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mandoalorian · 22 days ago

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crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ღ

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you.

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out.

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about.

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap.

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement.

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate.

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up.

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.”

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance.

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more.

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small.

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I��ll be there.”

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope.

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #marvel #smut #james buchanan barnes #avengers #thunderbolts #james bucky barnes #40s bucky #sergeant james barnes #captain america #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader

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httpsserene · 9 months ago

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could i maybe request some super soft holiday smut with George? Like it's the summer brake and they are in their Bad on a Boat and the sun shines on them and they just woak up clinging to each other?

Feel free to change some things if you like, that's just the kinda vibe i would like it to be so just warm and slow and loving you know?

𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐭 | 𝐠𝐫. 𝟔𝟑

summary: a salt-bathed, sun-drenched, yacht trip seduces you into slow and sensual sex underneath the sunbeams.

content warning: 18+ only. mdni. explicit sexual content. yacht sex. tender. passionate, slow, and sensual. semi-public sex (middle of the ocean). belgium dsq. intimacy. fingering. vaginal sex. unprotected sex (don’t do that). no dialogue.

pairing: george russell x fem!black!reader

word count: 1.3k words.

from, serene: perfect timing for summer holiday smut (this was requested eight months ago 💀) feel like it might be what the george girlies need after the unfortunate outcome in belgium :( kinda proud of this one, feels like i found my groove again !!! title is from aaliyah's rock the boat enjoy, loves xxx (oh! check out the upcoming chapters link i added! it's my wip list, updated regularly with what's coming next!)

IF YOU HAVEN'T VOTED ON WHAT I SHOULD DO FOR MY 3K CELEBRATION CLICK HERE TO SUBMIT YOUR VOTE !!!

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

The rocking of the yacht is felt minimally. The sound of the waves lapping against the boat accompanies an occasional snuffle from George’s napping form, splayed out comfortably on his front, head resting on your abdomen.

The British man tired himself out riding on a jet ski, swimming in the depths of the azure sea, and making sure you’re watching all of his ‘cool’ flips off the bow and swim platform of the vessel. You convinced him to eat lunch on an enforced (by you) sunscreen-reapplication break— and while he was waiting for the meal to settle, he snuck his way onto your lounger, nuzzling along your hip, asking you to read your book aloud to him.

You softly narrated the story to George, one hand turning the pages while the other played with his damp hair, your body tensing when cool drops of seawater dripped from his strands onto your stomach, shocking your bronzed skin. The mix of your tender speech, his ocean exhaustion, and the caress of the sun brought sleep to him easily.

This morning on the water is exactly what he needed to clear his mind. You wouldn’t let the weight of his disqualification in Belgium burden his mind any longer. There’s no better way to process emotion than in the middle of the ocean on a yacht, far away from the obsessive media and pitying Mercedes team. The only person sharing his space is you (and the few staff members below deck).

The book was set aside not long after he fell asleep, you were keen to rest your eyes and listen to the low tunes filtering through the speakers. Time slips effortlessly and you find yourself awakened by George stirring. The sunbeams have strengthened at noon and you’re aware that your next days will be spent massaging aloe vera into the Brit’s reddened skin. Yet, the flushed burn stretching across George’s tanned back isn’t a pressing issue for him.

He presses his lips to the skin of your hip, just above the tie of your bikini. You hum, pulling your knees upwards and letting them fall slightly to the sides, leaving George ample room to lay between your legs. You feel the wetness of his tongue appear as he traces along the hemline of your bottoms, teeth scraping the jut of your hipbones occasionally, the slight ache encouraging you to arch into his grasp.

His hands grip tightly at your thighs, the umber flesh spilling between his fingers alluringly. The sight entrances him and his lips drift to love on your inner thighs, teeth threatening to bite into the plush skin. Your quiet moans at the attention harmonize with the calm waves; the bruising kisses have the fabric of your swim bottom darkening with arousal. George releases a hand to tug at the ties of your bikini and pulls the strings loose. The cloth covering your cunt limpens and is tugged away smoothly.

George murmurs lowly, his fingers parting your folds and keeping you open. You’re sure your hole is fluttering at him, the heated skin of your cheeks disguised as a product of the sun and not George’s stare. He spreads your wetness along your vulva leisurely, pausing to flick your clit lightly, humming reassuringly as your hips buck upwards into the pleasurable sensation.

He toys at your entrance with two fingers, watching your cunt try to drag him within. He teases, pushing inside briefly, eyes flickering upwards to watch your mouth part at the gentle stretch before he pulls out to stroke along your folds. George repeats the action until you whimper needily, ceasing his torment to give you his fingers. The awaited full stretch lights up your spine, his digits curling against your walls deliciously. He lifts upwards, intertwining his lips with yours. The brush of lips matches the sensual stroking of his fingers; it’s slow and syrupy, tongues skimming together in a relaxed dance.

He withdraws, dragging his pulsing length from the confines of his swim shorts. He strokes his cock loosely, choking at the slickened friction, lowering to thrust his cock along your cunt, the reddened tip parting your moistened folds. You see George shudder over you, bottom lip bitten by his teeth as he hisses through the stimulation.

You tangle your hand in his sundried locks as he sinks inside of you, breathy moans leaking into the open air. The British man shakes when his hips meet yours, stilling to stifle your shared cries into each other's mouths. The pressure of his cock can’t be forgotten but the ache of fullness combined with the embrace of his lips distracts you from the lack of movement after the initial thrust. You’re not sure how much time passes as you and George become absorbed in the kiss but you’re only brought back to the present when his hips slowly start to roll against yours.

You gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering open to meet his. They’re hazy, clouded with lust and desperation. You stare, captivated by the sight of his blissed expression, his blushing cheeks, and his ocean-colored irises swallowed by enlarged pupils. The sway of your hips has George melting, the sound of his choked whimpers complementing your breathy babbles.

His strokes remain deep, tantric, and toe-curling. The surrounding air dampens with the heat and moisture radiating from your activities, thin layers of sweat beading on your skin, and the taste of salt is fresh on your lips. Air is forced from your lungs as George abuses your sweet spot, hands slipping along his back in search of stability. Your chest arches upwards as you struggle to hold a firm grip on his back with the sheen of perspiration coating him. Scrambling, your nails bite into the muscle of his shoulder and lower back forcing a sharp groan from George. His hips stutter at the sting cutting through his freshly sunburnt skin before resuming the mind-numbing drive of his length within you.

Your thighs begin to tremble, the knot in your navel tightening, toes curling as you near your peak. The British man’s thrusts sharpen, pounding directly into your most sensitive areas as he feels your walls flutter and clench around him sporadically, cock throbbing as he pushes you over the edge. Waves of pleasure crash over you, the sound rushing through your ears as your eyes roll back with the force of your orgasm. George fucks you through it with shallow thrusts, his moans increasing to such a high volume you can hear it through your clogged ears. He pulls out and fists his swollen tip to completion, shooting streaks of white into his hand and across your flexed abdomen.

While you lay boneless on the lounge chair, both of your chests heave in unison, breaths slowly calming in the comedown. The British man reaches a shaky hand for the towel he threw aside earlier after drying off, wiping his cooling cum off your complexion and from between his fingers before he picks up your swim bottoms resting on the floor. With quivering fingers, he adjusts his shorts and does up your bikini after a couple of failed attempts at fastening the ties.

George squeezes to rest beside you on the lounge chair, an arm firmly reaching around to pull you to rest on him, tucking your head underneath his neck. You press light kisses along the column of his throat, the stretch of his collarbones, and the expanse of his pecs, smiling to yourself when you feel him nuzzle into your hair. He shifts for a better angle, his brow tightening as the raw skin of his back is aggravated from scraping against the seat, the tension disappearing slowly as he brushes his lips on your cheek.

You make a mental note to grab the aloe vera to address his sunburn. Until George convinces you to dip in the open ocean to cool off and wash away any lingering remnants, you’ll bask in the afterglow under the balmy shining sun.

#f1 x reader #f1 smut #george russell x reader #f1 x black!reader #george russell smut #george russell x black!reader #f1 x female reader #f1 imagine #george russell x you #george russell fic #f1 fic #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #formula 1 smut #formula 1 fic #serene’s chapters.#⋆⭒˚｡⋆. series special: formula 1 #♡ ༘*.ﾟ love interest: gr.

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monotonesmile · 2 months ago

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Hey I have an idea that you could make a story that y/n is the bio daughter of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. But Bruce doesn't know about her. Y/n is older than Damian. Talia only shows Bruce Damian and he not knowing that his father knows nothing about his older sister asks when he can see her. Bruce asks about Y/n Talia and she doesn't say anything. Until y/n goes to look for her brother because she didn't know that he was with Bruce.

Never to leave your side

[Damian Wayne & Sister!Reader]

[Word Count: 1916]

[Warnings: N/A]

[Fic Genre: Hurt/Comfort? Platonic]

[Notes: this took me a little while, but I got it done! I hope you enjoy it! I’m not super proud of it, but I think it’s good!]

————————————————————

The day Damian was born, he was introduced to his older sister, and in the moment that she saw him, she felt a immediate connection and a sense to protect him, the need to keep him safe from the hell she went through in the League of Assassins, she adored him, making sure he was taken care of well, patching any injuries as he’d pout and tell her that he’s fine, even though he’d be holding back tiny tears from the stinging pain on his scraped knees, he never stopped her though, he appreciated being treated like a normal kid, acting like a normal kid around her, being allowed to feel empathy and express it without punishment, she was his only shred of normalcy in this life, and he feared to lose that.

Even after he grew into a snarky little ten year old, he always made his way back to his sister, he found comfort in her, she was the only person who actually saw him as himself, not a legacy.

But suddenly, his mother had pulled him aside, taking him away without informing his sister. He had no idea she didn’t know their mother was bringing him to Gotham, to leave him there with their father, Bruce Wayne. Damian thought she was told, so she wouldn’t worry, but she never was, and she couldn’t find him.

To her, Damian had disappeared with their mother, and she had grown concerned, hoping in her mind that it was only a training mission or an actual mission, that they’d return soon, but as the hours ticked by, there was no word, so with the worry raging through her, she went to find her grand, the Demon Head himself, Ra’s Al Ghul.

“Grandfather!” She made her way into the room where he was, pushing past the other assassins as he turned to look at her with the same stoic expression that never seemed to leave his face no matter what happened around him.

“What is it, child?” He looked down at her, arms crossed behind his back, a questioning glimmer in his eyes as his head tilted slightly to the side, he was wondering why she would barge in and interrupt what he was doing originally.

“Where is Damian.” It was no question, it was a demand. If anyone knew where her mother took her brother, it’d be Ra’s Al Ghul, he knows just about everything that happens in the League of Assassins.

“With his mother, on a new journey to discover more of himself.” The answer she received was vague, irritating, it didn’t help her at all, it only told her what she already knew, her mother took her brother away without even a note to tell her where.

“Of course you won’t give me an actual answer…” She grumbles to herself, turning around and leaving the room in a huff, pissed off at getting no answers to her brother's whereabouts, guess she’ll just have to take things into her own hands.

As she walks through the base, she starts thinking back on her mother’s conversations she listened in on quite often, it won’t take her long to find them, she was trained well after all, and that was their own mistake. Recalling her mother speaking of some American city called Gotham, she decides to look into it with what information they have on hand, it’s a start, and likely where they went.

“Why would you take Damian to some random city, mother…” She mutters to herself as she flips through the pages of information on the city of seamlessly never ending crime, why would she take him here? It’s not exactly a place you’d discover any part of yourself in, nor is it exactly safe for a ten year old child, even if said child is a trained assassin.

Inevitability, she finds the one loose thread in her mothers plan, the air chart leading to Gotham, they flew to the city, and she doubts it’s a layoff, it’s their destination, so she steals one of the aircraft’s from the League, not that anyone would dare get in her path as she’s determined to get her little brother back. None of this would be happening if her mother had just told her where she was taking her brother, or even had the thought to bring her along! Either way, she’s going to Gotham and confronting her mother.

————————————————————

But in Gotham, Talia is already delivering Damian to Bruce, introducing the boy as Bruce’s biological son, as Damian looked around at their surroundings, scrutinizing the entire cave, he couldn’t help but question where his older sister was, he was surprised that she wasn’t brought with them given that they don’t particularly like being countries apart.

“Where’s Y/N?” Damian huffs as he crosses his arms, looking around for any possible sign of his older sister, yet he still couldn’t find her, and he assumed that his mother already informed his father of the fact he had a sister. “Is she nearby?”

“Who’s…Y/N?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, looking over at Talia for answers only to see her sigh in annoyance as she shook her head, receiving no answer, he turned his head back to the boy in front of her.

“My older sister.” Damian tilts his head, so his father was unaware of his sister then, but why would his mother not tell him? “Were you not aware?”

“No…I wasn’t.” Bruce looks over at Talia again with a questioning gaze, silently asking if they did have a second child that she wasn’t telling him about, why in the world didn’t she at least bring them along so he can meet them, and why in the world hadn’t she told Damian that she wasn’t here?

Talia shrugs as she glances at her son with a slight twitch in her brow, a hint of annoyance in her expression that most would miss. “He likely just viewed one the other assassins as an older sister of sorts, that’s all.”

Bruce could tell from the twitch in her brow that something wasn’t right, she was clearly annoyed with Damian bringing up whoever this older sister is, she’s bluffing. She’s trying to hide it from him, but he’s still a detective, and he was about to confront her about it but was interrupted by Damian.

“That’s a lie and you know it!” Damian huffs, grumbling as he scowls at his mother with clear frustration and annoyance on his face. “My beloved sister is biological! Not some random person from the league.” He grumbles, his hands gripping onto his shirt sleeves as he pouts slightly.

“Besides, she’s probably worried about me! Why would you even lie about her existence?” Damian looked up at his mother with a scowling pout on his face, even if he’s an assassin, he’s still a ten year old and he hates the disrespect towards his older sister.

Bruce scowls as his suspicions are confirmed by the young boy, waiting for Talia's response as she only sighs with annoyance when Damian calls her out for her lying, pinching her nose bridge before she glared down at her son with frustration. “Damian…” Talia mutters with an irritated tone.

“I demand to see my sister, mother!” Damian glares back at his mother, clearly caring more about his sister’s whereabouts than his mother’s reputation, he dislikes the fact that his sister wasn’t at least made aware of his current location. “She’s probably already searching for me and it seems you’re negligent of that fact.” He grunts, looking proud that his sister would go out of her way just to look for him.

Now that angered Bruce, not only did he have a secret son that he only learned about today, he wasn’t going to be told about having a daughter at all! Talia wasn’t going to tell him anything, the only reason he knows now is because Damian was upset that she wasn’t here and was likely unaware of his location.

“Talia-!” Bruce was about to confront her but the loud alarm signaling that there was an intruder in the cave rang throughout, making them all look around in confusion, Bruce and Damian tensing for a fight as a thud came from behind them.

There stood Y/N, angry and frustrated as she stood with her clothes soaked from the raining weather of the city outside, staring down her mother with a glare as her breathing was heavy, she was annoyed at her for taking her little brother away without telling her where, but that all melted away as Damian rushed towards her with a big grin.

“Y/N!” Damian grins when he pounced on her with a hug, smiling as he felt her crouch, her arms wrapping around him in a tight hug as she held him close.

“I was so worried about you, Damian…” She mutters softly, patting his head while she squeezes him gently, pulling back to hold his face, looking him over for any injuries and sighing as she finds none.

Honestly, now Bruce was both surprised and baffled, one, his daughter was here and his son was hugging her despite just a moment ago he looked annoyed at anything that breathed, and two, she not only found the Batcave, but also broke into it successfully without setting off any weapons, only the alarm.

Bruce looked back over at Talia with a frustrated expression, he could tell that the two kids were close and didn’t like being away from each other. “Why did you try to separate them? They obviously don't want to be separated!”

It was clear Talia was upset by the question and accusations, she was going to argue back against them, but was interrupted when Damian huffs and turns back to her with an angry look. “My sister is staying with me, I am not allowing you to take her away, I will not abandon her, and that’s final!” Damian grumbled, glaring at his mother once again.

“Damian-“ Talia started but was once again interrupted by one of them.

“She’s staying, Talia.” Bruce interrupted her this time, agreeing with Damian, he can tell that they don’t want to be separated again, they obviously hate when it happens.

“I see…” Talia mutters, she can clearly see that she can’t win this fight, Damian got his stubbornness from Bruce after all, and very begrudgingly agrees to the terms. “Fine, your sister may stay with you.” She knew that even if she said no, both her children would fight her on it, and Y/N would probably just keep running off to try and find him, no point in arguing.

“Then…take care.” Talia nods to them before taking her leave, disappearing through the shadows of the cave around them, leaving Bruce with one more kid than he was expecting.

Bruce turns to his two, new, kids, two biological children he wasn’t aware of until today, and he has so many questions, so many concerns, what were they taught? Will they adjust properly to Gotham? He doesn’t know, but he knows he has to take care of them, and he will, like he’s done so many times in the past, he won’t give up on them, he’ll help them wherever they need him. For now, he’ll keep those questions to himself, to allow the two to reunite after their separation, watching them hug each other close, it makes him smile behind the mask he always wears. He’ll be there for them.

————————————————————

[Requests are open!]

#monofics!#dc #dc comics #dcu #dc dcomics #dc robin #robin damian #robin damian wayne #dc damian al ghul #dc damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #but platonic

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jello-chennie · 2 years ago

Text

relationship hcs!

✧ pairing izuku, katsuki, eijirou, shouto w/ fem!reader

✧ genre/tw fluff ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

✧ a/n check out my masterlist!

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ izuku ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

isn't at all sure about how he pulled you

but he did and he isnt complaining

would absolutely love a kind soul in his partner

he swoons anytime you do little things to take care of him like if you know he has a pretty busy day, even if you're busy too, you go out of your way to make him a cup of coffee or tea and you always seem to get it just right

or whenever he's super focused on something the past few days and starts getting a little scatter brained, he'll forget to eat

if you're in ua, you'll share your lunch with him (which he will deny at first, but when you start pouting at him, he cant say no)

if he's a pro-hero and working, you take him out to lunch on his break

doesn't matter how far into your relationship you two are, he's always getting flustered by you

despite that, he's always trying to make you laugh (even if it means dying inside from embarrassment)

izuku cannot formally confirm or deny whether or not he may or may not be intentionally getting a few extra bumps and scrapes just so you can take the time to gently and lovingly bandage his wounds

loves it when you cut his hair for him!

even when you mess up (his chest will hurt a little with embarrassment whenever he's out in public, but only a little bc you did something for him, and he loves that more than anything else)

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ katsuki ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

totally would end up in a relationship in which you are his polar opposite

everyone is confused

but it totally works!

you're super shy and sweet, and hes audacious and a little abrasive

he pulls you out of your shell and makes you become less of a doormat, you reign him in a bit and round out his sharper edges

when he takes you to meet his parents, it doesn't fly past him that the two of you have a dynamic that reminds him of his parents

which pisses him off to no end bc that means he truly is his mother's son

he's become his mother

bakugou doesn't form close relationships easily, and is definitely an all or nothing kind of guy

once you're in, you're locked in

it doesn't take him very long to start fantasizing about marriage and kids once you officially become a couple

he is you're personal chef

and once you both enter the workforce, he takes extreme pride in making your lunch for you

can and will enter a silent competition with the significant other's of your coworkers for who can make the best bento

probably makes a social media page dedicated to making cooking videos in which he posts aesthetic af videos of him making meals for you

"pro-hero dynamite is famous on the internet for also being a gourmet chef!"

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ eijirou ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

kirishima would definitely fall for someone super fem presenting

he works out all the time and has all these muscles solely for the purpose of carrying things for you

and carrying you

afterall, that's what a real man does

will stop and buy all the pretty things he sees in store that remind him of you

likes it when you stick some of your cute stickers you make him take you to the mall to go buy onto his gear

is tickled pink by headlines that show up the next day like "red riot big sanrio fan?"

has matching sanrio keychains on his phone case with you

loves to sit and watch you do your makeup

will sit next to you and ask you to explain it to him

kiri will never say no when you ask to put it on him

after all, what kind of man would have his masculinity threatened by a little makeup?

besides, it's not like he can say no when you look up at him with those big, pretty eyes, and the cute, hopeful, little grin on your face

that would be just wrong

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ shouto ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

one of the types of people i see shouto falling for is someone who is a bit of a spitfire

someone who is caring, compassionate, and understanding

someone with endless amounts of kindness in their heart, and a little wise, but relentlessly brazen

he both loves and admires them, and falls for their personality

i see shouto taking little bits and pieces of his partner's personality, and they are ultimately responsible for shouto becoming a little more outspoken

shouto is someone who would become a teeny bit obsessed with his partner

you officially have a shadow once you get together bc he will have no problem following you everywhere, and wanting to hangout with you all the time

isn't at all nervous about having you meet his dad, bc shouto knows that if endeavor starts pissing you off, you'll find a way to respectfully tell him to fuck off without missing a beat

you're also super smart and emotionally intelligent, so when his family life starts to become particularly messy at the moment, you're right by his side helping him navigate

shouto loves you for being his lover and his confidant, constantly there for him with open arms and advice that's strangely wiser beyond your years

once shouto's dad stops being crummy, endeavor actually comes to respect you

shouto's mom and sister love you, and the three of you gossip like school girls

which makes shouto a little jealous when he feels left out

shouto's the kind of bf to get jealous of the cat that he wanted but ended up liking you more

won't say anything, and will spend all day pouting in a corner some where

you have to give him ton of affection to make it up to him

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xuchiya · 1 month ago

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Hiiiii, how are you? I was waiting really patiently for you to reopen the requests heheheheh

So, since I barely see any related posts about Jongho out there, I was thinking about a super cute one shot about Jongho opening himself to his school crush 🥺🥺

hello my loves!! thank you for waiting paitently, such a sweet my loves🤍, since you have waited patiently, here's your request! I hope you like it!

sweet taste of love || choi jongho || one-shot || requested

| genre: fluff. slice of life. | mentions: nothing much. just school stuff.

Jongho wasn’t one to spill his thoughts easily. He’d always been known as the quiet, reliable type—the guy who lent his notes without hesitation, who carried the extra weight during group projects, who never spoke more than necessary. But when it came to you, his heart had a bad habit of betraying him.

It wasn’t like he meant to glance your way every time you walked past in the hallway. Or to linger just a second longer when you smiled at him during study sessions. Or to memorize the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused. It just happened.

And now, it was happening again.

The two of you were sitting together in the library, hidden in a quiet corner. Your head was bent over your notes, pen tapping against the lined paper as you hummed in concentration. Jongho had been pretending to read the same paragraph for the past five minutes, but in reality, he was debating whether or not to finally say something.

The words sat at the tip of his tongue, taunting him.

Just say it.

But how did someone like him just say something like that?

“Jongho?” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts. You were looking at him now, head tilted in curiosity. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring at that page forever.”

Heat rose to his ears. Caught. He cleared his throat, setting the book down. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… distracted.”

You smiled, and he swore the library lights got a little brighter. “Want to take a break? Maybe go grab a snack?”

You both stepped out of the library and into the crisp afternoon air. After some back-and-forth, you decided on a cozy ramen shop nearby. The warmth of the broth was comforting, and the conversation flowed easily—talking about classes, random inside jokes, and even a little playful teasing from you when Jongho insisted on paying for everything.

“Seriously? You didn’t have to,” you said, pouting slightly as he handed the cashier his card.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply, his tone final yet gentle.

On the way back, you both stopped by a small ice cream stall, each choosing a flavor before strolling leisurely toward the library. The sky had started to shift into soft hues of orange and pink, and the air felt lighter than before.

As you licked your ice cream, you glanced at him. “You know, you’re not someone who gets distracted easily.”

Jongho nearly choked on his ice cream, caught off guard. He swallowed quickly before looking at you, unsure of what to say.

“So… what’s on your mind?” you asked, your tone casual but curious. “You’ve been acting kind of off today.”

He hesitated, scraping his spoon against the side of his cup. “I guess I have been a little distracted.”

You gave him a knowing look. “That’s not like you. You’re usually the most focused person I know.”

Jongho sighed, his grip tightening around the cup. The words pressed against his chest, but after the warmth of ramen, the sweetness of ice cream, and the easy laughter you had shared, the moment felt right.

“There’s actually… something I wanted to tell you.” His voice came out steadier than he expected, but his heart was hammering against his ribs.

You stopped walking, turning to him fully. “I’m listening.”

Jongho swallowed hard. “I like you.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment, the kind that made his chest tighten. But then, you blinked, and a soft, almost surprised smile spread across your lips.

“You do?”

He nodded, his ears burning. “Yeah. I just… I wanted you to know. Even if—”

“I like you too.”

The words were simple, yet they shattered every ounce of doubt he had. His breath hitched as he searched your face for any trace of hesitation, but all he found was sincerity.

A slow, relieved smile curled at his lips. “Really?”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “Really. I was just waiting for you to say something first.”

Jongho let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head at himself. “Guess I took long enough, huh?”

You grinned, holding up your hand with your index finger and thumb barely apart, as if measuring the tiniest fraction. “Just a little.”

The tension lingered for a moment, both of you feeling a little shy after the confession. The weight of the words still hung in the air, but as you walked side by side, you slowly reached out, wrapping your hand around Jongho’s arm. He stiffened for just a second before relaxing into the warmth of your touch.

Neither of you spoke, but the wide smiles on your faces said enough. Your cheeks burned, but so did his, a soft pink hue dusting his skin as you both made your way back to the library. And in that quiet, shared moment, Jongho realized that sometimes, unspoken feelings just needed the right moment to be heard—and felt.

it feels unfair that i manage to create few one-shots with the other members but not on jongho. so my loves, all the fluffiest and all the angst-iest one-shot you think, please let me know.

my loves, jongho requests are open! but no smuts!

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #ateez atiny #atiny #atz #atz imagines #atz x reader #choi jongho #choi jongho x reader #choi jongho imagine #jongho fluff #ateez jongho #jongho #jongho x reader #jongho x y/n

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theweasleytwinsownmyjuicyass · 1 month ago

Text

Indigo | C.G.

Carl Grimes x reader

Summary: You are Carl's sunshine but soon you become distant and that breaks his heart. What turned his sunshine indigo?

Warnings: ❌SA❌ MEANTIONS but not explicit. Sadness ig.

Word count: ~1.6K

A/N: Hello y'alll! Guess who got super sick and started watching TWD?? Me, obviously :) Thanks to my disease (that i have beaten now) I am back in the imaginary world and so ready to write all the sad stuff again. HAHAH. Might have a second part if you wish for it <3 Also Luke is like the most random name I could come up with so yeah.

You had always been the sunshine.

Not the scorching kind that burns skin, but a soft morning glow - golden, warm, and inviting. Ever since Carl found you while wandering the outskirts before Alexandria, you'd been a quiet comfort in the chaos. You weren’t close back then, not really but with each passing day more words were exchanged and soon every time you caught each other’s eyes a smile would be exchanged. But when the group arrived in Alexandria, it shifted, with each step you and Carl took, you just came closer to one another.

You became a part of him and he was yours.

You smile was contagious, your laugh one of the rare joyful sounds that echoed between the cold, safe walls of your new home and Carl could not get enough of it. You were always with Carl, helping Judith giggle with bubbles in the backyard or flipping through comic books late at night, lying side by side, your fingers sometimes brushing on the pages but never quite intertwining.

But then, you changed.

It wasn’t dramatic - not at first. Just a flicker. A distant look. A few days of missed hellos. Your eyes were constantly on the horizon, like you were watching a ghost only visible to you. Then the smiles stopped. The warmth faded. You were gone, replaced with a quiet girl who sat alone on the swings and never looked up when Carl passed by.

At first, Carl thought you were tired. But soon enough your actions started a weird sensation in his chest, walking past you on the street was something he longed for but now it locked up win in his throat. Carl wasn’t sure if a person can actually choke on his words and die but it did seem like it could happen to him whenever he opened his mouth to say something to you, yet he no longer had the success of getting your response. Then Carol talked to him.

“She’s probably just going through something, sweetheart,” Carol had said, gently slicing carrots for dinner. “Sometimes girls get sad and need space - hormones, you know? Just give her time.”

Carl nodded. It made sense. Sort of. But not really.

But it didn’t feel right. You weren’t just "sad." You were… gone. And no one noticed, not really. You still helped around the community, still walked around with silent politeness. But you were not there.

And it killed him.

It wasn’t just about missing your late-night talks or the way you used to hum some melody ,that he never had the courage to ask you about, when brushing Judith’s hair. It was the way you didn’t even look at him anymore. Didn’t see him. He had become invisible.

Carl considered himself a strong man, but he could no longer take you ignoring him.

Carl spotted you sitting alone on the swing set. Grass grazing the soles of your sneakers as they scraped the ground slowly. Your head hung low, hair veiling your face from anyone who dared to stare at you. You looked like the saddest painting he'd ever seen - his sunshine drained to indigo.

"Hey," he said softly as he approached, insecurity dripping from his moves, afraid of scaring you away now that he got so close.

There was no answer. You didn’t even acknowledge him.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Carl murmured, stepping closer. “But I’m sorry. Can you please… talk to me?”

Still nothing. It’s like he wasn’t even there.

“Y/n… I don’t understand what happened. I just wish you’d tell me. You’re my friend. I care about you. A lot. Maybe too much.” His tone was just soft, while the storm inside him brewed slowly.

He sat at your feet. Your silence louder than any screams.

“You haven’t talked to anyone,” he said bitterly. “But it’s me who you’ve really shut out. And it’s driving me insane. We’re supposed to be friends…”

Still you sat unmoving like a statue, only your hair danced in the warm breeze, gently tickling your cheeks.

“Just - look at me. Please. Say anything. Say you hate me. Say you don’t care. Just… something.” he had no idea at this point about what he was even saying, but he needed to get the words off his chest or he would suffocate.

Before he could speak again you were up on your feet and walked away, leaving Carl breathless with frustration. The storm raged inside him now, , he hasn’t seen your eyes in weeks and you were continuing to refuse him. Why are you leaving him?

He chased after, unable to let it go.

“Y/n. Y/n!”

You kept walking. Please just let it go Carl. You prayed silently as tears began to build in your eyes, this time not for yourself but for the boy running after you.

“Just fucking stop!” he snapped, grabbing your arm. You spun around, but your face remained turned downward, eyes hidden from ones that craved to see them most. It tore at something raw in him.

“Why are you doing this? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad? Did you just wake up one day and decide I don’t matter to you anymore?”

Still, you said nothing.

His voice cracked. “You used to be everything. And now I feel like a ghost around you. Please just tell me what I did, so I can fix it.” Carl’s voice broke, he was left defenseless in your wake.

And that’s when you broke, unable to hold yourself back from him.

A sob escaped your chest, muffled by trembling hands covering your face. Carl froze - his anger dissolving into guilt and confusion.

He reached out, hesitantly wrapping his arms around you. He didn’t pull you in, completely ready to be refused by you and just held still, waiting. And to his surprise, you melted right into him.

"It’s gonna be okay," he whispered. "I’ll make it okay." Carl did not know what exactly he was promising, but he knew that he would fix it, no matter what it came to. As long as your smile came back.

As long as your shine came back.

He led you gently to his room, others nowhere to be seen. You two sat on the bed in silence for a while. Carl knelt before you.

“Y/n?” His fingers brushed hair from your wet cheeks. Your skin flinched under his touch but you didn’t pull away.

You grabbed his hand with your own before he could pull away. You melted into his touch on your cheek and he quickly found himself wiping your tears with his other hand.

“I’m sorry, Carl.” Your voice was weak and full of regret.

His heart stilled. Your voice was everything. Carl could feel the storm inside of him calm. You were talking to him and holding his hand. The sun just might shine again in his life.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you continued, voice brittle. “I just… I didn’t want you in my mess.”

“We came here together. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes dropped yet again. “I’m scared.”

Carl’s breath hitched. "What happened?"

There was a long silence. Then your whole body seemed to tense up at the memory.

“Luke,” your whisper was shaky and as if to steady yourself you grasped his hands and held them in your lap, his familiar warmth soothing your blues.

Carl’s jaw clenched, but he stayed silent, letting you speak in your own time. You tried but then, you pulled your hands away from his, rubbing your face. You felt so dirty, god forbid you dirty him as well.

“I feel disgusting. I didn’t want to be near you. I didn’t want you to be… disgusted by me too.”

Carl’s world collapsed inward.

He remembered the whispered warnings, the stories women told when they thought no one was listening. About how the world didn’t just end with walkers - but with the people still breathing. Monsters that wore human skin.

Now it made sense. All of it.

He fell to the floor, broken sobs wracking his body. How could he not have known? How could he leave you to suffer alone?

You stood to leave. “I’ll go,” you said quietly. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll leave before morning.”

“What?” His voice cracked as he looked up at you. His crystal blue eyes now bloodshot, looking up at you begging for an answer.

“I know I’m broken now. I don’t want trouble you anymore.” No amount of soap could wash away how disgusting you felt in your own skin now.

“No,” Carl stood in a flash, catching your wrist, pulling you into a tight hug, one hand gently placed on the back of your head, caressing you in the sweetest way possible, just as his mother did when he was scared.

“You are not disgusting. This does not make you anything less than you have always been. You are perfect. I’ll do everything to make sure you get back to seeing yourself as perfect as you are.”

Your tears soaked into his shirt as he held you. Ever so slightly Carl’s scent engulfed you and somehow you no longer felt like you were cold. With each caress you pressed yourself closer into his chest and his arms secured you tighter.

“You’re not alone anymore. As long as I’m here, you’ll never be alone again.”

And for the first time in weeks, you felt it.

Because Carl was still here.

And he always would be.

#twd #carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x y/n #carl grimes x you #carl grimes angst #angst #twd angst #indigo #carl twd #the walking dead #the walking dead carl

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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can u please do a "youre not john bs girlfriend but.." to complete the trinity 🙏

𐙚🐇⋆.˚❆

you’re not john b’s girlfriend but…

he still repeatedly tells you “no, you’re not coming with us today. i — i told you it’s too dangerous and if anything happens to you i will quite literally never forgive myself. just stay home, okay? i’ll see you later i swear.” only for you to show up anyways, the boy grumpily tugging you about and reprimanding you when you trip or get hurt because he told you so. despite everything, he’ll sigh and wipe up your cuts and scrapes, pressing a bandaid on it and tell you you’re a ‘good girl’ for sitting still.

he still stares at you with the biggest brown puppy dog eyes when you’re laying on his board in the gentle waves, your eyes closed as you bask in the sun. he holds the board steady, standing beside it in the water making sure you don’t float adrift, thinking about how you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

he’s still constantly offering you his portion of food if he thinks you haven’t eaten, telling you he doesn’t need it and he’s used to going hungry so he doesn’t mind. you get him to compromise by letting you feed him fries, giggling adorably and giving him an excuse to sit all close with you, which he doesn’t mind at all.

he still kisses your forehead and wipes your tears away everytime you cry, making you feel super guilty because you just can’t stand his worrying. he gets all puppy dog eyed, brow creasing as he watches you quietly, brain wracking with ideas on how he can make it all better.

he still lets you sit on his lap as he looks over maps, because of course there’s only one chair, duh — you’re being as helpful as you can — until of course you get bored, giggling and walking your fingers across the map like a person, making him bat your hand away distractedly as he continues reading quietly to himself out loud from a ripped out page he was studying. his serious attitude is a turn on, you won’t lie — but you must be careful! press your ass back against his crotch a few more times and he’ll turn you around and have you hump him then and there, chuckling teasingly when you cum in your panties, making a few jokey comments before going straight back to work.

he still lets you nap against his arm as he plays on the playstation at the chateau, a rare night when the group aren’t running around like headless chickens. he wears his hoodie and his cap, all warm and relaxed and just so easy to snuggle up to. you’d asked him if you could stay the night, not wanting to face your home just yet and ended up falling asleep on him, listening to him quietly hum in that smooth voice of his, thumbs moving against the joysticks.

he still teaches you how to fish, letting you lean back against his chest with his hands over yours on the rod— teasing you and telling you that the reason no fish are coming along is somehow your fault, just to hear you get all bratty and defend yourself because he thinks it’s cute.

he still always gets caught looking at your ass, but you’re so used to it that neither of you even say anything anymore.

he still lets you suck on his tongue when the two of you are bored and can’t sleep, giggling against each others mouths in the dark until it’s suddenly serious and his head is between your thighs making you cum.

he still gently scoops you up in his strong arms when he finds you sleeping in the hammock alone outside in the dark after you had a disagreement over something stupid like maps. “cant sleep out here, bub. skeeters.” he complains quietly to no one as he carries your sleeping body inside.

you’re not john b’s girlfriend, but he wishes you were.

𐙚🐇⋆.˚❆

#anon #john b prompt

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starryhutcherson · 1 year ago

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clapton davis fic where hes just like, super flirty and its really cute and the reader is oblivious to this but eventually clapton is like "damn it why cant you get the hint" so he opens up to the reader?&;&:& tysmm

━━ UNSUBTLE SUBTILITY

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x reader warnings: swearing, brief depictions of blood word count: 2500+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

The presence of Spring in Grizzly Lake brought a lot of things; including sporadic bursts of heaven-yellow sunlight, greenery spiraled across branches of previously barren tree skeletons, and, most importantly for students of Grizzly Lake High School, the promise of the Spring Fling Formal that was set to occur in the midst of May.

For Clapton, this prom meant one thing; achieving his goal that’s been looming over him since freshman year — ask you out. Theoretically it’s a simple process, but if it was truly as easy as it sounds it would have occurred the very moment his eyes landed on your figure that first day in beginner spanish.

You were the embodiment of perfection, punctuated through your gleaming smile that enraptured anyone in a ten mile radius, and the way the sun seemed to spread across the expanse of your cheeks, soaking you in the rays of heaven itself. Clapton was about ready to propose that day, and he didn’t even know your name.

Now, roughly two years later, he was still amidst the same dilemma, the one in which he actually had to do the asking-out part. He was sure by now you would have picked up on his inherently obvious attempts to entice you, but you remained oblivious, so he decided he’d have to fully commit if he wanted to capture your attention. The art of unsubtle subtility, if you will.

And so, forty three minutes into the depths of an agonizingly dull pre-calculus lesson, he confidently taps your shoulder with a fractionally tense hand, and indulges the tug on his heartstrings when you turn around, framed by the delicate glow of mid-morning spring that he adores so much.

“Something wrong, Clapton?” Your voice cleaves through the classroom ambience of idle chatter and textbook pages being flipped. He flashes a boyish smile in hopes to flutter your heart in the same way you flutter his.

“Do you get any of these questions?”

“Yeah, they’re not too bad,” you reply, offering an ephemeral that renders his throat tight.

He glanced down momentarily at his worksheet, adorned in scrawls and scribbles, yet lacking a single legible answer. His vision trains up back to you though, as it always does. He thought you’d easily detect the unspoken question for your help, but you remained stationary in your seat, as if waiting for him to say it. He couldn’t tell if you were genuinely that heedless, or if you were toying with him. Cat and mouse.

“Seriously? When did they even teach us all this?”

You shrug mindlessly, and a lock of hair shifts from its position on your shoulder. He’d give anything to rope his fingers through it. “A while back. Why, you need some help?”

Yes. He’d like your help, your compassion, your hand in marriage…

“Wanna walk me through it?” He tosses you a hopeful expression, and you answer back with a simple nod, sliding your chair along the cheap linoleum floor with a scrape, until the pair of you are sharing his desk, impossibly close.

Your velvet voice is stringing sentences right down the expanse of his spine, though your attempts to help him understand logarithmic differentiation were ultimately futile— how was he supposed to concentrate on anything when he could feel your words blooming on his skin? See every freckle and divot etched into your face? He could taste his own heartbeat as it melded against his throat.

“So, this helps to avoid complications like the product rule and the quotient rule when— Clapton?”

He cocks his head up, trying to ignore the swell in his stomach when he hears the way his name sounds braided between your sentences, it suits your voice so well.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Are you even listening?”

Shit, no he absolutely wasn’t. How could he? Your proximity allowed him to see you. Like, properly see you.

“Yeah. Totally. Logaramic thingyation,” he murmurs with overt certainty, and a puppylike grin.

You snicker. “Couldn’t even get the name right?”

He’s internally collapsing, though he manages to force some words out of his struggling brain.

“Hard to think when you’re here.” He doesn’t dare sever the eye contact between you, hoping to hone the tension as long as possible, until he shatters you. His lopsided grin shrinks in a moment of brevity; you’re so close and he can smell you and your very essence. He’s sure that his ulterior motive is conveyed, through the way his eyes explore the breadth of your figure, never leaving, never faltering— yet to his pure irritation, all he gets is a blank expression and a confused chuckle.

“Why is that?” You ask, and he wants to grab you by your shoulders and shake you. Are you really that dense? Your face is about as expressive as a rock, and you seem not even partially affected by the flirty wink he sent your way moments prior.

“You’re kidding, right? Come on.” He fires back, raising a brow with a daring smirk. He wants you to inquire. You don’t. He realizes that trying to get you to take a fucking hint was about as impossible as teaching him calculus.

You force out an awkward laugh that makes his skin crawl with defeat, but he doesn’t back down. “Come on what?”

He refrains from the urge to say “me”, and instead huffs a sharp exhale through his nose. He’s moments away from spouting some lame compliment when the shrill cry of the bell interrupts his train of thought, and a tide of students eject eagerly from their seats and spill out into the corridor for lunch.

Your friend approaches the desk with a quirked brow, reaching for your arm and mumbling something into your ear that’s intelligible to Clapton, tugging on you to try and steer you away from the classroom. And from him. You nod in response to her comment, before momentarily glancing back over to Clapton.

“I gotta go, Clapton. See you soon though, see you in History!” You send him a parting wave with a gentle flick of your wrist, before turning off and disappearing down the long stretch of corridor beside the classroom. His eyes follow you for as long as possible before your figure is consumed by the wandering horde of students, and he lets a grumbly sigh escape his parted lips before he packs up his belongings. This was going to be harder than he anticipated.

*:･.・゜゜・

Clapton’s second attempt at alluring you resulted in more or less the same outcome. He’d entered the cafeteria, instantly bathed in the overwhelming odor of lysol and lard. His prior plan was to grab a doctor pepper, maybe a sandwich, and head over to his typical table to talk a painfully uninterested Sander’s ear off about you, but he scrapped it upon spotting you waiting in the cafeteria line, immediately changing course and veering over in hopes of a successful conversation.

He cuts in front of an unsuspecting freshman, ignores the irritated “What’s your deal man?”, and ‘accidentally’ brushes up to you until your bodies knock, and you spin around in confusion.

Your face mildly relaxes in recognition, and he takes this as progress.

“Hey. Getting lunch?”

“What else would I be doing?” You ask. Swing and a miss.

He clears his throat a fraction, not allowing this to throw him off his game.

“I dunno, maybe you just really like standing in lines,” he teases, and you laugh back.

“Especially if the line is for overpriced cafeteria food,” you add with a grin.

The pair of you share a laugh, and Clapton marvels at the fact that you can look so irresistible even in the harsh fluorescence of the cafeteria’s artificial lighting. The pair of you fall into a partially awkward silence, and he follows your line of vision, watching as you observe some students hanging a hand painted banner advertising prom for the entirety of the cafeteria to see. ‘Spring Fling Formal, get your tickets now!’ glistens in white gold lettering. He prays he can take the banner up on that offer.

“Are you doing anything for it?” A bit of a jump from the casual conversation, but he was itching to entice you and couldn’t risk missing his chance.

“Hm? For what?” His lips twitch into a gradually familiar downwards smile. “Prom,” he says, gesturing at the banner, obnoxiously pink in hue and decorated with scatterings of hastily painted daisies.

“Oh. Maybe— I’m not sure, it’s kinda ages away.” Yup. An impossibly distant period of two weeks. Clapton’s jaw ticks uncomfortably at the prospect of the narrowing window of time. He can’t afford to screw this up.

“Right. Sure. Are you… interested in anyone in particular though?” He probes, hoping that you notice the searing spark of desperation that lingers in the loop of his irises.

“Eh. Not really. Are you?”

His ego suffers a blow at your total ignorance to his pining. He’s on the brink of combustion; unable to endure the cosmic irony of having you so close yet so far. He pictures you for the umpteenth time, glittering in a dress that matched your eyes and his tie. A slow dance to a Sting song, his eager hands situated either side of your waist. You’d stare up at him with a dazzled guise, illuminated by the scintillation of indigo disco lights, and his tongue would delve into yours as he soaked up the saccharine flavor of the fruit punch lingering on your lips.

“Yeah.” He states bluntly, staring at you as if you hung each and every star. “Yeah, I’m interested in someone.”

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah? Who?”

He clears his throat. “Someone special. Someone super special.”

“You should ask them!” “Easier said than done,” he chuckles humorlessly.

Your lips part as you go to investigate further, but are interrupted by the scowl of the lunch lady barking at you for your order. He notes it, mac and cheese plus a diet sprite— you’re handed it moments later, and your vision is torn from him and towards your small circle of friends seated across the cafeteria, who are waving you down. You’re gonna leave again?

“I better go sit down, but, uh, you should definitely ask that person to prom. Be upfront and everything. Y’know, you only live once, and all that, right?”

He swears he’s going to implode at the unbridled irony of this entire situation. Be upfront. He’s been upfront!

“You know it,” he quips weakly as you slink away.

He’s been showering you in signals for months, and you’d always abandon them, his attempts for your acknowledgement left festering as sour memories in his head, things that made him roll over with shame in bed at night, and all for what?

He brainlessly orders his doctor pepper with a monotone grumble, feeling the frigid prick of the can’s condensation gather in his palm as he wonders what the hell it’s gonna take for you to take a damn hint.

*:･.・゜゜・

After yet another failed interaction, Clapton had spent the span of the rest of the week stripping his words to the marrow. Every conversation he indulged in with you involved his inner thoughts spouted in their rawest form— cocky compliments, lingering touches, looks of intense pining and yet somehow you continued to miss them. Every. Last. One.

He was nearing his wits end, teetering on the cliff of insanity and seconds away from taking the plunge. Maybe he was the one who needed to take a hint. Maybe you were trying to tell him that you weren’t interested and he wasn’t giving it up. It was a sickening notion, one that thrashes wildly in his stomach. He didn’t know much, but he did know that he’d never be satisfied until he knew your stance on him for certain.

He was just gonna say it.

In hindsight, it wasn’t Clapton’s smartest move to deliver the question in the midst of a dodgeball game, but his thoughts were warped and he decided now was as good as ever. His voice was barely even audible beside you over the screech of tennis sneakers scraping the gym floor and the continuous sound of rubber balls coming into contact with student flesh.

“Hey!” He exclaims.

“Hey?” You say back, turning to him momentarily. Yet again, he wonders how you do it. Hair blown back effortlessly, skin glistening with a fragile sheen of moisture that is hardly off-putting, if doing something it aids to soften your otherworldly glow. Meanwhile, he was panting like an old dog, hair matted to his forehead in sodden chunks beneath his obnoxious sweatband.

“I needa ask you something!” It’s sink or swim. His teeth graze the inside of his cheek for a moment, his gaze varying between you and the opposing court, to prevent a dodgeball to the head.

“Yeah?” Sink or swim sink or swim sink or swim. “What’s up?” He melts at the sight of your semi-breathless smile.

“Are you still dateless? Like, to prom?”

Your forehead creases, and you return the sideways glance. “Um, yeah. Why?”

With a delayed exhale that rings heavy in the pits of his lungs, he turns his entire body to face you, which in turn makes you face him as well.

“Look, I’ve been trying to say this for months. Well, not months. Maybe weeks. Whatever– point is, it’s been a while. Like seriously, a long fucking time. And I swear I’ve been so obvious, but clearly not obvious enough because you’re still, like, totally unaware or whatever. But, like, basically, I was wondering— I’ve been wondering if—” “Clapton!” You exclaim hurriedly, splintering his stammered sentence in an instant. He barely has time to cast his visage front on, before a dodgeball with an extremely strayed trajectory soars gracefully through the current of the air and hits Clapton square in the face. Guess he wasn’t paying enough attention after all.

An expletive leaves his lips, muffled by the wail of your gym teacher’s whistle. His head is temporarily a warped whirlwind resembling TV static, though the feeling fades fairly quickly.

You turn to him in a mild panic, noting the faint trickle of glossy crimson that has started to spill from his nose. “Holy shit! You’re bleeding! Lemme take you to the nurse.”

He can’t help but twist his lips up to form a slight smirk as you place a worried hand on his bicep. The touch scars on his nerves, your fingers like an angel’s caress.

In all honesty, he feels fine, but you offered to take him to the nurse— was he going to give up that delightful invitation? No. He was not.

The pair of you are excused from the gym, trekking down the hallway in an atmosphere of silence so thick it’s practically tangible. Upon arrival at the nurse, Clapton’s seated in a shitty plastic chair, holding a paper towel held to his nose and tipping his head slightly backward. He couldn’t believe that his one chance of actually spitting his desperate question out was interrupted by a stray dodgeball. A goddamn stray dodgeball.

You linger in the doorframe, taut as a coiled spring. The nurse, underpaid and painfully unsympathetic, leaves the pair of you once she deems Clapton to be ‘good enough’, in her exact words.

You approach him, taking the scarlet-spotted tissue and holding it to his face for him, a gesture which turns his insides in on themselves.

“Hey Clapton? What were you saying before?”

Shit.

“What?” He croaks gutturally, trying and failing to play dumb. He knew damn well what he was saying. Prom with him.

“You were asking me something. Before you got, y’know, obliterated by a flying dodgeball.”

He snickers feebly, even if for a moment. “Oh, yeah.”

You open your eyes wider as if to say, “Well?”

The climate in the room seems to sink heavier, cradling the scent of antiseptic and drying blood. Clapton’s words fizzle out on his tongue no matter which way he arranges them in his head, but he knows he just has to get it out—- rip off the band-aid, break the ice, all of that.

His eyes, big and wide and drinking in your face so dangerously close to his, melt into an unmistakable question. He counts himself down in his head. Now or never.

“Prom. I was asking if you wanna go to prom.” He takes a staggered breath. “With me, I mean.”

Oh.

The genuine beam you erupt in subsequent to his words is enough to ease his nerves. It’s enough to make him soar, actually.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” That wasn’t a no. That wasn’t a no. His heart hurts with hope.

“I tried to. You’re just… you kinda suck at taking hints.” He chuckles.

You roll your eyes, picturing every moment leading up to this one that you spent with him. Upon further reflection—- yeah. Yeah, you clearly did. People don’t look at friends the way he looked at you.

“Shit, I kinda definitely do,” you murmur.

He doesn’t let the quiet last long.

“So…?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Clapton, I’d love to go to prom with you.”

The smile he wears is irresistibly contagious. Finally. Finally. Two long years of craving you; two years of memorizing every quirk and curve and contour. He knows it’s sort of ridiculous to get so elated about some forgettable high school dance, but the image he can see so vividly in his head; the lights and the dress and the swarm of butterflies that comes with your killer smile… it’s worth every awkward exchange, every word that’s fallen on deaf ears.

“Seriously?” He asks, reaching for your hand and wallowing in the way you so brainlessly accept the touch.

“Seriously.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.”

And something inside you tells you that he’s absolutely right.

reminder, my requests are always open

masterlist

✩‧₊˚

#clapton davis #clapton davis x reader #clapton davis x you #josh hutcherson #detention 2011 #clapton davis x reader fluff #clapton davis fluff #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt fluff #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson imagine

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vintagerpg · 10 months ago

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This is CyBORG (2022), Stockholm Kartel’s cyberpunk remix of MÖRK BORG and goddamn.

When MÖRK BORG dropped, I was like, this is some super aggressive, brightly colored graphic design and illustration. Just totally eye-shocking. Nothing’s gonna top this. And yet. If you’re a fan of punk or metal or other musical styles interested in speed, you’ll be familiar with a curious phenomenon: what sounds blisteringly fast now, in a few years, will become strangely mid-tempo when compared to the new contemporary tremolo. Same thing here. Looking through CyBORG, Johan Nohr’s art and design for MÖRK BORG suddenly seems evenhanded and levelheaded. CyBORG, meanwhile, sees Nohr absolutely shred. The brights are brighter, the blacks blacker, the fucked uppedness more fuck-ed upp-ed. The introduction of urban design elements and glitchy visual references to the digital world add new levels of grime and grit to scrape through. Truly, I can think of no better visual encapsulation of cyberpunk’s rage as page after page of this book.

The game is, of course, a hack of MÖRK BORG, adhering to those light, D&D-ish systems to provide a fast and easy way to enact your wrath-filled cyberpunk fantasies. There are many tables. There are nanotechnologies and infestations and drugs to feed into your hacker/nanomancer/killer/gear head. There are many corporations to channel your rage at and the world here seems somewhat more firmly realized than in the dying realm of MB. The game is frantically anti-capitalist, which I enjoy enormously (also, I saw someone complaining that if the creators are so anti-capitalist, then why are they charging money for their book; to that ding-dong I say: hur-hur, get fucked, capitalism=/=commerce).

Anyway, I think there is lots of room for different sorts of cyberpunk themed games in this golden age of ours, but that said, I do think the sharp aesthetic plus the sleek and easy systems of CyBORG are going to take up a lot of market share.

#roleplaying game #tabletop rpg #dungeons & dragons #rpg #d&d #ttrpg #CyBorg #Stockholm Kartel

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tapwater118 · 9 months ago

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d-side team bleh! at long last!

(once again copy pasting book and icy)

book is a crazed conspiracy theorist who doesn’t have as much of a hold on reality as she probably should. stays up late looking through “the deep web” (the third page of google search results) for the things the government doesn’t want you to know. she thinks her friend taco is an alien sent here to survey earth for her alien overlords

dry ice (renamed from ice cube) is very sweet, if overly conflict-avoidant. she is absolutely a follower and was (is?) pencil’s go-to yes-woman for a while. she’s become more of her own person as time’s gone on, but still very much relies on others for affirmation

tardrop (renamed from teardrop) is a lazy prick. someone else is doing the challenge? great, time to kick back and chillax. she has very little drive to get going and do anything, and often ignores her teammates whenever they try to get her in gear. though it’s not entirely her fault; she is deaf after all (and mute, but that isn’t related to anything here)

dora is, honestly, an enigma. nobody really knows much about her, and it doesn’t help that she mumbles things instead of using any kind of decipherable speech. she’s smarter than people take her for, though, and is often the one setting her team up for success behind the scenes (not that she gets any thanks for it)

lollipop has a certain way with words that tends to calm whomever she’s speaking to, even that jittery book (sometimes). while giving an air of aloofness she does care for her teammates and will be there when one needs a shoulder to fall on

taco has a certain way with words that tends to win over the ladies, except that jittery book (sometimes). she’s fucking awesome (her words, not mine). that sick looking motorcycle over there? that’s hers, and she’s about to do a sick jump with it. wow, that was cool

saw is an accident magnet (unrelated to her actual magnetism). there isn’t a single bone in her body she hasn’t broken before, and she’s no stranger to cuts and scrapes, but she’s still super cheery despite it. even if you knock her down, she’ll get right back up (provided her legs aren’t broken) with a smile (sans several teeth) on her (likely bruised) face

gaty is quite the fan of the macabre; anything dark, depressing, and disturbing is sure to draw her interest. she’s somewhat interested in book’s conspiracies, though mostly as a kind of fictional set piece rather than anything to take seriously. if you have a movie night with her, expect some experimental horror schlock with a “deep commentary on the nature of society” or whatever

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pinchofhoney · 2 years ago

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Can I get a Jack request where reader is like castiel level protective over him? Like it could he during the time he was burning away his soul, or Dean just attacking him and reader getting super protective? Thanks <3

Also thank you sm for being my mutual <333

like real people do

jack kline x reader

word count: 1.6k

warning: the events were made up by me, but in time they probably take place in thirteenth season, platonic relationship

summary: Ever had one of those days when life just can't get any worse?

a/n: thank you so much for your request!! once i read the first four words and found out it was about jack i was so happy! this character makes me feel like hiding him in my jacket pocket and protecting him from the whole world, including my favourite white boy; dean. i hope you will enjoy it!!<33 it's so funny that we clicked so quickly because of ketch hahah

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

What does it mean to have a bad day? For some, it might involve a pointless hunt for a missing sock in the early hours. Others might deem it a disastrous day if they find themselves in a nerve-wracking business meeting, their professional future hanging by a thread, only to be unexpectedly showered in scalding coffee. But let me tell you, what went down in South Dakota, well, that was beyond any bad day anyone's ever had.

Walking down the bunker's cold, metal stairs, your eyes stayed fixed on Sam's broad back. The echoes of two more pairs of footsteps behind you added an unspoken burden to all four of you. The lengthy, six-hour drive from Sioux Falls passed in silence, punctuated only by the occasional growl of Dean's car engine.

In the midst of this oppressive silence, a tangible anxiety filled the atmosphere, much like the sensation of holding a grenade with a fragile safety pin. Each of you knew that speaking the first word out loud could be equivalent to pulling that pin, possibly setting off a surge of emotions and consequences you weren't prepared to deal with at that moment.

As you finally reached the colossal table stationed at the heart of the spacious room, you wearily rested your hands on the chair's backrest, your head drooping in helpless resignation. A deep sigh escaped your lungs, carrying the weight of the day's exhaustion. In the stillness that followed, you could discern Sam's chair scraping against the floor on the opposite side of the table as he settled himself heavily into it and Dean's footsteps resonated down the corridor, indicating his retreat to the kitchen.

Lifting your exhausted head, you gave a quick once-over to your disheveled clothing, recognizing its disorder. It had not only withstood the harsh impact of multiple falls today but was also stained with splotches of blood. Nervously, you ran your hand through your hair, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. Pushing away from the chair, you turned on your heel, scanning the room with a sense of restless anticipation.

You stopped your gaze on the young man by the stairs, who had stayed there the whole time. His face showed a mix of confusion, sympathy, and regret. Your lower lip was gently caught between your teeth as you pondered your next steps. When his gaze met yours, you drew a shallow breath. His appearance wasn't any better than yours, but because he was still Lucifer's son, he appeared more composed than you.

With determination, you approached him step by cautious step until you were standing alongside him. “Jack, are you alright?” you asked, your voice reflecting genuine worry. A quick glance back at Sam, who remained seated at the table, revealed that he was now observing your interaction. You then shifted your attention back to Jack, waiting for his response.

Jack's reply hung in the air like a heavy cloud, his voice a somber murmur that revealed the depth of his guilt. His gaze dropped to his fidgeting hands, fingers twisting in anguish as he confessed, “It's all my fault...”

You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as you witnessed the torment in Jack's eyes. In an attempt to ease the crushing weight of his self-blame, you placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” you said gently, your voice a soothing balm, “you're not alone in this. None of us expected it to go down like that.”

Sam, the voice of reason, chimed in from his seat at the table. His tone was calm and reassuring as he added, “Jack, we knew it wouldn't be easy. We'll figure this out together.”

Jack looked up at both of you. His eyes were pools of sorrow, and he seemed on the brink of tears, even though he didn’t know what emotions are. “But you guys almost got killed because of me. I couldn't control my powers, and I let them get too close.”

Before you could offer words of reassurance, Dean's voice cut through the room like a sharp blade, “That’s damn right,” he snapped. His anger was palpable, and you could feel the tension rise as he entered with a bottle of beer in his hand. You had been so focused on Jack's emotions that you hadn't noticed Dean approaching.

Your attention shifted to Dean, and it was clear that he had no intentions of concealing his rage. Such suppression was never in his nature. He scrutinized both of you with an intense gaze, his jaw clenched tight, the lines of his face etched with frustration and anger.

Dean proceeded to the table, his movements forceful as he shoved one chair back with a grating screech before taking a seat. The bottle of beer landed on the table with a heavy thud, emphasizing his simmering anger, and the room seemed to shrink with the weight of his emotions. It was a moment where words hung in the balance, and the fragile tension in the air threatened to shatter at any moment.

Jack’s connection to his human emotions was weak, but regret had clear place in his eyes, keenly sensed Dean's anger. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and he shifted uncomfortably, his body language a reflection of the confusion within him. In a moment of desperation, he cast a furtive glance in your direction, silently pleading for support, his eyes searching for any sign of comfort.

You, on the other hand, found yourself torn between conflicting emotions. Your heart ached for Jack, understanding the crushing guilt that weighed on him, yet you also knew the importance of not undermining Dean's authority. It was a delicate balancing act that you had become all too familiar with, navigating in these tense moments.

Dean finally broke the oppressive silence, his voice laced with bitterness that hung in the air like a heavy cloud. “You know, Jack, your little power surge not only almost got us killed, but it also cost us Castiel at the very beginning of your existence. You may not remember, but he sacrificed himself to save you.”

Jack's expression remained stoic, but his eyes bore the weight of remorse as he regarded the hunter. “I didn't ask him to,” he replied, his voice carrying the burden of the past.

Dean's face remained unyielding, his anger unwavering in the face of Jack's distress. He leaned forward, his gaze locked on the young Nephilim. “Doesn't change the fact that he's gone because of you.”

The room seemed to shrink with the intensity of the moment, emotions swirling like a storm around the three of you. Jack's regret was a silent force, Dean's anger an unrelenting presence, and you, caught in the middle, felt the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a heavy shroud.

You decided to step in, taking a deep breath to calm yourself as you tried to ease the heavy tension in the room. You spoke gently, "Dean, listen," in a calm and careful way, "Jack didn't want these powers, and he didn't want Cas to save him. None of us knew this would happen."

Dean looked at you, his anger softening just a bit as he heard your caring tone. You had been through a lot with the Winchesters, so you knew how emotions could run high.

But Dean, being stubborn as ever, couldn't let go of his anger towards Jack. He narrowed his eyes at you and replied with bitterness,

“Yeah, well, empathy won't bring Cas back,” he retorted, the pain of loss seeping through every syllable. “Neither will help any of the people who have been harmed today, because of him.”

Jack, still struggling to contain his emotions, lowered his head in acknowledgment. He understood the depth of Dean's anger, and he carried the weight of guilt knowing that nothing he said could bring back the angel who had given his life to protect him.

You exchanged a quick, supportive glance with Jack, a silent understanding passing between you two. Then, you turned your steady attention back to Dean, determined to break through the walls of resentment that had formed around him. “We're all hurting, Dean,” you said, your voice laced with sincerity. “But pointing fingers and blaming Jack won't change the past. We have to move forward together if we're going to face the challenges that lie ahead.”

Dean's jaw clenched, and he took another long, deliberate sip from his beer bottle, as if using the act as a moment of respite from his simmering anger. It was clear that he was still seething, but your words had managed to make some impact, no matter how small.

“Fine,” he grumbled, his anger not completely gone but his tone less harsh. He reluctantly agreed to try and move forward, but he was still stubborn. “But don't think for a second that I'm okay with any of this.”

You nodded, acknowledging Dean's raw emotions. “We know you're not, Dean. But we're a team, and we need to stick together.”

Jack, encouraged by your words and Dean's reluctant acceptance, finally found the courage to speak up again. “I promise, I'll do everything in my power to make amends and prove myself to all of you.”

Dean's gaze remained fixed on his beer bottle, and while he didn't offer immediate forgiveness or approval, he also didn't object further. It was a tenuous truce, fragile as glass, but it was some kind of a start, and everyone knows that the beginnings are always the hardest.

#platonic relationships #no use of y/n #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #jack kline #jack kline fanfiction #jack kline imagine #jack kline scenario #jack kline x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #alexander calvert #alexander calvert fanfiction #alexander calvert x reader

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