ahead. And so his siblings simply smile at him and scoot a little bit closer, holding his promise close and silently vowing to do the same for him. Peter sits tall and straight, his shoulder pressed against Edmund’s, and Lucy leans her head on his shoulder, her journal forgotten.

Edmund is just beginning to think that perhaps he was wrong when there is a deafening, thunderous screech from the front of the train, a grinding cacophony of clashing metal.  

The sound of the world ending. 

In the same instant, Lucy and Peter’s hands are ripped from Edmund’s with a feral violence. “Ed!” Lucy screams, thrown backwards against the wall of the car. Peter slams his head into the roof and slumps unconscious to the floor, and the car bucks wildly, windows shattering and spitting out shards of broken glass. 

Edmund tumbles head over heels as the train flips and rolls in its derailment, crashing into Lucy and Peter again and again as they each come dangerously close to being thrown from the broken windows, yet somehow escaping each time. He catches snatches of broken screams filtering from other cars, desperate and agonized, and swiftly pieces together that they have mere moments before the end.  

Lucy slams into Edmund again, hair askew as she scrabbles to grab hold of something, and Edmund wraps an arm around her, stopping her tumble midair. His other hand closes around the now-empty frame of a window, briefly anchoring them both, and the train slows suddenly in its maddening descent. Edmund has the distant thought that perhaps that is not mere coincidence, because the train seems to be rolling almost in slow motion, shards of glass flying past their faces as if in a dream. 

Peter, still unconscious with blood dripping down his forehead, tumbles over to Edmund and Lucy’s feet, faster than the train is currently moving, and Edmund makes a swift calculation. 

“Get down,” he says softly to Lucy, releasing her. She drops into a crouch next to Peter, and Edmund kneels beside her, taking a final look at the train car as it rotates with an almost magical slowness, allowing them to have a last moment together. 

Seconds. They have seconds left. He doesn’t know quite why he’s certain of that, but he is. 

Lucy has flattened herself against Peter, weeping softly and whispering with the irrationality of grief, “Wake up,” and Edmund wraps his arms over both of them and closes his eyes, hugging his siblings tightly with all the love he was never able to articulate aloud. 

“Goodbye,” he whispers, though peace fills his heart as light begins to glow through his closed eyelids. “I’ll see you both soon.” 

Lucy's hand finds his and squeezes it tight.

The train flips a final time, and glass and metal explode in a deafening burst of fire, smearing the sky in clouds of ash and smoke. A lion’s roar echoes briefly in the flames of the wreckage.

And somewhere, in a realm flooded with golden light, the Pevensies open their eyes.

[hehe-hoho-ohno]

I've decided to put Two Car Train (fusion AU) on indefinite hiatus. It already was, since I hadn't updated it in like... three years...

But since I'm officially throwing in the towel, I'm posting a chapter I already had prewritten. The very first thing I ever wrote for this AU. We had about two more chapters to go before we got here, but those will never be written, so you'll just have to imagine it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39933720/chapters/167853754

Thank you to anyone who has enjoyed Two Car Train or supported me! Sorry for not giving it the ending it deserved.

[green-planets]

Vert Wheelieboy sketches (featuring Power Rage)

[wonderful-magician]

Two pearls from the original London production!!! I changed their designs a bit to be more matching to the rest but I just liked them. They're both separate from Pearl so they need names !!! But I haven't been able to think of any 💔 GRRR

The pearl on the left is probably older, potentially retired ? But she is up kept (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠) she doesn't appear at the yard often but she's obv considered rather beautiful despite her years of service.

And the pearl on the right is younger, not working yet. Still being trained for her job!! The bunny is a comfort item. But she keeps it at her shed. She's also slightly cross eyed. But she's not very embarrassed about it. ( This isn't based on anything, I just drew it and liked it hehe )

[hplonesomeart]

Debated if I wanted to post this yesterday night (for some extra Halloween points) or hold off until the opportunity to color it arrived, but I’ve kinda picked up other art related things and don’t want to ruin the lineart on this sooooo….it’s probably going to remain a sketch forever lol. Just seems fitting to me this way! It was actually meant to be a redraw/reimagining of an older Halloween art piece featuring same original character (being Chloe The Lazypaw—an A Hat In Time themed character of mine). But I changed around the pose and the scenery for funsies!! >:3

[ladystormcrow]

1,7,16

Summarize the fic in 3-5 sentences.

Christine brings Erik out of the lair with her and Raoul, which leads to a series of events that results in the three of them fleeing France together. They end up going to Sweden to search for Christine's family, all the while bonding and learning to trust each other and (eventually) falling in love as a throuple. But someone connected to Erik's past in Persia is still after him, and sooner or later, the trio and their allies will have to face him in a final showdown.

7. Share your favorite joke/gag (if applicable).

At one point, Christine had both the men shaking with laughter as she shared a short but very funny story from a summer she’d spent in Le Havre, when she’d found herself mobbed by seagulls while eating sweet rolls on the pier, and had thrown the rolls off the pier in desperation, only to have them land in a boat full of rich holidaymakers out for a pleasure cruise (which quickly turned less pleasurable when the gulls descended on them). 

16. What are some fandom-specific selling points you think would entice other fans the most?

There still isn't a ton of E/C/R content out there (though that's definitely changing), so that in itself is a major selling point. The phandom also seems to love angst, smut, angsty smut, and detailed historical research, and Trio Sonata offers all of that :)

[teh-nos]

this morning i started writing a thorki au and it has already committed the following sins: modern au; thor & loki not being related; blue-collar thor while loki is posh. but i don't care because the whole concept is stupid and tailored to my very specific demands and there is as ever a good chance i will never make any real progress on it anyway. ha ha. ha haha. so there.

[variouspositions1984]

if ur autism is telling you to go into a field related to your new hyperfixation DO NOT LISTEN ‼️ that is NOT your autism that is THE DEVIL speaking ‼️

[yeats-infection]

this happened today

[istherewifiinhell]

idk really what to make when creators from the western half of the tf Franchise Conglomerate are like. were doing something japanese inspired as homage to tfs being japanese. well one cause its results is a lot samurais, ninjas and kabuki makeup. and two. cause its like. man. those things are just over there. about like half of all tf shows are animes and yeah. they will make a ronin or ninja from time to time! also a tanuki 10/10 no notes this is a heinrich stan account.

but also third. how are you forgetting about the TRAINS??? go make some fucking bullet train bots again. u dweebs. indulge for a second in the idea of high speedrail.

[fatherjohnmistake]

sue me

clark kent x wayne! reader

summary: after a nasty breakup, you find your name plastered on the front page of the daily planet, courtesy of no other than your ex, clark kent. warnings/tags: female reader, angst, slight smut (mdni), make-up sex except clark gets blue balled, kitchen scene inspired (aka dry-humping), sub! clark if you squint, battinson sister, maybe a little ooc in terms of the dc universe but suspend belief for me, inaccurate descriptions of legal processes, reader is lowkey tortured (she gets it from her brother), em dashes but i just love using them sorry, very loosely based on sue me by audrey hobert, happy-ending!!! wc: 3.2k words

Billionaire Heiress Flees Gotham Amidst Flood

The headline flashes in your face as your friend shoves the latest edition of the Daily Planet at you.

Ever since you were a kid, your actions have been carefully scrutinized by the public. Your birth was commemorated with a special edition of the Gotham Gazette. When you were 17, you got into your first wreck, and despite your pleas to Bruce for help, you became tabloid fodder for The Inquisitor. It's safe to say you've developed tough skin. Especially now with your brother out of the public eye, you're low-hanging fruit for the press.

But this time it was different. As your eyes scanned the byline, wondering which of your usual critics you could owe thanks to, your breath suddenly hitches in your throat.

Clark Kent.

It's been nearly two months since you ended things with Clark. You had met at Wayne Enterprises' annual New Year's Eve charity gala—one of the rare events where your brother would make a public appearance. This also meant that the Gotham Museum would not only be swarmed with pretentious benefactors but also scrappy reporters itching for a quote. You hated both, but you had to keep up appearances.

It was nearly midnight, and the party was still in full swing. You spent the last couple of hours dodging reporters with half-truths and shooting fake smiles at billionaire donors. You needed a moment alone, away from the social climbers, the opportunistic tabloid writers, and the unremarkable men trying to woo you with the promise of a New Year's kiss. Bleh.

Quietly, you slipped away to the rooftop. Looking over your shoulder constantly to make sure no one was following you. The cold air hit you like a knife. It's sharp, but you don't mind—you liked remembering that you're human. You made your way through the fake turf and obnoxiously bright fairy lights toward the ledge of the roof. You paused to take in the Gotham skyline.

You thought about how much this skyline had changed since you were a kid. You thought about the trips to your parents' loft in the city center whenever they had business that they knew would take a while. The ride over in the car, as your parents had to stop you and Bruce from killing each other. Your favorite was when your parents finally had a moment to themselves. They would take you and Bruce out on the balcony and point out the different buildings that littered the sky. Many of the ones that you had known when you were younger no longer stare back at you today. You weren't sure when you started crying, but you knew when you stopped.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping from there."

Your head shot back to look at who was speaking, and in the process, your heel caught on the train of your gown. Suddenly, you're falling face-first toward the ground. But you never hit the floor.

You found yourself being hoisted up by a big pair of arms. For a second, you thought it was your brother. You looked up and were instead greeted by piercing blue eyes staring at you through black-rimmed glasses. He was tall, very tall, but not intimidatingly so. He flashed you a nervous smile, and you watched as the dimples formed in his cheeks. He was cute. A cold breeze passed between you two, making you realize how close you actually were to him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, letting out a soft chuckle.

"It's alright. Luckily, I had my knight in shining armor to save me," you said, lightly punching his bicep. You cringed at yourself; you were still a little bit drunk. You changed the subject, "So you're a reporter, right?"

He looked at you, dumbstruck. "How'd you know?"

"I mean, the place is swarming with either donors or reporters, and your off-the-rack suit and crooked frames tell me that you're not one of the former. So, who are you with? The Inquisitor?" Your last question had more bite to it than you intended.

"Ouch. No, I'm with The Daily Planet." He reached out his hand and flashed you a crooked half smile. "Clark Kent."

You stared at him for a second and watched how the moonlight lit up his face as a curl hung perfectly over his forehead, swaying ever-so slightly in the breeze. You swore that even in the cold, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, like he was the sun.

"I know you." You took his hand and shook it, trying to ignore the warmth rising in your chest the longer your bodies made contact. "You're always on the front page with a new Superman article. I hope you know that scoring exclusives with your super buddy doesn't mean that you'll be able to get one with me."

"Oh, yeah. I sort of expected that, but I'm not here to report on you."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"I'm working on a piece on LuthorCorp. Lex Luthor is funding one of your major donors here tonight, and I'm just following the money." His gaze softened as he leaned in a little closer, "Besides, I told my editor that the Wayne siblings liked to fly under the radar. Y'know, I learned a bit from my pal Superman about respecting privacy."

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by a chorus of cheers. It was midnight.

You looked up innocently at Clark. "Hey, I've got a question for you, Mr. Reporter."

"Mhm," he hummed.

"D'ya got a girlfriend?"

He nearly choked on his spit as he tried to utter a simple, "No."

Smiling, you pulled him in closer by his collar and whispered into his mouth, "So, no one would mind if I did this?"

You closed the distance with your lips and waited for him to reciprocate. You felt his body ease into yours, lips moving in tandem. Your fingers snaked into his hair as his right hand cupped your cheek while his left hand made its way down to the small of your back.

You pulled away first. His once gelled hair was now a tousled mess of curls upon his head. The ghost of your red lipstick faintly lingered upon his lips. You smiled at the sight. "Happy New Year's, Clark."

After that night, you two were practically inseparable. Your apartment in Metropolis, which was once furnished with just the bare necessities, became filled with mementos of Clark. The street art you commented on in passing on a walk one day with Clark? He surprised you with it that weekend at dinner. The time you refused to let Clark visit because you didn't want to give him the flu? The weighted teddy bear and heated blanket he left in a care basket outside your door still live on your bed. When the newest season of Great British Bake-off dropped, and you were obsessed with honing your baking skills? Clark saved up to surprise you with an all-new stand mixer in your favorite color for Christmas.

But it wasn't the gifts that won you over. It was the thought and love that Clark put into them. You were used to receiving gifts from men in your past, but they tried to impress you with things they assumed you wanted. Jewelry, art, cars, whatever they thought fit the Wayne image, but it wasn't you. Clark, however, saw past your last name, and you loved him for it.

That's why that night hurt so much. You were sprawled out on the couch in a Smallville High School sweatshirt, many sizes too big for you. Anxiously, your eyes darted back and forth from the door to your phone. It had been three hours since Clark said he would come over, and he was still nowhere to be seen. No text, no call, nothing. He had begun to make it a habit of no-showing and cancelling at the last minute, but you always took him back. He would show up at your door the next morning with flowers and coffee, flashing his big puppy dog eyes at you. Each time, you folded.

But you could only take so much. In the year that you dated, you felt yourself grow closer to him than anyone else in your life, while also growing farther and farther apart. Your abandonment issues could only take so much, and Clark knew that. Yet, despite all your pleas for honesty, he never budged. You knew something had to give.

The next morning, when he inevitably showed up with flowers and your coffee made just right, you let him in without a word. Not looking him in the eye as you broke his heart.

"Clark, I can't do this anymore. You say you love me, but you don't show it. At least, not anymore." You can't look at his face, but from the way his body tenses, you can imagine his expression. Your voice started to quiver, "I love you. So much. But I need stability. I need someone who I know won't leave me like my parents did, like so many people have."

"Darling, c'mon," he pleaded.

"Clark, I'm serious," you said, avoiding his gaze. You could almost hear the tears as they welled in his eyes.

"I owe you an explanation. Please just let me give you that much," he desperately cut through your words.

"Clark, if I let you do that, then I'm just gonna end up taking you back, and I can't let that happen. Not this time. I can't hurt myself anymore. I'm sorry."

Clark didn't fight back, although a little part of you wished he did. He accepted defeat and choked out, "I'm so sorry, love," as he made his way out the door.

And so there you were, alone, wearing Clark's sweatshirt, in your apartment full of memories of what once was.

Now you were in that same apartment, mementos of Clark shoved in a box in your closet, as you clenched the latest edition of The Daily Planet in your hands. Memories and feelings that you were trying to bury for the past two months threaten to resurface.

"This article is such a cry for attention, I mean, what happened to journalism?! You should sue him," your friend says bluntly.

You blink at her.

"I mean for slander, or libel, or whatever the print version is. Maybe throw in a little defamation for good measure."

"I couldn't do that to Clark," you push back.

"Oh, god," your friend groans, "have you FORGOTTEN what that man put you through the last couple of months of your relationship. Shall I pull out the notes app list I made, recording every time that he stood you up?"

"No, no," you said, swatting her phone away. "I don't know, it feels way too harsh, and we're currently going no contact anyway."

"In case you don't remember, you're the one enforcing no contact. Loverboy has been calling, emailing, texting, carrier-pigeoning you nonstop since the breakup." Your friend lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just get one of your arsenal of lawyers to serve him!"

You don't say anything. You just shoot her a look and move on, but the conversation sticks with you. You sit in your bed that night, looking around your room, and the memory of Clark still lingers. The Mighty Crabjoys poster hung above your record player? It came with the record that Clark got you as a consolation gift for missing the concert he had given you tickets to. The Lego flowers sat neatly upon your nightstand? You and Clark built them together during a date night at your place after he flaked on going to the movies the night before. The half-empty perfume bottle collecting dust on your vanity? Clark had gotten it for you after an awful fight about his unreliability. He said it was so you would always have a reminder that he was with you, even when he wasn't. Even in his worst moments, he still managed to be the most thoughtful man alive. It infuriated you.

So, you took your friend's advice. You spent the week in Gotham consulting with your lawyers and ignoring the wary looks Bruce gave you. After a week of endless meetings and "well, maybe I shouldn't"s, the lawsuit was ready to be filed, and you had the honor of serving it.

That's how you end up outside the door of Clark Kent's apartment on a Friday evening. You can hear the faint sound of pots rattling as he cooks along to a recipe video on full volume. You remember all of the times you would yell at him to turn down the volume because "surely you can hear it just fine with the volume just halfway up." But you weren't there to scold him anymore.

You hold your breath and close your eyes as you hold out your hand to knock, when all of a sudden the door swings open. You were face-to-face with Clark.

"Hi," you let out breathlessly, like all the air was suddenly squeezed out of your lungs. You always let your guard down around him, even when you hate him.

"Hi," he says back, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

You're brought back to reality. Clearing your throat, you tell him, "I'm suing you. You've been served," as you hand him the stack of papers.

He gives you a small smile. "Do you want to come in?"

"Clark, I'm suing you. Can you give me any hint of a reaction? Please—"

Clark drags you inside anyway.

"Clark, are YOU crazy? I'm leaving right now, and you should be glad I don't add a kidnapping charge to your case. God, you're insufferable." You're on your way out when you're stopped in your tracks.

"I'm Superman." He says bluntly, but there's a sincerity in his voice that stops you from laughing in his face. The same inflection that Bruce had when he finally came clean to you about Batman.

The air in the room is heavy as you turn to look at him. His face lit up in the moonlight the same way as it was that first night you had met him, except this time his glasses were off, and suddenly, you understood.

Clark makes his way toward you as you drop your hand from the door handle. He stops two feet away, his eyes begging for you to close the distance. So, you do.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can't bear the thought of you getting away again. Leaning down in your ear, he whispers, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was so caught up in the idea that I was protecting you that I didn't realize I was hurting you until it was too late. I haven't been able to forgive myself since."

His breath is hot against your skin. Your hand is on his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat. He's a nervous mess. Superman is a nervous mess. All because of you.

You move his chin so you're looking each other in the eye. "Is that why you wrote that article, Clark?"

"Yes." A blush forms on his cheeks. "I know you enough to know that you probably didn't realize that the salacious headline didn't match the way I defended your character in the actual article. I know you would want to find a way to hurt me the way I hurt you. I knew you wouldn't have spoken to me any other way."

You're stunned. All you can do is make a slight "oh" sound with your mouth.

Clark continues, "I'm sorry, love. I know it doesn't change the past, but—"

It was your turn to cut him off as you shut him up with a kiss. It's angry, aggressive, and passionate. It's everything you've been feeling for the past two months being released in one moment.

It doesn't take long for you and Clark to return to a familiar rhythm. His lips rest on yours, and he bites your bottom lip in a way that makes your knees weak. His tongue makes its way into your mouth as he tastes you for the first time in months, letting out a soft moan against your lips.

Your hands are in his hair, it's all so messy and so primal. The harder that he bites, the harder that you pull his hair. Strands of black curls threaten to escape from your fist. Your free hand rests on his chest, as you feel the way his breathing goes up and down, up and down. He puts his hand on yours and brings it down as he traces your curves.

When he reaches your ass, Clark lifts you up without breaking the kiss and walks you over to his kitchen counter before setting you down. You pull away for a second and just take him in. His curls are a dark mess on his head as they stick out every which way. His eyes are glazed over with a mixture of love and lust. His face is flushed with sweat, though you can't tell if it's his or yours. He looks beautiful like this.

Your lips crash onto his, and he bucks into you. His grey sweatpants do little to hide how hard he's getting, and you thank him for it.

"Clark—fuck," you moan breathlessly.

You grind yourself onto him, desperate for something you've been starved of for so long. You feel his cock twitch through his sweats, and memories of him pounding into you with his huge cock flood back. You remember thinking he was going to split you in half as he had you an overstimulated, dirty mess, and now you knew why.

His back arches as he tries to close the distance even more, letting out soft grunts in your ear; they're only for you to hear. Your hand snakes its way up underneath his shirt, feeling your way up his abs. He sighs happily at the sensation, immediately taking off his shirt.

Slowly, you begin to kiss your way down his neck, not caring how rough you are. You know he can take it. "My perfect boy. My gorgeous, gorgeous boy. My Superman," you moan out in between kisses.

Clark's a mess next to you. Your hand moves from his chest down to his waistband. He shivers and moans your name as you pull on his sweatpants.

"Missed me so much, you're a mess, and I've barely even touched you." Your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers as you feel his abs flexing with every breath.

"Gonna make me cum right here if you keep teasing me like that," Clark moans into your mouth.

"Is that a promise?" you ask innocently as your hand slides down into his boxers.

"Yes, baby, oh—"

BEEEEEEEEEP

Your heads shoot up toward the smoke alarm going off, then down to the smoking, charred concoction now sitting on Clark's pan. You can't help but laugh.

"Aren't you supposed to have like heightened senses or something?"

"Well, I was a little distracted," he said, gesturing to you while running to fan the smoke away from the alarm.

And that's how you found yourself in Clark Kent's apartment on a Saturday morning, wearing his high school sweatshirt, calling your lawyers to throw out the lawsuit while Clark made you breakfast.

a/n ahhh i hope you guys enjoyed this!! it's the first fic i've written in a while tbh i usually use this account for lurking LOL, so any feedback would be awesome!! let me know if you guys like wayne! reader <3

[rosesaints]

most wanted man.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you’re living at the watchtower, allegedly saving the world, definitely dodging yelena's increasingly nosy questions about your whereabouts, your skincare glow, and why bucky keeps “accidentally” leaving behind shirts in your shared apartment. she hasn’t cracked it yet, but she’s circling—muttering in russian, offering suspiciously specific threats, and watching you like you’re the main character in a rom-com that she didn’t agree to binge. word count: 7.4k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, handjob (m!receiving), car sex, public sex, kind of feral bucky, sloppy make-out sesh ftw, bucky barnes whines agenda, holding your jaw, nipple play, dirty talk, praise, spanking, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!bucky towards the end, soft dom!reader in the beginning, bucky manhandles you, basically picks you up (as much as possible in a tight car), switch supremacy, riding, dirty talk, protected sex, mild brat taming, getting caught series masterlist!

The thing about living with Yelena is—well. 

There’s a lot of things, actually. Too many things, some might say. Too many things that, when combined, form a singular and inescapable truth: she is the human equivalent of a raccoon raised in the Red Room and then forcibly recruited into yet another murder band with really solid branding.

For starters, she eats like she thinks the concept of refrigeration is a government conspiracy. This is not hyperbole. 

This is a woman who once stored an entire tuna melt on her nightstand “for later” and then forgot about it for three days. She doesn’t snack so much as she hoards, nesting bags of chips and half-eaten protein bars in her duvet like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter. You’ve lost three forks, two mugs, and a perfectly good wedge of brie to her culinary black hole of a room. 

She calls it “keeping morale high.” You call it biohazardous.

And then there’s the commentary. 

Yelena does not go silently into any domestic routine. She narrates everything, usually in the third person, often with the aggressive flair of a Russian Gordon Ramsay who may or may not be about to burn the place down for "fun." Cooking becomes a high-stakes battle. “We chop onion. We cry. Like weaklings. Like the British.” 

Even brushing her teeth becomes some kind of militant monologue: “We polish enamel. We protect gum line. We prepare for battle.”

But the worst thing about Yelena—the thing that haunts you, the thing that makes you contemplate faking your own death just to escape—is how she inserts herself into your business like she’s been hired by Valentina to audit your emotional stability.

It started small. 

A lingering glance. A muttered “Hmm.” But then she started doing rounds. Like, actual patrols. 

She memorized your schedule—your schedule, which even you don’t know most days—and began clocking inconsistencies like she was training to be your paranoid grandmother. Which, in fairness, she probably already was in a past life.

“You are acting suspicious,” she says one night, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

You freeze mid-sip of your tea, which you were using in a vain attempt to lower your cortisol levels. “I literally just got back from training.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, chewing thoughtfully, “but who were you training with? And why do you smell like peppermint and sandalwood? That is not your usual body wash.”

Jesus, Yelena.

You lie. You say Ava. Or maybe it was Walker. 

Someone harmless. Someone whose jawline does not inspire feral decisions. But Yelena is already narrowing her eyes in a way that suggests she is not only not buying it, but has also started a folder on you labeled “Case Study: Dumb Bitch in Denial.”

To be fair—yes, you have been sneaking out a bit. 

Taking the long hallway detour to Bucky’s office. Slipping into maintenance closets when the cameras flicker, like a horny teenager in an Avengers-branded adaptation of Pretty Little Liars. 

And yes, maybe your skin has looked better lately. The kind of better that usually implies someone else’s hands have been on it. 

And maybe you’ve been humming. Humming. You don’t hum. You barely speak. You’re emotionally constipated and have the range of a well-dressed houseplant when it comes to processing affection. But ever since you and Bucky started whatever-this-is—quiet, combustible, behind-closed-doors soft things—you’ve been glowing.

You didn’t notice until Yelena did.

“Your lips,” she says, squinting at you across the living room like a sniper. “They are… flushed.”

You blink. “I… drank tea.”

“No. No, this is not ‘tea’ lips. This is ‘makeout’ lips. This is ‘I was pressed against wall for twenty minutes’ lips.”

You nearly drop your laptop. “What—why are you analyzing my lips?”

“Your shirt is on backwards. You think I do not notice this? I am assassin. I was trained in pattern recognition before I had baby teeth.”

Your hand flies instinctively to your collar. Fuck.

“You’ve been compromised,” she says gravely. “And I will find out who it is.”

That’s the other thing about Yelena. She doesn’t let things go. She once spent two weeks trying to track down who used the last of her cinnamon oatmeal packets. The culprit turned out to be Walker. Yelena retaliated by putting a dead fish in his air vents with a note that said “Justice.”

So now, you live in constant fear. Constant awareness. You are your own personal counterintelligence operation. You wash your sheets at weird hours. You delete texts like you’re in a spy movie. You and Bucky have perfected the art of the silent nod across mission briefings, which is very romantic in theory and very suspicious in practice.

The only reason you’re not already exposed is because Bucky, in all his war-ravaged, sad-eyed glory, is a professional. 

The kind who can disassemble a rifle blindfolded, lie to a senator without blinking, and apparently conceal a full-blown romantic entanglement under the very noses of four other elite operatives and one former Russian assassin who has made it her personal mission to uncover your secrets.

He calls it courting. Earnestly. Like he’s in a Jane Austen novel. 

You think it’s endearing, the way he says it so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, I’m courting you. Why else would I be fixing the carburetor on your bike and leaving your favorite tea in the cabinet?”

Meanwhile, Yelena is convinced this is all part of some elaborate domestic conspiracy. 

“He is nesting,” she told you once, tone grave, arms crossed, fully dressed in camo pajama pants and a Hello Kitty-themed crop top. “He is nesting and preening. Like a bird. A bird who has found a mate.”

You had laughed. Mistake number one.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I do not recognize courtship behavior when I see it? He shined his boots last night. At two in the morning. While humming 'Dream A Little Dream of Me’ That is not normal behavior.”

To her credit, it was suspicious. 

Bucky also doesn’t hum. At most, he grunts. Occasionally sighs like someone in a World War II-era cigarette ad.

But lately?

Lately, he’s been a little… brighter. 

In a subtle, grumpy, “please don’t perceive me” kind of way. He drinks his coffee slower in the mornings. Keeps extra protein bars in his pocket like he’s waiting for a chance to hand you one. Walks a little too close when you’re on missions, always on your left side, like it’s muscle memory. 

Once, you caught him folding your laundry—folding it—like a man with a mortgage and a dog and a Sunday morning routine that involves jazz records and quiet domestic bliss.

It’s terrifying.

You don’t bring it up. 

Not when he presses your knuckles to his mouth before you head out for recon. Not when he kisses your forehead in the elevator and then stands three feet away the second the doors open, arms crossed like he’s never touched you in his life. Not even when he starts wearing cologne again—light, warm, expensive-smelling—and swears he’s just “trying something new.”

(He’s not.)

Yelena knows something is up. 

But Bucky is nothing if not disciplined. He can fake normalcy like it’s his job—because it was his job, once. And when he walks into the common area like he hasn’t just kissed you breathless in the weapons bay, nobody questions a thing.

“Are you seriously accusing me of dating Bucky?” you asked.

“Your ears are pink,” she says. “Means you’re lying.”

“Maybe I’m just warm,” you snap, elbow-deep in the cabinet pretending to look for the chia seeds you both know expired six months ago and that neither of you have ever used. “Because you keep interrogating me like I’m under oath.”

Yelena leans against the counter. “You are under oath. You are New Avenger. You live in Watchtower now. Shared housing. Shared responsibilities. Shared secrets.”

“That’s not how this works,” you mutter, but it’s too late—she’s already in full spiral mode.

Her eyes narrow. “I bet he wears dog tags. That’s why you’ve been lingering by the laundry chute. Looking wistful. Like wife in war movie. You think I do not see this?”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, abandoning the chia seed charade entirely and grabbing the first bag of stale pretzels you can find. “You need a hobby. Like embroidery. Or ketamine.”

“You know I cannot take up embroidery,” she sniffs, folding her arms with all the judgment of a Victorian ghost. “My hands are too calloused from killing.”

“Exactly my point,” you mutter, already backing out of the kitchen before she can hit you with another round of, ‘tell me which of your t-shirts now smells like man who definitely owns a motorcycle and a deeply tragic past.’

You retreat into your room and shut the door. Not slam it—that would be dramatic, and drama invites follow-ups, which you can’t afford. Not when your nerves are already strung tighter than the drawstring of Alexei's tactical sweatpants.

You sit on your bed, cross-legged, staring at your phone like it just wronged you personally. Which, honestly, it kind of has. It holds all the receipts—literal and emotional—and you’re half a scroll away from fully self-sabotaging. Again.

Still, your fingers drift toward your messages like you’re possessed. Like there’s a magnet in your thumbs and he’s the center of gravity.

You open the chat you’ve kept pinned for weeks. James Buchanan Barnes. No emojis, no nickname. Too obvious. Too dangerous. Too soft.

You type:

hey. u busy tonight?

You watch the little dot-dot-dot bubble appear faster than you expect, like he’s already on his phone, already thinking about you. You pretend that doesn’t make your stomach flip over.

No. What’s up?

was thinking movie? maybe that vintage theatre on 8th? something loud and action-y with too many explosions?

You picking the movie now? Bold of you.I’ll come by at 7.

You smile—grin, actually—and then immediately check yourself. Because if Yelena sees the grin, she will smell the grin, and the bloodbath that follows will be entirely your fault.

But still. You can’t help it. Because Bucky doesn’t just text like he cares—he texts like he already knows where you are, where you’ll be, and he’s not just showing up, he’s choosing to.

You glance at the clock. 6:12 p.m.

You text back:

bring your hoodie. the gray one. i’m stealing it.

He replies almost instantly.

Then I’m wearing something else. Can’t have you luring me in just to rob me blind.

You stifle your laugh into your pillow.

And outside your door, Yelena says through the thin wood with terrifying calm:

“…You’re giggling.”

You fling the pillow at the door with the force of a woman being hunted for sport. “I’m watching a TikTok!”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Is TikTok man also 108 years old and emotionally stunted?”

You groan. And text Bucky again.

new plan. fake our deaths. flee the country. start a goat farm in denmark.

Sounds peaceful. Pack your things. I’ll bring snacks.

You smile again. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.

But it’s yours. For now. For tonight. And maybe, if you’re careful—if you’re quiet—it can stay that way a little longer.

.

By the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’ve changed shirts twice, scrubbed concealer off your chin three separate times because it wasn’t settling right, and snapped at Yelena for daring to suggest you “chill.” Which is rich, coming from a woman who once threw a knife at a mosquito.

“I am chill,” you’d hissed, eyes bloodshot from mascara-related rage.

Yelena had just raised a brow and calmly returned to slicing an apple in the most violent, vertical way imaginable. “If that’s what we’re calling this now, then sure. You are chill. Like freezer meat. Cold and full of tension.”

She had not blinked once during the entire sentence.

Now, you’re pacing in the lobby of the Watchtower like a 1950s housewife waiting for her sailor husband to return from sea—if said housewife was also secretly armed and contemplating the logistics of a little kiss in front of several surveillance cameras and Valentina's favorite vending machine.

The ding of the elevator saves you from your spiraling.

And there he is.

Wearing that hoodie. The gray one. The one that smells like cedarwood soap and, unfairly, his new cologne. His hair’s pulled back into a loose knot, which means you’ll be thinking about his neck for the next several days, and his hands are shoved into his pockets like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here or if this is all some weird fever dream conjured by too much emotional growth.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry I’m late. Alexei stopped me to ask if I’ve ever seen Fast & Furious. I told him I lived through World War II. That seemed to confuse him.”

You snort. Loudly. You can’t help it. He looks good. Like really good. Like you might actually explode from how good.

“I like that you wore the hoodie,” you say casually.

Bucky gives a soft, knowing huff. “You said you were gonna steal it.”

“And I will. Just not yet. That’s how crime works. It’s about the long game.”

“Ah,” he says, and steps a little closer. Just enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re playing the long con. I’ll keep my eye on you.”

You hum. “You always do.”

And that—that gets him. A flicker in his gaze, like you’ve reached into his chest and plucked a string that hasn’t been played in years.

You walk beside him, shoulder to shoulder, down the corridor toward the basement (Because of course he offered to drive you both there. Just normal courtship things.)

You glance over at him while he’s not looking, which is stupid, because he catches you doing it, and you both spend the next fifteen seconds pretending to be very, very interested in a wall.

And then, because your chest is still fluttery and your thoughts are ricocheting off each other like marbles in a tin can, you say, “This is kind of a date, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just gives you this slow, assessing look like he’s not sure you meant to say that out loud but he’s not going to let you take it back.

“Is that okay?” he asks, and God—his voice. It’s too soft for someone who once jumped off a plane with a metal arm and a death wish.

“Yeah,” you say, and then a little quieter: “I kind of hoped it was.”

He exhales, and it feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding for a long, long time.

By the time you arrive, the sky’s a bruised lavender and the city’s beginning to blur into itself—just warm lights and strangers and the thrill of getting to be someone normal, even just for a night. 

You don’t touch in the theater, not really, but your pinkies brush once on the armrest and neither of you move away.

He keeps glancing over during the trailers. You pretend not to notice. You are failing at pretending not to notice.

About halfway through the movie—some retro explosion-fest with muscle cars and quippy dialogue—Bucky leans over and murmurs, “You ever think about what it’d be like? If things were different?”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the screen. “All the time.”

He nods. Doesn’t speak again until the credits roll.

.

The ride after the movie is quiet in the way that matters—no tension, no fidgeting, no pressure to fill the silence. Just the engine hum of Bucky’s ancient, well-kept vintage Chevy Caprice Classic purring down the long stretch of road skirting the edge of the river, the windows cracked enough to let the warm summer night in.

You’ve kicked off your shoes. Your bare feet are propped on the dashboard, toes catching the wind as it blows through the window. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t tease, just occasionally glances over, like the sight of you there—tired, content, glowing under the streetlights—is a detail he wants to memorize.

There’s something playing low on the radio. 

The kind of music that doesn't ask to be noticed. The kind you feel in your chest before you recognize it. Some folk-rock track he said reminded him of childhood. It’s mostly soft guitar and a voice that strains a little, rough around the edges. 

Like Bucky himself, in a way.

You’re half turned in your seat, knees tucked toward him now, body loose and drowsy from the movie and the soda and the way he drove out of the city like he wanted to keep the night going just a little longer. Just the two of you, headlights carving out a path in the dark.

“Didn’t think you’d actually be free,” you say eventually, voice low and soft against the static buzz of the speakers.

The city lights slip past the windows in blurs of orange and white. Bucky keeps his eyes on the road, fingers loose on the wheel, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker of amusement he tries to smother and fails.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You shrug, adjusting the seatbelt that’s pressing into your collarbone. “Yelena’s been watching me like I’m some kind of long-con puzzle box. She's been grilling me because she suspects something.”

Bucky glances over. “She always suspects something.”

“Yeah, but this is different. She keeps giving me these looks. The kind where her eyebrows do that thing—you know the thing. The judgment arch.”

“I know the thing,” He laughs under his breath, almost fond. “She interrogated me once. Full eye contact. No blinking. Had a protein bar in one hand and a knife in the other. I told her we were just friends. She said I looked guilty and walked off muttering in Russian.”

“She’s not wrong,” you murmur. “You do look guilty.”

Bucky glances at you then, briefly, and there’s something tender in it. Something quiet and unspoken that makes your breath catch.

“You ever gonna tell her?” he asks.

You shrug again, watching the way his hand rests lazily on the wheel. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like if I tell her, it makes it real. Like we have to explain it to the world or something. What this is.”

Bucky is quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Do you not want it to be real?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I do. I—God, Bucky, I do.”

And it comes out sharper than you mean it to. Raw. Open.

You breathe in, steadying yourself. “I just… didn’t expect it. Us.”

He nods, the lights from passing lampposts dragging across his face in quiet intervals. “Me neither.”

The conversation dips again. Not into silence, but into stillness. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from either of you. You drive past a bridge lit up gold and pale blue, and Bucky takes a left without saying anything, veering off onto a side road that winds through the trees.

He doesn’t ask if it’s okay. You don’t need him to.

You know where he’s going. There’s a little overlook near the riverbank. He parked there once after a mission when you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t talk much that night—just sat on the hood of his car with his jacket slung over your shoulders, watching the ripples in the dark water and letting the space between you breathe.

That was probably when it started for you.

Not the affection. That came later. But the noticing.

You noticed the way he always offered you the front seat. Not because of some outdated gender rule, but because he liked knowing you were close, where he could see you.

You noticed how he remembered the smallest details—that you don’t like popcorn with butter, that certain elevator music makes you anxious, that you hate being touched when you’re overwhelmed but that sometimes, when things are quiet, you lean into him like you need the weight of another person just to feel solid again.

And Bucky—he noticed you back.

He noticed the way you never let anyone else carry your gear, even if you were limping. The way you took your tea, always too sweet. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t looking—like you were trying to memorize him just in case.

It wasn’t some grand, all-at-once romance. No slow-motion montage or chance meeting. It was just like a familiarity that grew roots. Soft moments in between moments of chaos. Shared silence in smokey rooms. His hand brushing your shoulder in the hallway. You handing him a granola bar mid-mission without asking. Late nights watching reruns of old sitcoms he missed out on and never talking about the fact that you’d started falling asleep on his chest.

So no, you didn’t see it coming.

But it’s here now.

And it’s real.

The car slows to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires. You’re at the overlook. Trees arch overhead like a cathedral, and the river reflects the starlight in soft ribbons of silver and blue. Bucky puts the car in park and lets the engine idle for a second, then turns it off.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him, watching his profile in the dark. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth. The steady breath.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” you say, almost too quietly.

Bucky looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you haven’t yet,” he says simply. “And trust me… I’ve been waiting for someone to ruin me for a long time. If it was gonna be you, it would’ve happened by now.”

You laugh a little. Just a breath. “That’s comforting, in a weird way.”

“I can be weirdly comforting.”

“You’re also kind of weirdly beautiful in this lighting,” you murmur.

He huffs a breath. “Don’t start with me.”

“I’m serious.”

You reach out without thinking, fingertips brushing over his hand, the one still resting on the gearshift. His skin is warm. He turns his hand under yours, lets your fingers tangle.

“I don’t need a label,” you say softly. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you. The way you look at me sometimes like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

“Even if I am,” you whisper, “I think I’d still want to be yours.”

His thumb drags across your knuckle.

And then, so quiet it feels like a prayer, “I’m yours.”

It hits like a wave, and you lean forward before you even fully realize it. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rising to your cheek like it’s instinct. The kiss is full of worship. He tastes like peppermint and something older, something steadier—like all the pieces of him that have survived everything.

When you pull back, he’s still holding your face.

You look at each other for a long time.

And then he exhales. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, dizzy with it. “So are you.”

“No,” he says. “Not like this.”

You shake your head, leaning in again, resting your forehead against his.

“Let’s ruin each other super carefully, then,” you whisper.

And in the soft dark, beneath the quiet hush of river water and trees swaying in the breeze, Bucky smiles. Really smiles.

.

It’s a little after midnight when you finally pull into the Watchtower’s underground garage, the low hum of the engine tapering off into silence as Bucky turns the key and the lights shut down with a mechanical click. You’re both bathed in the amber glow of one overhead bulb, flickering slightly, like even the building itself knows something’s shifted.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him. 

He’s staring straight ahead, hand still resting on the steering wheel, jaw set like he’s trying very hard not to think about the way you kissed him forty minutes ago. The way you looked at him like you could see through all the years, all the damage, all the armor.

You shift in your seat, just slightly. The air inside the car feels too thick now. Like it’s trying to hold something in.

“I don’t really wanna go upstairs yet,” you say quietly.

He turns to you slowly, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, it’ll startle the moment away.

“No?” His voice is soft.

You shake your head. “Feels like… if I go up there, it'll just go back to being complicated.”

The corners of his mouth tug faintly. “It was already complicated.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But it was ours. Down here, in this car, it’s just… you and me.”

That gets him. He exhales—sharp, quiet—and leans back in the seat, tilting his head against the headrest. “I know this shouldn’t be happening.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, eyes tracking the shape of his throat, the slight movement as he swallows. “But you’re still here.”

He doesn’t argue.

You reach for him before you fully make the decision to, your hand slipping over his where it rests on his thigh. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. Just turns his palm up, lets your fingers fit between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. It feels terrifyingly natural.

“Do you ever wish it was simpler?" you ask.

“All the time,” he murmurs. “But then you say things like… ‘I still want to be yours,’ and suddenly I don’t care if it’s complicated. I just don’t want to stop hearing you say shit like that.”

You look up at him. “You like when I get sappy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I like when you stop pretending you don’t feel this just as much as I do.”

You try to speak, but it catches—whatever it is you were about to say, it burns too hot and too true in your throat.

Instead, you murmur, “Can I be close to you?”

His expression softens, eyes going molten at the edges. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He shifts then, turns in his seat so he’s facing you fully, one arm draped across the back of yours. There’s a beat of silence. Just you and him and the soft buzz of the garage light.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, and you do—you climb into his lap with the ease of someone who’s done it in a hundred dreams and only just now been given permission. His arms go around your waist like muscle memory. Your knees bracket his hips and the center of you settles onto him like a promise, and suddenly you’re aware of every inch of where your bodies meet.

You settle into his lap like drawing out the moment might make it last longer—like you can stretch this pocket of time between responsibility and reality into something suspended. His hands find their place on your waist without hesitation, fingers splayed wide and warm through the fabric of your shirt. You feel him everywhere. Beneath you. Around you. Like gravity, and heat, and home.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s committing it to memory. “God, you always make it so hard to walk away.”

“Were you planning to?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His mouth twitches. “I thought about it. Once.”

“And?”

“And then you made that face at breakfast,” he says, mock-serious. “The one where you’re pretending to like the instant eggs Alexei made even though they taste like damp cardboard.”

You snort. “Those eggs were an act of war.”

“And you smiled at Yelena when she called Walker a fascist with a Fitbit.”

“That was funny!”

“You smiled at me right after.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, feigning scandal. “Not a smile. How dare I.”

He hums. “Yeah. That was it. I was doomed.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “So… the smile got you. Not the fact that I once patched you up in a broom closet after you got impaled and you asked if I wanted to grab tea like we weren’t both bleeding.”

“That was charming,” he says. “I like a woman who can multitask.”

You giggle into his throat, his pulse fluttering beneath your lips.

You don’t kiss. At least, not for a minute. You just sit there, breathing the same air, his forehead pressed lightly to yours, his hands splayed wide across your back like he’s holding onto something fragile.

It’s only when his thumb brushes the curve of your spine, slow and tantalizing, that you lean in. The kiss is soft—tentative, almost chaste. 

But then your fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls, and he groans, deep in his throat, and just like that the kiss turns urgent, unsteady.

His hands slide under your shirt, not rushed, not desperate—just warm and sure, like he’s learning the shape of you by heart. And you let him, because something about the way he touches you feels safe, even here in the shadows..

When he pulls back, his breathing’s ragged, his pupils blown. He looks at you like you’re the center of something vast and unknowable.

“You—fuck. You mean everything to me.”

You press your mouth to his jaw, his throat, the corner of his mouth. “You wanna show me?"

His hand cups your face. 

And your answer isn’t a word. It’s the way you lean into him. The way you kiss him, tongue tracing the seam of his mouth and then catching his bottom lip between your teeth, pulling and drawing a strangled groan from him. It's messy, it's wet, and oh—you can feel him harden up like a diamond underneath you.

He exhales, "Fuck, fuck, sweetheart." 

You can feel him shift, desperately trying to get any sort of friction through his jeans, pressing against your core in the process while your mouth falls open in a silent whine. His hand that was under your shirt moves downward, cupping your ass and bringing you even closer. 

"You're always so impatient," you whisper, your hands coming around to the nape of his neck and pulling softly at his hair, the way you've been dreaming of doing since he picked you up at the Watchtower lobby. 

Bucky—well, he just can't have that. Smack! He slaps your ass once, softly, as a warning. "And you're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."

You moan, low and tortured. "I do. What are you gonna do about it?"

Smack! Another one that sends you deeper into his arms, grinding against that hard tent in his pants, rolling your hips as you do so, because you're nothing if not evil. 

"Not so tough, are you?"

You roll your eyes, pushing forward to kiss him again before he can say any more one-liners, savoring the way he tastes, still faintly like popcorn butter and mint and something intoxicating. An idea pops into your head.

Fingers on his jaw, looking over him while he stares at you, wide-eyed, mesmerized, hair a mess, cheeks just slightly flushed, those blue stormcloud eyes blown wide. You smile, lopsided and mischievous. "Open up, darling."

His mouth parts, and you—you let yourself drool, watching the shiny, gossamer strand fall onto his eager tongue.

"Oh god," Bucky's on fucking fire, grinning up at you all smug and satisfied and like he just can't get enough. "You taste good, baby."

You hum. 

While he's busy, busy mapping more kisses along your collarbone, you take the opportunity to go down, down, down, unzipping him as quietly and quickly as you can before sneaking a hand into his boxers. You grip him, tight, relishing in the way he shudders.

"What are you doing—oh," His head falls back, and your eyes can't help but track the movement to his Adam's apple, watching him swallow and press his eyes closed. 

Your hand is tiny, impossibly small compared to his, but your pace more than compensates, twisting fast and hard while thumbing at the tip. You can feel it, you can feel him, leaking and sobbing and twitching in your hands.

"Slow down, baby, I'm—" He pushes himself up, like he's trying to freeze the moment, his forehead coming to press against yours, but goddammit, you're a woman on a mission. "Fuck, get this—" he pulls at your shirt. "Get this off. Need to make my best girl feel good too."

"Just rip it off, Bucky, I'm kinda busy," Too focused at the task at hand, your hand not breaking its rhythm. "Just give me your sweatshirt after."

Bucky swears. One swift movement though, and it's off, reduced to tatters and thrown to the backseat.

His mouth is on your chest, a graze of his teeth, his breath hot and heavy and your own breath hitches. Still, you stay focused. Trying to push down the heat that's curling in your core while he gets more and more desperate, sucking on an exposed nipple.

"Bucky, my god—"

You squeeze your hand around him tighter on impulse, your thumb grazing his tip just right, and just like that, he comes onto your hand. Gushing white ropes against your skin, while he groans and growls, your name falling off his lips like a prayer.

Bucky—Bucky looks like a mess, chest heaving up and down, looking up at you like you just hung the fucking moon on the sky.

"Damn. That was—that was… wow."

You smile. "Always got the right words, this one."

He shakes his head. "Give me a minute here, I'll start waxing poetic."

His brows furrow then, the clouds over his head passing as soon as it came, then his are hands pawing at the rest of your clothes like the mere existence of them pisses him off. He pulls your pants off with your help, you giggling while he frowns, holding you up and then grabbing them clean off to be discarded in the backseat again. "Nowhere near done yet. Got no idea what's comin' to you."

A cool, metal hand hitches one of your legs closer around his waist and you sigh, breathless, straddling him perfectly. You can feel his cock under you, the way Bucky swipes the head against your cunt, already straining and hard again.

"You're so wet," Bucky remarks, like in a daze. "You been wanting this bad, huh?"

You inhale sharply, still fixated on the way he's so close, his cock rubbing against your clit now. You can't even speak—just nodding along with his words, anything to get him to move. 

He laughs, low and tender and his eyes darken just a little bit more. "You got a condom, sweet girl?"

You motion to the passenger seat, where your purse laid like an afterthought. Without breaking eye contact with you, he uses a free hand to rummage through it for a second, until his lip crooks. When he finds it, his eyes shine, ripping the foil packaging with his teeth before raising an eyebrow at you.

"Can you put it on for me?"

God, yes. Of fucking course. You nod, grabbing the condom with shaking fingers until you roll it down onto him, giving it a little squeeze as you do so.

Bucky hums, an innocent and soft noice, before he slots you back where you were. "Whenever you're ready for me, sweetheart."

You take a deep breath. For courage. For strength. For the love of the fucking game.

When you finally, finally sink down on his hard length, it's like every birthday, holiday, and vacation rolled into one. It's always a tight fit, no matter how wet you are, no matter how much you think you've prepared, and it sends a rush down your spine, mouth falling open in a strangled whine. You can hear him panting, muttering, "Tight—so tight for me, always."

Your eyes flutter, until you feel your pelvis hit resistance and you're seated all the way. Deep breath out.

A moment passes, and then you start rolling your hips experimentally, just to adjust to him. Just to get used to the feeling. You groan when he twitches, grip going tighter around your waist. 

"Too slow, baby, I need—need you just a little bit faster," He croons softly, begging gently even while his words are laced with something a little less innocent. "Can I help you? Can I bounce you on my cock?"

You love hi–you love it. This. You love when he gets filthy with his words, the way his accent slips out a little bit as he gets more feral, more unhinged, a swipe of his tongue against his lips like he's waiting eagerly for instructions but just can't help himself.

So instead of… unpacking all of that you nod with all the enthusiasm you can muster while slowly losing your mind. 

"Yeah? Good girl."

With that, he places both hands on your ass and you take a sharp inhale. Before he moves, before he starts picking you up and fucking you vigorously. 

It's rough—every fiber of your being is singing, like you're on fucking fire and Bucky's underneath you putting in the absolute work while you come apart. Your hand slams against the window, smearing the fog that's collected there.

The car's shaking violently at this point, rocking back and forth with the sheer force of his thrusts. You love when he gets like this, all his to do what he pleases with, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of what your body can handle.

He smacks your ass softly, shifting your attention solely back to him. "Eyes on me."

God. It takes everything in you to lift your head, but when you do, it's worth it. His eyes are dilated, fixed on your figure, like he's savoring this—you, on top of him, taking him for all his worth, taking exactly what he's giving you. Takes a look down to fully appreciate the view—your tits bouncing, the imprint of his hands on your waist.

That's all either of you need before his pace gets erratic, more uncontrolled, and it fucking reduces you to near tears, holding onto him for dear life as your orgasm rips into you. Nothing but the sound of his name, "B–Bucky, please, please—"

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I'm—I'm there." 

He hisses and then it's another thrust, and another, and you can feel him shake, pumping the condom full until his grip relaxes, until the way he rocks inside of you slows and passes. The car grinds to a halt.

And then it's just you and him, chests panting, breathing softly.

.

The car is quiet for a while after that.

Both of you shift at some point—but you’re still in the passenger seat, curled in toward Bucky like he’s home, your legs draped over his lap and his fingers idly tracing up and down your thigh beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. His hoodie, actually. You’d tugged it over your head after he discarded of the condom, and now it’s swallowing you whole, soft with wear and warm with him.

The windows are fogged. The car smells faintly of sweat, your perfume, and the clean scent of Bucky’s skin, like cedar and clean linens. The dome light above flickers again, dramatic and unnecessary, like even the architecture of the Watchtower is trying to say, well, well, well.

You tilt your head, nose brushing the line of his jaw. “You okay?”

His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with the kind of quiet you only earn after baring your soul and maybe a little too much skin. He hums low in his throat, one hand still stroking your leg like he’s not ready to let go just yet. “Yeah. Think I’m better than okay.”

You grin, lips curving against his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, then pauses. “Except for the part where I might’ve pulled something in my shoulder trying to fit six feet of me into this damn seat like I’m not built like a military-grade bookshelf.”

You laugh into his chest. “You’re not even that tall.”

“I am, actually.”

“You’re emotionally tall.”

“That feels like slander.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a comma, not a period. Just breathing and the slight shift of his hand under your shirt, splayed warm and protective over your stomach like he’s grounding himself there.

And then, gently: “You sure we didn’t just make everything more complicated?”

You consider this, eyes tracing the condensation on the windshield. “Probably.”

“Wanna do it again anyway?”

You grin, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Absolutely.”

He exhales, amused, and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re a menace.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who—”

But you don’t get to finish, because—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your soul leaves your body.

It’s not the polite kind of tap, either. It’s the I-know-what-you-did-and-I-am-disgusted kind of tap. The tap of someone who has seen things and is about to make it your problem.

You and Bucky both snap toward the driver-side window at the same time.

And there, crouched on top of a different car, nose practically pressed to the glass, is Yelena.

Yelena Belova, in full tactical pajamas, holding a cup of what looks like leftover borscht in a Sentry mug.

Her mouth is a flat line of judgment. Her eyes, wild with betrayal. She says nothing for a beat, just watches you two like she’s making a mental slideshow for court.

And then:

“Disgusting.”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Bucky audibly chokes.

“I knew it,” she hisses, tapping the glass again. “I said—you remember—I said you were acting weird! And what did you do? You gaslit me. You gaslit me, in my own Watchtower!”

“Yelena—”

“No! Do not Yelena me! I am the only one with brain cell in this team. I knew when you started wearing that ugly tinted lip balm.”

“Hey,” you protest weakly. “It’s sheer berry. It’s flattering.”

“It’s horny,” she snaps. “You wore it to breakfast, with a side of guilt! I could smell the shame!”

Bucky is actively trying to sink into the seat, possibly considering tactical ejection. “Uh—maybe we should talk upstairs—”

“Oh, now you want to go upstairs?” Yelena’s voice jumps an octave. “Now that you’ve defiled my sacred parking garage with your filthy, filthy sex aura?”

You blink. “Okay, first of all—”

“And you.” Her glare whips back to you. “You’re not slick! You thought you could sneak him in and out like contraband vodka. I live here. I hear things. You think I don’t know the sound of a stealth boot hitting laminate? I am the stealth boot!”

“Yelena,” Bucky tries again, gently. “We didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t do the voice,” she says, disgusted. “The ‘I’m reformed, I like jazz and feelings now’ voice. You don’t get to ‘soft boy’ your way out of this. I have surveillance footage.”

Your mouth falls open. “You what?”

“I set up a camera in the garage last month because someone kept stealing my protein bars. Guess what I caught instead?” She slurps her soup menacingly. “Unprotected eye contact. Several longing glances. A whispered forehead touch. I saw it all. You’re done.”

“Yelena, come on—”

“No. I have to live with the knowledge that I share a roof with an emotionally constipated ex-assassin who makes out in vehicles like a teenage camp counselor. And you,” she adds, pointing her spoon at you, “owe me one rotisserie chicken. For emotional damages.”

You don’t even try to argue.

Yelena slides down from the other car with the grace of someone who has definitely kicked people through windows, and stomps toward the elevator, yelling over her shoulder: “Don’t think this is over! I’m making a PowerPoint!”

The elevator doors close behind her with a ding.

Silence settles over the car like dust.

You and Bucky stare at each other.

“Think she’ll actually make a PowerPoint?” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I think she’s probably already made three.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, laughing into the curve of his neck, and feel his chest shake beneath you as he starts to laugh too—quiet and real and unguarded.

And despite the threat of presentations and future interrogations, despite the very real possibility that Yelena will drag you both in front of a mock tribunal in front of the others before the week is over—

This?

This still feels worth it.

[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

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