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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

Text

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

#bucky barnes fanfiction #avenger!reader #avenger!bucky #avengers bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky marvel #buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot

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themontessoriacademyofarlington · 6 months ago

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Toddler - Buckle Frame

This toddler student is very focused one of the more challenging dressing frames! The purpose of the dressing frames is to build concentration, coordination, and control of movement, all while encouraging children to become more independent as they learn to care for themselves. As students develop more coordination and control, these become easier and they move on to more challenging frames, such as tying or buckling, which help to strengthen hands for future writing.

Dr. Montessori believed that "Any child who is self-sufficient, who can tie his shoes, dress or undress himself, reflects in his joy and sense of achievement the image of human dignity, which is derived from a sense of independence." The child who is able to say, "I did it all by myself!" has a feeling of joy and accomplishment and a sense of belonging in his world.

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therealistjuggernaut · 6 months ago

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thestuffedalligator · 3 months ago

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The way necromancy works is this: Everything in your body — meat, bones, skin, blood — has something like a memory. They remember, in their own way, what it’s like to be alive. Skin remembers the sun. Bones remember what shape they’re supposed to be in. Muscle memory is more than just an idiom.

The way necromancy works is that the caster puts a little bit of their willpower into a corpse to order it to remember how it functioned in life and obey. This is easiest to do with bones, which are easy to trick, and becomes increasingly difficult the more of the original body remains.

To reanimate a full body to your command, you have to have a lot of willpower.

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently. Then, taking the lantern off its hook, she peered over the side of the little sailboat.

There wasn't much to see. The sea was dark and still as glass, except where the lanternlight turned a patch of seawater a yellowish-green. A tiny fish flitted into the gleam, attracted to the light, and then vanished into the murk again.

The necromancer chewed the inside of her cheek. She sat down again, the boat bobbing gently with the movement, and checked the map one more time. Then she opened the little wooden case on the floor of the boat, which unfolded into a neat arrangement of drawers.

There were. Things. In the drawers. Some wriggled. Others twitched little beetly legs into the night air. A few of them made noises, which ran together into a squeaky, wheezy squeal of horror.

The necromancer twiddled her fingers over the display as she considered her options. Then she grabbed a few of the twitching, wriggling things, held them in her palm and squeezed her hand into a fist as tightly as she could with a squelching noise.

She opened her hand to inspect her work. She breathed the spell into it, and then, holding her hand over the edge of the boat, dropped the spell into the sea.

And that seemed to be it. She sat back in the boat and closed the little wooden case. After a moment she started looking over the map again.

There were a lot of handwritten notes on the map. Each one was connected to a mark and some coordinates; some of them said, "Storm 1457," or "Struck a rock 1483." Others said "Total failure," or “Completely dissolved.”

The note the necromancer seemed most interested in was the one that read, “Battle of Salzstein, 1501.”

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently, and then she was suddenly thrown down to the floor of the boat as though a giant, invisible hand had crushed her.

Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream.

Two minds were fighting for control of the corpse; on one side was the mind of the caster, and on the other was the memories of bones, of flesh, of skin, trying to drive the caster out.

The weight of that mind was incredible.

Sweat poured off the necromancer’s brow; darkness whorled across her vision. Then slowly, every movement a bone-breaking agony, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, lungs straining.

The trick was that this mind knew how to obey.

The necromancer stood, wobbled, steadied herself and poured her willpower into the sea. She tried to make hers the full willpower the thing had obeyed in life, the will of the wind, of the sea, of the rigging and the wheel.

Because of course it had been alive. In a sense, they were all alive. Sailors talked of them like they were alive, gave them names, called them “she.”

Sailors knew they were alive.

It was the cessation of that life that interested her.

The necromancer reached out with her power, seized the mind in her hands and pulled, blood and foam flecking out the corners of her mouth as she ground her teeth together with the titanic effort and ordered it to obey.

The sea roiled, hundreds of tons of water moving fast as something deep below boiled to the surface.

A bowsprit sprouted from the water. Then a wood-rotted figurehead of a mermaid. Then inch by inch, yard by yard, the huge barnacle-encrusted bulk of silt-stained timber rose out of the deep, seawater streaming out of every gunport.

For a moment the warship hung in the air like a monstrous fish held by the gills of a colossal fisherman. It dropped into the sea with a sound like a depth charge; the little rowboat lurched in its wake.

The necromancer released the spell. Then she threw up, and passed out.

———

Later, once she had woken, gathered together the tackle box, the lantern, and the map and had scrabbled aboard, the necromancer inspected the undead ship.

There was a hole in the hull where a magazine charge had exploded. This was, admittedly, fine. Undead men could walk with a hole in their bellies; an undead ship could sail with one as well.

Really, she thought, despite the discomfort the spell had worked masterfully.

It was a perfect start.

She unfolded the map on the soggy floor of the quarterdeck, sucked the end of a pen, and next to the last marker wrote “Total success.” Then her finger began to trace down the page to the next.

And the undead ship — unbidden and obedient — shifted its sails and began to move south.

#unreality #necromancers #short story #microfiction #whoop this one wound up running kinda long 😬#narrativia

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whenstarsundress · 11 days ago

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you flirt back for the first time:

sylus

you say something like, “you keep looking at me like that, sylus… you’re gonna have to do something about it,” with a shy little smile.

he completely malfunctions. his eyes grow wide, he swallows hard, his heart visibly skipping a beat.

sylus stares at you like he’s trying to determine if you’re possessed. then, quietly, with his voice a little huskier than usual, “that’s new.”

he recovers fast, though. steps closer and gently brushes your hair behind your ear. “is this your way of telling me you want me to kiss you? because i’m listening.”

bonus:

… sylus.exe has crashed.

his lips part and his eyes darken. he stares for a moment, like he’s trying to decide between kissing you soft or ruining your life. eventually, he just breathes, “say that again. i dare you.”

zayne

you casually murmur, “if you’re gonna keep biting your lip like that, at least let me do it for you,” while scrolling your phone.

dead silent. zayne stops breathing. his jaw flexes, his pupils dilate.

“…excuse me?” his voice drops an octave and he looks at you like you just kicked open the doors to a side of you he definitely wants to explore.

he walks over real slow, tilts your chin up and says, “say that again. no, no—i need it word for word, baby. because if i heard what i think i heard…”

bonus:

zayne chokes on air. his head snaps around so fast, his whole brain reboots. “wait. what? you never—?!” he chuckles lowly. “okay, okay. who are you and what did you do with my sweet, shy angel?”

caleb

you’re teasing him during one of his gym sessions and say, “keep showing off like that and i might have to reward you. privately.”

caleb drops the dumbbell. literal pause. he stares at you with wide eyes, mouth slightly open like a golden retriever who just got called a bad boy.

“wait. wait. wait, back up. say that again?” he starts laughing, but it’s nervous, like he doesn’t know how to process it.

he immediately gets 10x more flirty and tries to re-assert dominance with a grin. “okay, but only if you’re the reward too.”

bonus:

his jaw clenches, breath catches and you can feel the tension shift. like something in him just snapped. he leans back, clears his throat and gives a tiny smirk. “you’re playing with fire, and i’m not the type to pull away when i get burned.”

xavier

you’re both deep into a high-risk deepspace operation. he’s focused, assessing potential threats, guns calibrated, his hud flickering with tactical readouts. you, cool as ever, lean in behind him and murmur through the comms. “you look sexy when you’re in control like this. makes me want to follow your every order… after hours.”

immediate system crash. xavier stops walking, literally halts mid-movement in zero gravity like his whole code just corrupted.

“…repeat that,” he says into the comm, voice a little rough, a lot lower than usual. he doesn’t turn to face you. he’s trying to regain composure while actively calculating threat levels.

he doesn’t miss a beat on the mission afterward, but the tight grip on his weapon and the way he refuses to look at you say everything: you broke him.

bonus:

he stammers, short-circuits, then just covers his face and laughs into his hands quietly. “okay. that’s unfair. you can’t just… out-flirt me like that.”

rafayel

you’re watching him get dressed and casually comment, “if you’re going to tease me with that shirt unbuttoned, the least you can do is let me take it off for you.”

rafayel blinks, twice. “what did you just say?” not offended, not teasing. he’s actually stunned.

a slow, devilish smile starts to curl on his lips as he puts down whatever he was holding. he steps toward you and murmurs, “are you seducing me? because i have to warn you… i’m very easy to seduce.”

bonus:

rafayel freezes. for one glorious second there’s silence. then he smiles a bit mischievously. “oh? okay, i see you. someone’s been hiding from me the whole time.” he never lets it go, but he wants more of your flirty side. “you gonna flirt like that again, or was i just blessed once?”

author’s note: sometimes i can’t decide in which direction i want to go with a headcanon, so, i went with a little bonus 😊

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globalnewscollective · 3 months ago

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U.S Added to a Global Human Rights Watchlist

Why You Should Be Worried About America’s Declining Human Rights Ranking

When you think of human rights abuses, you might picture authoritarian regimes, not the United States. But according to a new report from CIVICUS (source), the U.S. is now officially categorized as a "narrowed" democracy—a status shared with countries where free speech, protests, and civil liberties are increasingly under attack. The U.S. joins the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Pakistan, Chile, Slovakia, and 37 other countries with "narrowed" civic freedoms. That’s the kind of company America is now keeping.

What Does This Mean for You?

Your Right to Protest Is Under Threat – Laws restricting peaceful demonstrations have been ramping up, making it easier for authorities to criminalize protests they don’t like.

Censorship and Press Freedom Are in Decline – Journalists covering protests or political corruption are facing more harassment, and state-level laws are making it harder to report the truth.

Targeting of Activists and Marginalized Groups – The crackdown on civil rights groups, LGBTQ+ organizations, and racial justice movements is accelerating.

Legal Attacks on Voting Rights – Gerrymandering, voter suppression, and efforts to limit ballot access are all symptoms of a democracy that’s backsliding fast.

What’s at Stake?

If the U.S. keeps trending in this direction, basic freedoms—like the ability to voice your opinion, challenge authority, or even vote—could become privileges instead of rights. Young people, activists, and minority communities will be the first to feel the impact, but make no mistake: this affects everyone who believes in a fair and free society.

The Bigger Picture

This is not just about one bad policy or one election cycle—it’s about a systematic shift toward authoritarianism. Through executive orders, Trump has sought to consolidate power in the executive branch, making it easier for him and his allies to monitor and control departments and agencies to ensure they are only carrying out Trump’s agenda. The more people accept restrictions on speech, protests, and voting, the easier it becomes for those in power to tighten their grip. This is how democracies die: not with a single dramatic event, but through a slow erosion of rights, one law at a time.

What Can You Do?

Stay Informed – Know what’s happening at the state and federal levels.

Speak Up – The more people push back, the harder it is for leaders to silence dissent.

Vote Like Democracy Depends on It – Because, frankly, it does.

The U.S. has long claimed to be a beacon of democracy. But that light is fading—and unless we fight for our rights, it could go out completely.

#human rights #white house #politics #usa politics #trump #america #donald trump #us politics #american politics #political #us government #trump is a threat to democracy #trump administration #president trump

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corkinavoid · 2 months ago

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DPxDC Hit The Gas

[Written to 'Renegade (We Never Run)' from Arcane]

Technically speaking, Mr. Masters, Gotham's new aspiring crime lord, did provide them with a getaway car. It's just that, in Tim's honest, objective opinion, said car sucks major ass.

First of all, it's white, which is, well, not the best color for disappearing into the night. Then, it's old — not vintage old, thank fuck, but definitely made before 2005 — and long overdue for a makeover. Tim doesn't see a single part of it that doesn't have a scratch or a dent on it, and are those bullet holes on the passenger door?

Eh, whatever, this is a staged escape anyway. Tim doesn't need it to be successful, he only needs an alibi. Someone — their driver, in this case — to later tell Masters that Alvin Draper did everything he could to keep the package safe. So he can stay in the man's moderately good graces even after they get caught by Batman tonight.

Tim makes it to the car first, throws the back door open and slides inside in one motion, slamming it behind him. Jason, the drama queen, jumps in through the open window and into the front passenger seat.

"Hit the gas, they are on our heels!" He yells at the driver, struggling to turn himself over and put his ass in the seat. Serves him right, opening the door and getting in the normal way would have taken literally two seconds.

The car jolts into movement without a moment of hesitation — so at least the driver has a good reaction time — but Tim still hears a dull sound of a betarang hitting the rear end of it. Nice throw, Cass!

It's only then that he cares to actually look around and realize a few things. A few, arguably, very important things. Like the fact that their driver is a redhead girl who looks barely sixteen. Or that there are two kids, looking no older than ten, in the back seat beside him.

He blinks and stares. The kids — both boys, one of them white as milk with a dark mop of hair and the other one black, wearing glasses and a red beanie — pay no mind to either him, Jason in the front seat, or the speed the car is going at. In fact, they pay no attention to the outside world as a whole, hunched over an outdated PSP. They are playing it together, one of the kids in charge of action buttons and the other one controlling the D-pad, so Tim can understand the need to focus: it takes some impressive teamwork to sucessfully go through the game like that. And they are using some complicated combos while at it, wow.

Wait, no, this is such a wrong time to marvel at videogame skills! They are kids, in a car, in a getaway car, in the middle of a car chase with the fucking Batman!

They take a sharp turn, and Tim grabs onto the handle in order to not bump into the door.

"Oh, you didn't tell me we're racing with the Batmobile," the redhead girl says, but it sounds surprisingly nice and polite, like she's merely asking about the weather.

"Yeah, well, we didn't expect that kind of trouble either," Jason snaps back, scrunching his nose, but the girl just laughs softly.

"No, don't worry. It's no trouble," she assures almost gently, and then reaches one hand behind the seat without looking, tapping the black boy on the knee, "Tucker, sweetheart, switch with me?"

Hold on, what?..

"But Ja-a-azz," the white boy whines.

"We've just got to the boss fight," Tucker pouts, but the redhead just taps his knee more insistently.

"And I'm sure you'll get to it again after we make it out," she says, still perfectly polite and collected. Tim glances out the window. Either this girl has nerves of steel or there's something very wrong with both her and the kids; they are going at least 95 mph, and she keeps only one hand on the wheel like it's nothing.

"Ugh, fine," the kid rolls his eyes and nudges his friend in the shoulder, passing him the console, "Save it, I'll get the cord."

"What cord?" Tim asks because he thought this was a simple undercover mission, but now he gets a sneaking suspicion there's a lot more to it than it looked.

Tucker, with one hand under the driver's seat and searching for something blindly, turns to glare at him.

"The control-cord," he answers like the dumb one here is Tim, "How else do you think- A-ha!" His face lights up as he emerges victorious from under the seat, holding... Yeah, a cord, okay. Which he plugs into the PSP that the other boy hands him without prompting.

"Maybe fasten your seat belts, this is about to get interesting," Jazz offers, but doesn't do so herself. Neither of the kids do it either, and Jason just snorts dismissively.

"You're saying it wasn't 'interesting' before?" There's definitely some teasing in his voice. Tim looks down to the package in his lap, a metal box holding some unknown but evidently very important content.

He fastens his seat belt just in time. The car jerks and speeds up — they are definitely past 110 now. And Jazz is not holding the wheel.

It only takes a moment for Tim to connect the dots and look to the PSP in Tucker's hands. Sure enough, instead of a game, his screen is now a perfect replica of the car's windshield in real time, and his fingers are firmly placed on controls. Like he's done it hundreds of times.

They are racing the Batmobile, and a ten-year-old is driving. This mission is fucking wild.

"Brakes, brakes, BRAKES!" Jason yells from the front, and Tim only gets a moment to notice the quickly approaching back of a truck in front of them and realize they are going to crash before their car just goes through it with no resistance. He even looks in the back window to make sure he didn't hallucinate the truck, but no, it's still there and still real.

Did they... Phase through it?..

"What the fuck," he mutters under his breath.

"Language, there are kids in the car," Jazz chides him with a huff of laughter, and then there's a click.

"What the f- fudge," Jason repeats the question, albeit much louder and way more alarmed than Tim before.

When he turns back around, the redhead is holding a grenade launcher. It doesn't look like a model Tim is familiar with, but it's for some reason painted white, just like their car. Is that some kind of Masters' thing?

Wait, that's a grenade launcher.

Jazz ties her hair in the back in less than two seconds and then reaches up to the roof of the car, pressing a button to open the sunroof.

"Wait, you can't shoot a vigilante, they'll-" Tim yells over the wind, but Jazz just smiles at him and stands up on the driver's seat, peeking out and taking position. Tim throws a panicked look at Jason — they sure didn't plan for anything like this. The car chase was supposed to be over in less than a few minutes, none of them thought that Masters, a fairly new figure in the Gotham underground, would have a kind of vehicle that can phase through things and drive at- at 150 mph through the city roads! Not to mention some strange fucking kids and a teenage with grenades!

"She won't kill anyone," a voice comes from Tim's side, and when he turns his head, he finds the other kid, the one he doesn't know the name of, looking at him, his eyes calm and unblinking. And slightly glowing, okay, and here he was, thinking this clusterfuck of a ride can't get any weirder.

"How do you know?" Tim snaps because there's only so much he can deal with at once in the span of five minutes. The kid shrugs.

"It's Jazz. She has morals," he says, like the word disgusts him, and Tucker huffs a laugh.

"You have them, too. Vlad and Dan killed people before, though," he argues, his eyes still glued to the screen of the PSP.

"Not in Gotham," his friend adds, seemingly just for the sake of having the last word in the argument.

Whatever Tim wants to say back gets cut off by a sound of a gunshot. He turns to the back window again, his heart stuck in his throat, but it looks like the white kid was right: the roaring Batmobile is still on their heels. Whatever the redhead tried to do, she missed.

"Danny, on three!" Jazz yells from above, and the kid springs to action like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life.

"One!"

Tucker moves out of the way as Danny climbs over him and towards Tim, unceremoniously shoves the precious metal box away and all but falls into Tim's lap despite his loud yet wordless sounds of protest.

"Two!"

The boy yanks the latch and throws the door open, leaning down while still sprawled over Tim's knees, and Tim grabs the back of his shirt out of reflex. It doesn't matter that the whole thing is a disaster, he's not letting a ten-year-old fall out of the car on his watch.

"Three!"

There's a loud pop somewhere behind them, and the car suddenly turns and drifts sideways, the sound of skidding tires grating on Tim's ears. Yet, he still feels Danny move and sees him reach and touch the ground. There's a short moment of panic — at this kind of speed, the pavement will shave the skin off the boy's hands in seconds — but then there's a shimmer of white bursting from Danny's palms.

When Tim looks up, the road behind them is covered in ice, the smooth surface of it shining in the yellow light of streetlamps. And, a bit further, there's a thick layer of smoke that should definitely hide them from the view of pursuers.

Smoke grenades. And ice powers. That explains the glowing eyes, Danny must be a meta.

The car shifts again, changing directions, and Tim, almost like in slow-mo, sees the metal box that they've gone to such great lengths to steal, slide towards the open door and tip over the edge.

He is still holding Danny's shirt, and the boy is still hanging halfway out of the car.

The seat belt is pressing tightly into his chest.

The box falls out, and Tim shuts his eyes close. Fuck it, he can fail the mission, it's not the end of the world, Jason can still try and weasel his way into Masters' close circle, and Bruce would understand if Tim explains why quickly enough, it's okay, no big deal-

"Gotcha!" Danny yells cheerfully as the car makes a sharp turn and comes to a halt all of a sudden.

Tim opens his eyes.

Danny, a wide, wicked grin on his face, is holding the box in his hands.

"You're a little shit," Tim breathes out, and the boy laughs, wiggling on Tim's lap and trying to get back inside the car.

"Born and raised," he answers with such a shit-eating expression on his face that Tim doesn't even bother holding back his urge for petty revenge. He releases his death grip on the back of Danny's shirt and gleefully watches the brat lose his balance and faceplant the ground.

The 'quick' undercover mission is sure getting an extension, but somehow, he can't bring himself to feel bad about the fact.

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dc x dp #tim drake #batman #jason todd #jasmine fenton #tucker foley #de aged danny #de aged tucker #crime lord vlad #car chase #wow this turned out long #cork prompts #btw that box was empty #it was a test from vlad the grandmastermind #feel free to add on #i didnt come up with anything except this #but hey theres anger management potential!

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hanaridulsetcheese · 1 month ago

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the cowboy rule - bucky barnes

warning - contains 18+ content

You’d been in Texas for three weeks, and every second of it felt like culture shock with a splash of sunburn.

The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, thick and humid, and the wide, dusty roads felt like they led to nowhere. People were kind, too kind.

Strangers tipped their hats and called you "ma'am," which still made you blink like they were speaking another language.

But the best part of moving here?

James Buchanan Barnes. Or, as everyone called him, Bucky.

You met him on your second day, when your rental car got stuck on a back road and he pulled up in a beat-up Chevy truck, boots dusty and smile easy.

“Looks like you took a wrong turn, doll.” he’d smiled.

He helped you out, then made it his personal mission to show you around the small town. Introduced you to the good barbecue joint, took you horseback riding, showed you where to get the best iced tea.

You weren’t sure if it was his jawline, the Southern charm, or the way he always touched the small of your back, but James Bucky Barnes had burrowed deep under your skin.

That weekend, there was a little throwdown at the local tavern. Live music, whiskey, and dancing. Bucky told you to come, that he’d be there. You weren’t sure if he meant it as a date, but you wanted to go anyway.

So you did. You wore denim shorts and a tied-up flannel shirt, not quite blending in but looking just enough the part to be welcomed. The music was loud, feet stomping against the wooden floors as couples twirled in time to the fiddle.

You didn’t see Bucky at first, so you ordered a drink and swayed to the beat near the corner of the room. Dancing alone. Not caring. You could feel eyes on you, this town was small, after all but you were having fun.

And then he appeared.

Strolling through the crowd like he owned it, hat tilted just right, jeans hugging his thighs, that ever-present glint in his eye.

He didn’t say a word as he approached. Just smiled that cocky, slow grin and plucked the hat off his own head.

Then placed it right on yours.

You blinked, not sure of the hat on your head, “James?”

Bucky leaned close, breath brushing your ear. “You’re wearing my hat, doll. You know what that means?”

You shook your head slowly, already breathless at the close proximity.

He smirked. “You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride.”

Your heart stuttered. The bar faded around you. His fingers dipped under the edge of the hat, adjusting it just so, then trailing down your neck with a featherlight touch that left goosebumps in their wake.

“You gonna follow the rule?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think I will.”

His house sat on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that when he backed you up against the door and kissed you like he’d been starving for it, there was no one around to hear your gasp.

Bucky was all rough hands and controlled strength, lifting you like you weighed nothing and pinning you against the wall, grinding his hips into yours as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“You been teasing me since the day I met you,” he growled, lips dragging along your throat, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Swaying those hips, looking at me with those eyes. Know what you do to a man?”

“James-”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper, filthier, tongue pushing into your mouth with purpose.

His hands roamed, cupping your ass, then spanking it hard enough to make you whimper and cling tighter.

“That’s sir tonight, doll.” he corrected, voice thick with heat. “You wearing my hat. Means you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll. The hat stayed on. Bucky made sure of it.

“Don’t you dare take it off,” he said, stripping his shirt and revealing that sculpted chest you’d imagined too many times.

He undid his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting the anticipation curl hot and tight in your stomach. “Looks too good on you.”

Then he was on you. Mouth at your collarbone, hands everywhere, peeling your clothes away like wrapping from a present. His palms skated over your bare skin, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. You arched into him with a gasp.

He kissed a line down your stomach, dragging his stubble along the sensitive flesh and making you squirm.

Then his mouth was between your thighs, tongue flat against your clit, slow and torturous.

“Fuck.” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him between your things.

“You taste like heaven,” he groaned, lips slick and hungry. His fingers worked in tandem, curling inside you just right, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. “You gonna come for me, doll? Come on your sir’s tongue like a good girl?”

You broke with a cry, legs trembling as your orgasm hit hard and fast. “Sir!”

He didn’t stop. Licked you through it, over and over, until you were shivering from overstimulation and begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth and chin were wet, and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, dazed, only for him to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up.

You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then he was inside. Slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking pretty in my hat.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against yours with every thrust, the sounds obscene and raw.

You were half-wild beneath him, cheek pressed to the mattress, hands gripping the sheets.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, grabbing the brim of the hat still perched on your head and tugging it back, forcing your face to tilt toward him. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You, sir. It’s you. Yours!” you gasped through each thrust.

“Damn right.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and plunging in even deeper, one hand around your throat, thumb stroking gently as contrast to the brutal snap of his hips.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder. “Want to see you come with my name on your lips and my hat on your head.”

You did. You shattered beneath him, second orgasm wracking through you like a wave. He followed with a groan, spilling inside you and collapsing onto your body, the sweat-slicked heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even then, he didn’t pull out right away just stayed there, buried deep, mouth at your ear.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me now.” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily against him, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead.

“Didn’t plan to.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The sunlight was warm, the sheets soft, and your body was very sore in all the right places.

Then you shifted.

And the cowboy hat fell off your head, landing on your face.

You snorted a sleepy laugh, brushing it away and blinking at the bright morning light filtering through the window. The hat still smelled like him, leather, cedarwood, and just a hint of smoke.

And last night. God, last night.

You were never going to look at that hat the same again.

Padding out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around you, you followed the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Your cowboy.

Still shirtless, wearing those same jeans from the night before, hung low on his hips now and whistling as he flipped a piece of bacon in the pan.

He looked up when he saw you and gave you the softest damn smile you’d ever seen.

“Well, morning, doll.” he said, voice all low and husky.

You leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “You cook too? What don’t you do?”

He chuckled. “Plenty. But breakfast ain’t one of ‘em. You hungry?”

You nodded, stepping into the kitchen, sheet trailing behind you like some ridiculous lacy robe.

He handed you a mug of coffee without even asking how you liked it. One sip told you he already knew.

“James,” you said between sips, eyeing him playfully, “you’re being very sweet this morning.”

His brow quirked. “That a bad thing?”

You laughed and leaned against the counter. “No, it’s just funny. You were so…” You paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Interesting last night.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink.

“Doll,” he drawled, turning off the stove, “a man’s got layers.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’ve got layers, alright. One minute it’s ‘yes, sir’ and a whole lot of- ” you gestured to his shirtless self.

He groaned and ran a hand over his face. “and the next, you’re frying bacon and makin’ me coffee like a perfect southern gentleman.”

He turned and gently caged you against the counter, one hand braced beside your hip.

“I can be both,” he murmured, eyes twinkling as he leaned down. “Real rough when I wanna be,real sweet when you need it.”

Your breath hitched. Even now, he could melt you with a few words.

“But you’re not sore, are you?” he added softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your face flushed. “I am, actually. A little.”

He gave you a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I did it right.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh and smacked his chest lightly, but he just kissed your forehead and handed you a plate.

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength,” he teased.

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he said, sitting beside you at the table. “After breakfast, I’m takin’ you out to see the horses. Show you around proper. Maybe get you up on a saddle again.”

You blinked. “Is this a second date or are you just trying to get me sore again?”

He smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing, resting your forehead against the table as he sat there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just said the most casually filthy thing imaginable in the most charming tone.

Bucky reached over and gently adjusted the hat on your head, which you hadn’t even realized you were still wearing.

“You’re keeping that, by the way,” he said.

“Your hat?” you asked, looking up.

“Mmhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

You shook your head, smiling. “What if I wear it in public?”

He leaned closer, voice soft and honeyed.

“Then everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

And with the way he was looking at you, soft and warm and possessive in the sweetest damn way, you didn’t mind one bit.

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #mcu #the winter soldier #winter solider x reader #james buchanan barnes #cowboy! bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes as a cowboy #save a horse ride a cowboy #thunderbolts*

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themontessoriacademyofarlington · 10 months ago

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Early Childhood - Science Experiments: Magnetic vs. Non-magnetic

In the Montessori classroom, science experiences are more than experiments! Our goal is to help build and foster a scientific and inquisitive mind. Students are exposed to all areas of science through hands-on materials and experiments. Through experiments, like sorting Magnetic and Non-Magnetic items, children learn to observe, predict, and analyze results. Exploring the concept of magnetism through concrete materials satisfies their natural desire to understand how things work. Once they discover whether an item is magnetic or not, they are able to sort them into the correct column, which can boost their literacy and language skills through learning descriptive words.

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tobiosbbyghorl · 12 days ago

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sweat it out | psh 🔞

Pairing: Frat Gym Rat Boy!Park Sunghoon × Sunshine Pilates Girl!Reader

-What starts as a workout quickly spirals into teasing touches, dirty whispers, and a steamy, semi-public hookup in the showers where he wrecks you like it’s leg day. Sunghoon shows you exactly why you should never skip gym day with him again.

You had no idea why you agreed to this.

Your gym-rat boyfriend, Park Sunghoon—sleeveless tank top stretched tight across his chest, backwards cap shading his sharp eyes, and gray sweats hanging dangerously low, just barely covering the outline of his thick, hard cock—was strutting around the gym like he owned the place. And honestly, he kind of did. This was his kingdom. The frat boys high-fived him like a god. Trainers stopped mid-conversation to nod respectfully. Even the protein shake girl at the counter gave you a weirdly respectful nod when you said you were with him. Like you were special just by association.

You? You were a Pilates girl. Sunshine and soft, graceful and delicate. You did your precise stretches and controlled breathing while he crushed deadlifts and bench presses like it was nothing.

So why exactly were you here?

At first, Sunghoon didn’t notice your attention straying.

He went through his usual sets: curls, presses, rows—his muscles flexing and bulging under tight fabric, veins pulsing with every controlled movement. He grunted and exhaled, focused and intense.

You pretended to be interested in the machine next to him, but really, your eyes kept flickering to the way his biceps rolled when he lifted. The sharp cut of his delts. The thick, veiny forearms that looked like they could snap a steel bar.

You bit your lip and swallowed hard. You weren’t used to feeling like this. Normally, your Pilates classes left you feeling strong but serene. Here, you were hot, bothered, your panties soaked from just watching him work.

When he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and turned, you almost dropped your water bottle.

He caught you mid-stare and cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh?” He teased, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face. “You been staring at these all workout?”

He flexed one bicep, making the muscle bulge impressively.

“Shut up,” you said, cheeks burning.

“Mm-hmm.” He walked over, towering over you. “Can’t blame you. I’m kinda ridiculous.”

Your breath hitched as he stood right behind you and whispered in your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“You’re so distracted, babe,” he murmured. “Can’t even focus on your damn workout.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe a little.”

His hands slid down to your waist, strong and sure, fingers pressing firmly as he adjusted your posture.

“Chest up,” he ordered, voice low and rough. His hands cupped your ribs, pushing you to arch your back properly. “Core tight.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but the heat pooling between your legs made it impossible.

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Getting wet for me with all these assholes around, huh?”

You gasped softly, surprised at how dirty his tone made you feel.

“Shh,” he said, pressing a finger to your lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re like this.”

⸻

By now, you were shaking. Not from the workout, but from the way his hands lingered, fingers trailing from your hips down to the curve of your ass.

His breath was hot on your neck. You could feel his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

“Come on, princess,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you start making a scene.”

The moment the shower door clicked shut behind you, Sunghoon’s lips were already on yours—urgent, hungry, possessive. The air inside the gym’s shower stalls was thick with steam, but his presence alone burned hotter than any heat setting.

He pushed you against the cool, tiled wall with his body pressed tight, kissing you like he hadn’t seen you in days when it had barely been hours. His hands were everywhere—fisting your damp top, sliding down to your ass, squeezing rough and greedy.

And then, you heard it.

The water running in the stall next to yours. Someone else was still in here.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. “Someone’s still—”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Sunghoon’s voice was low, almost a growl against your ear. “Let them hear how good I fuck you.”

Your eyes widened, but your body answered first—pulsing, already so wet from earlier that you were certain the slick between your thighs wasn’t just from the steam.

“You were eye-fucking me all damn workout,” he whispered as he tugged your sports bra up, exposing your tits to the hot water and his mouth. “Looking at my arms like you wanted to ride them.”

He dropped to his knees.

Just like that. Right there on the slick tile, lifting your leg over his shoulder and diving in.

His tongue was ravenous. You slapped a hand to the wall for balance, the other tangling in his soaked hair as he devoured your pussy like it was his post-workout protein.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—”

“You love this, don’t you?” he mumbled between licks. “My face buried in this perfect cunt. Letting me eat you with someone right next door.”

He spit on your clit and slurped it back in, sucking harshly while his fingers pumped into you—fast, unrelenting. Your thighs trembled over his shoulder.

“You gonna cum for me already, sweetheart?” he teased. “Haven’t even gotten to the main course.”

But you were too far gone to answer.

You came with a stifled cry, choking it back as your legs shook, back arching against the tile. Sunghoon licked you through it, slow and messy, like he had nowhere else to be.

“You’re shaking already, sunshine. Didn’t even stretch yet.” His tongue curled around your clit, fast and rough, before he pulled back and stood.

Now it was his turn.

“Get on your knees,” he said, voice full of heat.

You dropped, water hitting your back, and reached for the waistband of his soaked gray sweats.

When you pulled them down, his cock sprang free—thick, veiny, hard and flushed. You licked your lips without thinking.

“You’re so fucking big,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “I can’t believe you fit inside me.”

He hissed at your touch, leaning back against the tile.

“Show me that pretty mouth, princess.”

You obeyed instantly, sliding your tongue over the tip, gathering his precum, before taking him deep into your throat. He groaned low, hand tangling in your wet hair as he pushed deeper.

“Fuck—that mouth. You were made for this.”

Your nose pressed against his abs as you swallowed him down, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin. He watched you hungrily.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered, pulling back slightly only to thrust again into your mouth. “Look at you—taking this fat cock like a good girl.”

After a few minutes of steady, wet slurping sounds and his low groans, you pulled off with a gasp, saliva and precum stretching from your lips to his cock.

“Please,” you whined. “I want you inside me.”

He hauled you up in one swift move and spun you around, bending you over slightly so the water poured over your back.

You felt the blunt head of his cock tease your entrance.

“Still so tight,” he murmured, rubbing himself through your folds. “Every time I fuck you, it’s like the first time. Like your pussy was made for me.”

He slid in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open until your walls clenched around him desperately.

“F-fuck, Sunghoon—it’s so deep—”

He groaned at the way you whimpered under him. “You feel that, baby? That stretch? This cock splitting you open?”

He snapped his hips once, hard and deep. Your moan echoed through the tile, and just as it did, the next stall’s shower shut off.

You stilled, wide-eyed, but Sunghoon only grinned against your neck.

“Let them hear you,” he growled. “Let them hear how good your sweet little pussy sounds when I’m inside you.”

He began pounding into you relentlessly, skin slapping wet against skin, fingers digging into your hips.

Then—without warning—he grabbed your arm, pulling you upright. One hand slid around your neck and tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch and your cunt clench.

You whimpered under his hold, completely at his mercy.

“This okay?” he whispered in your ear, still thrusting into you from behind.

“Y-yes,” you breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

He spat on your shoulder, let it drip down your chest, then fucked you harder.

“Fucking flexible little thing,” he growled, reaching down to lift your leg—stretching it over his arm as he changed the angle and hit deeper. “You do all that Pilates just so I can ruin this pretty body, huh?”

You were trembling, on the edge, sobbing his name.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he teased. “Just drooling for cock.”

He spun you again, slamming you back into the tile and hoisting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He drove into you with renewed force, water spraying behind him, muscles flexing, face tight with restraint.

Your lips crashed together again, spit and moans and breath mixing like fire.

“I’m so close,” you sobbed.

“Cum on this cock, baby. Fucking soak me.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Gonna cum inside this sweet pussy,” he growled. “Gonna fill you so full you’ll drip down your thighs for the rest of the day.”

Sunghoon’s pace stuttered as he buried himself one last time, groaning deep in your neck as he filled you up with hot, thick spurts.

The world was spinning.

Water poured over your twitching body, and Sunghoon held you through the aftershocks, forehead resting on yours.

⸻

He set you down gently, brushing your soaked hair from your face, eyes soft.

“Still think I’m just a dumb gym rat?” he teased, breathless.

You grinned, body sore in the best way. “A dumb gym rat who ruined my legs for Pilates tomorrow.”

He kissed you sweetly. “Guess I’ll just have to carry you to class.”

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee e @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh

tobiosbbyhorl - 2025

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undyingdecay · 1 month ago

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pairings: robert reynolds x reader, slight void x reader cw: smut, afab reader, mention and usage of drugs, food play, oral (male and female receiving), messy sex, unprotected sex, trauma responses, nursing, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum).

a/n: im not taking specific requests but if you have any other characters you want me to write for send them in my asks!

bob was a consuming person.

so much so that when he enjoyed something, he’d try—truly try—to take it in little pieces. like a child with sugar, licking the edges before the center. like a user with a final hit, drawing it out even as his body screamed to finish it. as if savoring was a form of prayer—an act of desperate hope that the thing he loved wouldn’t vanish when it was gone.

you think it’s a condition carved into him from the inside out, from years of addiction that had rewired the marrow of his being. he’d whisper the stories when he couldn’t sleep, his voice cracking as he spoke into your skin. the first time he smoked meth—how the world sharpened and dulled at once, like standing on the edge of a lightning bolt. how it ate time. how he stopped knowing when the sun had set. when his own name had last sounded human.

he only talks about it when you’re holding him. always in moments where your skin is touching his, like he needs the reality of your body to anchor the unreality of his memories.

like now.

you’re both submerged in the bath, the water thick with oils and salt. it’s not warm anymore, but neither of you cares. you’re straddling him, your thighs trembling against his sides, facing him—always facing him, as he asks. he tells you it keeps him here. grounded. you don’t question it anymore. his eyes are closed, lashes wet and golden, his mouth parted just enough for steam to kiss his lips. you rake your nails through his scalp, the conditioner lathering with a gentle foam as your fingers work slow circles into his head.

he moans—not from lust, not yet—but from the sheer relief of it. as if even this, even the gentle tug of your fingers through his curls, is a high he’s trying to stretch until it snaps.

and it always snaps.

bob needed coping mechanisms. dr. cornish, the one they assigned him after the thunderbolts briefing, liked to call them “rituals.” anchor points for an unstable mind. repetitive comforts that warded off the noise. he tried to adopt some of the healthier ones—you’d find him pressed against your chest like a child some mornings, nursing at your nipple with a single-mindedness that stole the breath from your lungs. the fifth time that day, no less. sometimes with tears drying on his cheeks, sometimes with a smile against your skin.

other times, it was baking.

that's one you could get behind. he was good at it—shockingly so. quietly focused, movements precise like he was defusing a bomb instead of folding batter. maybe it was the control. the order. the step-by-step promise that if he did everything right, sweetness would come out of the wreckage.

but there was still something wrong with how he looked at you when you ate it.

not just hunger. not just lust. reverence. the kind of look that should’ve been reserved for a god—if bob believed in anything higher than your moan when the spoon hit your tongue.

“this is so good, bob,” you’d said once, mouth full of still-warm vanilla cake. you were just being honest. it was good. light, soft, and impossibly fluffy.

but his face went red. and below the counter, you caught the twitch of his cock in his sweatpants. the way his fingers clenched the edge of the marble so hard you heard it creak.

he got hard from that.

from your praise.

and now?

now you’re sat in front of bob, bob’s legs slightly spread on the bed, his cake frosting is everywhere. slicked across his stomach, smeared over his thighs. he’s got a piping bag discarded on the nightstand, and the tip of his cock is flushed deep pink, glistening with milk pre and vanilla-sugar cream in a mess you can’t tell apart.

his mind is like a bee hive, he’s high, high off your touch, the mere thought of this moment. you want to taste what he made. you want to taste him. every pass of your tongue makes him sob.

“love when y—you do that,” he gasps, hips jerking up to meet your mouth. his fingers tangle in your hair, frosting slicking your scalp. “wanna bake for you more. wanna feed you. wanna be ‘s good for you.”

it’s breathless. mindless. the kind of manic devotion you used to hear in his voice when he described scoring meth on a dirty downtown corner, how it made the sky fall away and time collapse into a tunnel of white.

only now, it’s you. your praise. your mouth on him like some kind of holy retribution for all the years his body went unloved.

you take him deeper, and the milk pre leaks out in thick drips that mix with the frosting. it’s obscene. sticky. it clings to your lips, your chin, your tongue. bob groans like he’s being sanctified.

yeah, baking was good.

healthy. normal. or at least whatever normal meant for the two of you. a rhythm that made sense, something you could explain if ross’s team ever asked how he was coping. you could say, he’s staying clean. he’s baking. he’s using his hands for something that doesn’t kill people or break bones. and it would be true.

but what you couldn’t explain—what wouldn’t make it into his logs or therapy sessions or mission briefings—was bob’s infatuation with your arousal.

that wasn’t healthy. it wasn’t even about sex, not really. it was closer to need, the same primal, destabilizing kind that used to claw up his spine when he was coming down off meth. back when his body would turn inside out trying to chase the next high, chewing through hours, days, memories, just to feel anything again.

it’s obscene. sick, even.

the way his golden eyes gleam when you’re spread out for him like an offering, the slick between your thighs catching the light like it’s sacrament. he stares like a man who’s found god at the bottom of a spoon. he shudders when you drip—literally shudders, full-body tremors rolling down his spine—and then his mouth is on you like nothing else matters.

he’s whining into your core, greedy and wet, his mouth messy with your slick. not dainty licks. no performance. just raw hunger. sloppy and animal. his nose grinds into your clit with every upward drag of his tongue, breath sharp and hot as he pants against your folds.

pink lips swollen and glazed with arousal—your arousal—he moans like he’s being spoon-fed ambrosia.

you feel the mattress jolt rhythmically beneath you, and that’s when you realize his hips are rocking into it—humping like a teenager, rubbing himself against the sheets with frantic, desperate friction. he’s not touching himself. not really. his arms are locked around your thighs, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, but his cock drags uselessly against the bed, leaking precum onto the sheets in long, creamy smears that soak into the fabric.

the bed is wet beneath him—obscenely so—and you don’t know if it’s spit, slick, or that heavy stream of milk-pre that keeps dripping from the flushed tip of his cock.

you try to pull away once—just to breathe—but his arms tighten instantly, almost bruising.

“no,” he gasps against you. “no, baby—need it. please. i’ll be good, i swear—i just need to finish—need to taste all of it—”

you go still at the tone. that shaking, stuttering panic in his voice that sounds exactly like the way he spoke the first time he described a come-down. that same hoarse terror of having tasted heaven and knowing it would leave him.

and now? now your body is his new fix.

“what do i do?”

your voice cracks slightly, softer than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “is there anything i can do?”

you’re in one of the old auxiliary lounges, where the plaster is peeling from water damage and the overhead light flickers like it’s choosing its own rhythm. the thunderbolts base isn’t exactly warm—ross’s money goes to suppression collars and clean containment zones, not comfort—but the space here feels lived-in. abandoned cushions scattered across the floor. a broken projector in the corner, dust covering the lens. the scent of weed hangs heavy in the air like incense from another world—slow-burning, warm, and strangely grounding.

ava and yelena are here already, sunk low into mismatched cushions. you didn’t expect to find anyone when you pushed open the door. least of all them—yelena with her ever-present smirk and chip on her shoulder, and ava, distant as a half-finished ghost. the air is thick with smoke and the quiet echo of some half-finished conversation. you catch it in fragments—something about schedules, about the facility’s restrictions tightening again after he broke through another training room wall.

you hadn’t planned to talk about bob. not really. but the words slipped out like a loose thread you pulled too hard. thankfully you hadn’t told them everything, not the titty sucking, not his unusual obsessions, just the necessary.

“i need bob to develop a habit,” you said, pacing slightly, arms folded tight across your chest. “a healthy one. something small. something that helps.”

ava didn’t say anything for a moment. you thought she was ignoring you, lost in whatever tension was holding her shoulders so rigid. but she looked up, and her gaze was steady, the kind that makes you feel like she’s already weighed your heart on a scale and found it just barely balanced.

“well,” ava finally said, lifting the blunt in her hand and eyeing it like it was a practical tool rather than a vice, “this is something.”

you frowned. not out of judgment—but hesitation.

“it’s still weed.”

yelena raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“he used to be an addict.” you didn’t say the drug. you didn’t need to. they both knew. the shadows of bob reynolds’s history clung to every whispered briefing and side-eyed glance from new agents. “i’m not sure it’s safe. what if it’s a slippery slope?”

yelena exhaled sharply, not annoyed—more like someone trying not to laugh at something that isn’t funny. she leaned back, arms draped over the edge of the couch, her russian accent thicker than usual as she said, “you know what else is a slippery slope? repressing everything until he explodes a ceiling panel.”

you didn’t smile, but your lips twitched.

“he’s… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “there’s nothing between him and the world anymore. not even the wrong things. no armor. no filter. just him.”

that quiet you always feared settled over the room. the kind of quiet where everything that needed saying sat too close to the surface.

“he’s not going back to that,” you added quickly. “the meth. i know him. he’s—he’s past that. but the rest of it… i don’t know how to give him something to hold onto.”

yelena tilted her head. “you don’t. not alone. he has to want to hold it.”

then ava shifted, and for a moment you thought she was going to disengage again. but instead, she reached beside her into a small tin box. quietly, without drama, she took out a slim, clean blunt wrapper, a soft brown papery roll, and held it out.

“don’t light it,” she said. “don’t smoke it, not until he’s ready at least, just—hold onto it. think about whether it’s worse to give him nothing than to give him something small.”

she handed you a small sealable bag too. not heavy. just enough flower to roll a tight, simple blunt.

the paper crackled slightly in your hands.

“does this help you?” you asked.

ava’s expression didn’t change. “sometimes. when i phase too much, i can’t feel gravity. can’t feel my own weight. this pulls me back. not always. not perfectly. but enough.”

that stayed with you.

not perfectly. but enough.

you looked over at yelena. her eyes were sharper than usual. maybe she’d smoked less than she let on. maybe she was always sharper than she acted.

“i’d rather him have a little control over something,” you murmured, “than none at all.”

yelena smiled faintly. “then you’re already ahead of half the people who’ve tried to manage him.”

the weight of the blunt paper in your palm felt strange. like it carried more than it should. but it wasn’t loaded yet. not with meaning. not with history. not until you brought it to him.

you didn’t know what he’d say. if he’d flinch. if he’d beg for it. if he’d refuse.

but maybe this wasn’t about curing him. maybe this wasn’t about fixing a man who could crush continents and still wake up crying in your lap.

maybe it was about giving him a moment. just one moment where the static faded and he could feel something gentle.

you slide the window open with both hands, the metal frame groaning softly as it gives way.

the air outside is cool, not cold, but crisp in that way that promises storm clouds far off on the horizon—maybe days away. it smells like ozone and dirt and trees that have long since surrendered to the lab-converted facility grounds. you leave it wide open, enough for the scent to reach the bed and lift the heaviness from the air inside.

two weeks.

two weeks since ava gave you the small little bag.

you reach into the drawer like it’s something sacred, fingers curling around the soft bag ava gave you and lifting it out with quiet reverence. you don’t speak, not yet. just move with purpose. calm. like this is a habit you’ve done before. like you aren’t still caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.

bob watches you from the bed.

he’s stretched out across the mattress, loose grey t-shirt tugged slightly at the hem from the way he’d been curled there moments ago. there’s always a quiet tension in him, even now—like his body doesn’t know how to be still unless it’s pressed to yours, wrapped around you like a question he can’t stop asking. his eyes follow your every move, curious but cautious, like he’s trying to decode something you haven’t said aloud.

you climb onto the bed beside him, moving slowly. no words. you place the small bag between you like it’s something fragile. not a drug, not a solution—just something else. something new. it sits there, nestled in the folds of the comforter, light as air and heavier than guilt.

it feels like offering something at an altar. just the two of you. a very, very small cult of your own design.

bob stares at it.

then at you.

a slow smile breaks across his face—gentle at the edges, stretched thin with something heavier beneath it. it isn’t mocking. not quite playful, either. it’s soft and cautious, the kind of smile someone offers after surviving a collapse. his gold-flecked eyes seem to flicker with recognition. not of the bag itself, but of what it means for you to give it to him. to trust him with it.

there’s history behind that look. shared history. unearthed in your bed, in the quiet tension of his comedown nightmares, in every time he’s reached for you instead of something chemical.

“i’ve smoked weed before, if that’s what you’re stressed about,” he says, voice featherlight and teasing, though there’s a question buried somewhere in it. “when did you leave—to get it?” his tone shifts. less joking. a flash of something a little wounded. like he’s asking, did i lose time again? did you go somewhere and i didn’t follow?

you settle beside him again, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. the room is quiet in that specific, padded way it always gets when bob is calm—calm enough not to break it. you glance at the bag, then back at him.

“ava gave it to me. she said it helps her come back into her body. when she phases too much.”

bob nods, just once, slow. his hands don’t move. they stay crossed over his chest, protective, hesitant. like if he reaches too fast, the intimacy will collapse and he’ll shatter something.

you hesitate. “i thought it might help you. i didn’t want to push anything. that’s why i waited.”

he stares at you for a long second, then lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “i already have things that help me,” he mutters, lips pink and pouting, breath catching a little. “can we just do what we usually do?”

and you hear what he’s really asking: are you getting sick of me? am i too much today?

your answer is immediate.

“yes. of course.”

his next question is soft, almost startled by your quickness.

“now?”

you barely nod. but that’s all he needs. the moment doesn’t erupt—it dissolves, like a sugar cube dropped into hot water. melting on contact. losing shape. sweet, cloying, overwhelming.

bob melts into you with a desperation that feels ancient, almost reverent. his cock is flushed, leaking, and slick with need already—just the sight of you has him soaked and sticky, dribbling messily onto the dip of his stomach. your fingers wrap around him like muscle memory, and he chokes on a whine, thrusting helplessly into your palm. his head buries into your chest as though he could crawl inside your skin, mouth wet and needy against your breastbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your sweat-damp skin.

you stroke him slowly, firmly, and his hips stutter. but after a long, trembling second—he pulls away.

“wait,” he gasps, his voice tight and hoarse. “wait—wait, i want—”

you expect him to say he wants you to keep going. or to finish him. or to ride him until he forgets his own name. that would’ve been simpler. expected.

but he slips from your grasp like something slithering down a drain and drops between your thighs with the urgency of a man crawling to an altar.

you suck in a breath.

bob’s fingers hook into the band of your underwear and he pauses when he feels it—how soaked it is, how ruinously wet. his eyes flutter. a tremor runs down his spine. when he breathes out, it sounds like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

then his tongue flicks out—just once. a single taste against the damp fabric. a sample. a test.

the moan that follows is guttural. obscene. he shakes like something short-circuiting.

then he tears the fabric aside entirely.

two fingers push into you fast, curling upward immediately like he’s been here before, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. and he does. you feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his shoulders hunch as he groans into your inner thigh.

“fuck,” he chokes, voice thick, reverent. “fuck, there it is. there you are—give it to me, please, i promise i earned it—”

his fingers are soaked in seconds. slick strings down his knuckles, dripping messily onto his wrist, his forearm, pooling into the pale hairs of his arm. he doesn’t stop. he watches it coat his skin with wide, worshipful eyes—like he’s just been handed a chalice of liquid salvation.

he slides his fingers back through your folds. deliberate. tender. dragging every last drop out of you and smearing it across his palm, like he’s anointing himself with it.

“i need all of it,” he murmurs. “please. don’t—don’t stop me. i need all of it.”

and you let him. because it’s not want in his voice anymore—it’s need, low and cracked and vulnerable. as if this isn’t sex anymore. as if this is what keeps him tethered to his body. to reality. to you.

then he’s off the bed. ungraceful, stumbling a little as he moves. his boxers cling halfway down his thighs, and his cock bobs with every shaky breath he takes—angry red and shining with precum, twitching like it’s still reaching for your hand. but he’s focused now. possessed.

he reaches for the tin on the nightstand with trembling hands. opens it with care, reverence. fingers still glossy with your slick, he spreads the weed. adds more with a shake of the tin. he doesn’t wipe his hands before rolling. he doesn’t want to. instead, he drags his wet fingers along the paper, smearing your arousal into the crease with slow, circular motions. the mixture is darkened, muddied. his hands are filthy with it.

there’s no hesitation. no shame. he groans as he does it, low in his throat, the sound pure and broken.

the weed darkens. your slick coats it in glistening trails—milky and viscous, seeping into the crumbled flower like a slow infection. he mixes it with methodical slowness, hands dirty and glistening, not bothering to clean himself. he doesn’t want to. every movement is a sacrament.

then he lays out the paper. flat and clean. a blank page, soon to be rewritten in you.

he spreads the weed. presses it down with your wetness still on his fingers, dragging sticky circles into the paper’s seam. it stains dark. faintly pink, faintly cloudy. a corrupted ritual.

he doesn’t wipe off the excess. just rolls, slow and precise. the blunt comes together loose and heavy with wetness, a messy thing wrapped in prayer. and when it’s time to seal it, he doesn’t even blink.

his tongue drags along the edge—coating it with spit and come, warm breath misting over the paper. his lips are glossy with arousal and resin when he pulls away.

the lighter clicks. orange glow catching on his trembling hands.

he brings the blunt to his lips. inhales. deep. like he’s starving.

the first hit makes his chest jolt. he coughs once, eyes squeezing shut—but when he exhales, the smoke rolls out slow and thick, spiraling upward in a fog of earthy haze tinged with something more intimate. the air smells like resin and sweat. like sex and something holy. he’s breathing you in, you’re in his lungs.

he climbs back onto the bed like a man crawling toward god.

you’re spread open still, thighs parted. his eyes go glassy again when he sees you. the glowing end of the blunt smears ash across your stomach as he lowers himself, one hand gripping your thigh like he needs grounding.

“just gonna slip inside,” he murmurs, voice cracked and boyish. “i’ll be good. gentle. i promise.”

you nod. his whole body shudders—no, convulses—like something bigger than lust is tearing through him. his hips twitch forward involuntarily, like muscle memory dragging him to where he already imagines himself buried. his cock nudges between your folds, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan so much as a whimper. half-formed. desperate.

then he blinks, eyes glassy, realigning his body like it’s hard to remember what’s real. his cock, flushed deep red and sticky with precome, slides against you, dragging through the mess you’ve made together. your slick coats him in thick strings, clinging from his shaft to your cunt like a second skin. he gasps. the sound is hoarse—cracked from smoke and begging. it’s the same kind of noise he used to make coming down from a binge, the same full-body tremble, the same too-much-too-soon terror. only now, it’s you. your heat. your wetness.

and then he presses in.

it’s not graceful. it’s raw. sloppy. his tip catches, then pushes past with a sticky squelch that’s downright filthy, like your body’s too wet to offer any resistance. his breath catches, lips parting in a silent cry as your walls clamp down. he twitches already, cock jumping in your grip like it’s surprised you took him in. every vein, every pulse, every thick inch pushes through you with painstaking slowness, like he’s trying not to overdose on the sensation.

you see it in the way his face contorts—forehead drawn tight, mouth slack, golden eyes flickering. awe, horror, worship. all tangled together. like he thinks he’s desecrating something sacred just by being allowed inside.

“fuck!—oh god, you—” his voice breaks into a sob. “you feel better than anything i’ve ever—fuck—better than light, better than flying, better than—than meth—”

he chokes the last word like it burns his tongue, but he means it. you can feel the sincerity in his shudder, the way he buries himself deeper, inch by inch, until your hips meet. his balls press flush to you, soaked now in your slick, and the wet heat of his release chamber rests low and full against your cunt. his whole body curls around you like you’re shelter, like he needs to get closer than skin.

he’s still holding the blunt between trembling fingers, the cherry burning low. ash trails across your thigh from the way his hand keeps jerking with every little pulse of your cunt around him. he tries to raise it to his mouth, but his arm won’t stop shaking—his thrusts have short-circuited his motor control, his need so overwhelming it’s shorted him out completely.

so you guide him—gently, wordlessly—taking the blunt from his fingers and pressing it to his lips like a mother nursing a fevered child. his mouth opens instantly, compliant, hollowing his cheeks around the inhale. he whimpers as he takes it in. then he grabs your face, pulling you close with trembling urgency.

“let me… give you something too.”

he kisses you with smoke still in his lungs, and the moment his lips touch yours he exhales. the heat rushes into you, tasting like weed and sex and something rawer—saliva and your own arousal still smeared across his tongue. the kiss is soaked, wet and messy, full of smoke and spit and want. he moans into your mouth as he exhales, and the sound vibrates down your throat like a tremor. you can taste the thc on him, sharp and bitter, but what coats it is unmistakably you. you’ve become part of him, even in the air he breathes.

he doesn’t let you go.

“wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles, delirious now, starting to thrust. the rhythm is nothing—just a series of shallow, broken movements, like his hips can’t remember how to fuck properly because all his focus is on not exploding. “don’t wanna leave. don’t make me leave—please, don’t—”

“i’m not,” you whisper, holding his jaw. his pupils are blown wide, but the rims glow gold. he looks unhinged. beautiful. gone.

somewhere in that molten light, the void watches from behind his eyes. lurking. curious.

“he likes when you’re like this,” bob murmurs, voice strained and breathless against your throat. “when i’m begging. ruined. he thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”

you grip his jaw tighter, eyes blazing. “then let him watch.”

bob’s whole body jolts. the sound he makes is obscene—nearly a sob, loud and broken. his hips stutter as he fucks you harder now, with more desperation than finesse. the blunt is still clutched between your two fingers, smoke leaving a sooty trail along your belly, on your sheets. ash clings to sweat. your skin is sticky with it—damp with his heat, your slick, his come beginning to leak out with every snap of his hips.

his forehead presses to yours. sweat drips from him in hot rivulets, staining the sheets beneath you both. “i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” he’s sobbing now. “you’re gonna make me come. you’re gonna ruin me. don’t stop—don’t stop squeezing—feels so good, so tight, so fucking wet, i can’t—”

you squeeze down on him. deliberately. relentlessly.

and bob lets out a sound which seems like a choked scream.

his orgasm hits him like a convulsion—hips jerking, cock throbbing violently inside you as his come spills out in thick, gushing pulses. it’s messy. it’s gross. you feel it flooding you, leaking down your thighs almost instantly. hot, viscous, obscene. like his body couldn’t hold it in a second longer. like every drop is penance.

he clings to you with the rawness of a man who’s lost everything before and is terrified to lose it again. his arms wrap around you, crushing you to him. he doesn’t pull out. his cock stays buried inside, twitching with aftershocks, like it doesn’t know what to do without you wrapped around it.

he slumps against you, full weight bearing down. you let him. you adjust him to your side when he finally softens, and you raise the blunt to his mouth every few moments as his body tries to come back down. he doesn’t even notice when more come leaks out of you, pooling under your thighs. doesn’t flinch at the way the sheets are soaked. he wants it. he needs the mess.

and from somewhere deep—lower than sound—the void stirs once more.

bob doesn’t flinch. not anymore. he just breathes against your neck, still panting like a newborn, lips parted, skin flushed with something that doesn’t fade.

“i love you,” he mumbles, over and over like a chant. “i love you. don’t make me go back to being alone. please—please.”

“you’re not,” you say, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you.”

the room is thick with smoke, pungent and heady. the air is dense with sex and sweat, the cloying scent of arousal still sticky on your skin. ash streaks your thighs, smeared in lazy handprints. but none of it matters. what matters is bob. in you. on you. of you.

and he holds onto that like a man who has finally found a drug that doesn’t rot him. something pure. something feral.

something that wants to be inside him just as much as he wants to stay inside you.

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