#he ALSO does this at every single tv show or interview appearance

[sehtoast]

Happy Birthday (Homelander x Reader)

Fluffy drabble in honor of Antony Starr's birthday today. Gender Neutral Reader. Reader has spider powers. | Fic Directory

On the morning of his ‘birthday,’ he’s a grumbling, grouchy mess.

Homelander pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even my fucking birthday,” he tells you as if he hadn’t said it every single year since you’d both grown close. “Just what marketing thought would sell me better.”

Not only that, but he has to work on his ‘birthday.’ Run around for TV appearances, do his big, live-streamed save of the day to show the world that heroes don’t take a day off. They’ll always be there to save everyone, even if doing so is nothing more than a sore reminder of just how fabricated their lives really are.

Sure! He’ll zip around the state to appease his corporate overlords. Wave to the masses no matter how torn he is between loving and hating them, lift a car off some poor soul or catch another jumper. It’s what he does, right?

Because he’s a hero.

Right?

He’s not allowed to be like everyone else. Can’t kick his feet up and relax. There would be no day spent with you, no sleeping in, no lazy moments spent listening to your heartbeat before you wake.

He gets pepperings of you throughout his day, though.

You appear, in costume, at his birthday save. It’s the only reason he smiled when he touched down with that bozo who nearly leapt off the roof of an apartment complex. The emotive lenses of your mask let him know your smile reaches your eyes without even having to peer through the fabric.

It was your cheering that made it feel real.

He catches the sight of you blowing a kiss from behind the set camera during an interview. He worried his mask may have cracked on screen from how he smiled wider. He kisses you hungrily afterwards, away from prying eyes, before you’re both due to return to your respective duties.

You swing by during one of his meetings in the conference room, having taken the tray of coffee and stacks of paper from whichever employee was originally heading that way. You set a mug down for him and left the others to retrieve their own. The most you can give him is a friendly pat on the back– secret relationship things, y’know? But it means the world to him. You shoot him a wink before leaving.

It’s the only time he’s ever actually drank a meeting room refreshment.

When all is said and done for his big day, the sun has set. He finds you on top of the Chrysler Building, waiting for him atop one of the eagle perches. You’d set up some sort of picnic. He hears a song playing faintly from your phone– one he remembers you saying reminds you of him.

He lands with a sappy little grin.

You baked him a cake. How you managed to swing it to the top without any damage is a mystery to him, but he supposes most things you do are that way. How you love him, soothe him, free him… How your smile lifts the weight from his shoulders every single time.

“Make a wish!” You giggle before he blows out the candles. He takes a moment to admire the smudgy, wrinkly icing and awkward cursive ‘happy birthday, pumpkin!’ you’d written on top of it. More beautiful than that, there’s also you, bathed in the warm glow of the candles. It never gets old.

Yours are the only birthday cakes he actually likes.

His lips quirk into a lopsided grin when you lean in to kiss his forehead as he blows out the flames. He wasn’t sure what he wished for, but he thinks it must have been that. You tell him that his present has to wait for later since you didn’t trust yourself to carry it and the cake up the tower. He doesn’t care about that.

Not now.

Not when there’s a speck of icing to be dabbed on your nose and serenity to be had.

He takes you up above the clouds. The moon glows bright and full, but he has only eyes for you as you sway together. The music had long since ended, but you two dance nonetheless. Your hand rests in his, his arm wraps around your waist, and he floats you in a slow spin.

He thanks you for wiggling into his day as much as you could.

“S’what I do best,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Johnny. Happy birthday.”

He wraps his other arm around you, pulling you infinitely closer, no longer spinning. He’d rather focus on holding you. Taking in the moment, being here, now, with you.

He’s happy.

Content.

Peaceful.

Loved.

Completely and utterly tranquil in the gravity of you.

“I love you, too.”

A very happy birthday and many, many more to our shining Starr himself <3

[secretsandwritings-blog]

What type of content would they do?

Demetri Alexopoulos - he would make DnD videos and reconstructing old computers with Eli. he would also give out suggestions like which PC is the best for different varieties. he might do some other gaming content but it’s not that popular as him tearing apart an old computer.

Miguel Diaz - he might do some vlogging with Johnny around the state of California or elsewhere, but he’s not clickbaity like some of the other YouTubers who would lie to their audience where they’re at. occasionally he would make an appearance on the other’s YouTube channels as well.

Robby Keene - he would upload gameplay from horror games or his reaction to new horror movies coming out. he’s a big horror and thriller enthusiast and, he got popular by playing Amanda the Adventurer. he would even play the games that his subscribers suggest in the comments of his videos.

Anthony LaRusso - he would also upload gameplay but it’s more of every single type of game since he doesn’t have a preference for a gaming style though he does have a consistent schedule when he’s posting. there will be a couple of live streams of the same game and he would make a playlist for that specific game.

Sam LaRusso - she would either be doing vlogs, book reviews, or have interviews (like a podcast). she would have Demetri, Eli, and Miguel over a lot for the podcast episodes where they’ll talk about a tv show and their opinions on it. for the book reviews, she has a wide variety of book genres for her viewers just in case if they’re not a big fan of horror or thriller like she is. she would have a consistent schedule as well so her viewers would know what day is for what.

Eli “Hawk” Moskowitz - most of his content is clips of the DnD campaigns and Sam’s podcast episodes, or that he makes a little bit of content by vlogging but that’s all to his channel. he tends to promote Sam’s channel a lot more because she uploads more frequently than Demetri does.

Kenny Payne - he has thought about making content but he didn’t want anyone to know that he was going to make some so he decided on making a VTuber model. he’s more comfortable playing with the model than showing his face (and Anthony found out about the model. No, Anthony didn’t tell anyone that Kenny had a VTuber model surprisingly).

Tory Nichols - she randomly pops in on Sam’s podcast episode to say a quick hello before going into Sam’s bedroom to sleep or whatever it is that she does in there. she doesn’t make content on YouTube because she doesn’t understand the jest of it.

The rumors about them:

Sam is either dating Miguel, Eli or Miguel and Eli

Demetri and Eli had a fling at some point

Tory is secretly a LaRusso somehow with “facts” to prove that she is

Anthony (Tony’s World) and Kenny (SGT Ramble) are friends or that they’re dating

Sam’s podcast episodes are staged instead of freeball like she claims (that has been proven false numerous times)

Anthony is cheating during his gameplay or lying about how many hours he has on the game

Anthony stealing Kenny’s content though they do not play the same games

Kenny being told he doesn’t have a father (which he shut down immediately after showing his father on LIVE once)

Sam got her tits done or anything else that would modify her body (has been confirmed that she did do something and it was to remove a large scar on her left leg after getting into a car accident when she was 7)

[fizzingwizard]

OK not that anyone asked but I watched a couple eps of Hell's Kitchen s22 and I gotta vent about it. just keep scrolling nothing to see here hahahaha

I shouldn't even be surprised that a cringey theme like "the American dream" was greenlighted. And hell, I'd just accept it as some patriotic gimmick if it weren't mentioned like, every other sentence. The contestants were so obviously coached to find ways to fit "American dream" into literally anything they say during interviews. Served raw chicken? "There goes my American dream." Survived elimination? "My American dream lives to see another day." Allergic to peanuts? "This won't get in the way of my American dream." Gag me. Who makes this shit. Who is so bereft of creativity that they can think of no other way to make a cohesive series than by beating the viewers over the head with the theme. And why does that person have a job lol.

There's this one Irish contestant. Every single time he appears in the first episode, they play an Irish reel. Every. Time. Ep 2 thankfully dropped the horrific theme music for this guy so hopefully it was just an idiot deciding the audio for ep 1.

Also listening to the non-American contestants (including Goordoooon Raaamsayyyy) talk about their "American dream" was uh. Well it was something. I mean as we all know, non-Americans don't have dreams. They are incapable of dreaming. Socialism (all foreign countries are evil socialists 0:) ) has sapped the dreams right out of them. Now I'm obviously being sarcastic here but tbh this joke falls only juuuust shy of what certain Americans really truly think about the entire rest of the world.

Almost forgot: There's this dude who plays Quidditch. And the show cannot stop making fun of him for it. Having seen other seasons, I knew the minute he mentioned Quidditch that it was going to follow him forever, because television leave a person alone for having a nerdy hobby? Never! Unfortunately for him he was eliminated almost right away, so he never got a chance to prove that even Quidditch players can achieve the American dream, lol. Jokes aside, it really is so fucking stupid how American TV goes after anyone who likes anything that isn't, idk, football. It is a hobby. A hobby, even an unusual one, does not define a person, nor decide their worth, nor make it okay to bully them!!! Word to the wise, never ever ever mention liking anything on TV, that will be used against you.

Seriously I felt like I was in elementary school social studies class. "This is America. We have separation of church and state also God bless America. We celebrate Thanksgiving because Squanto and the nice Native Americans gave the hungry, God-fearing pilgrims corn. Only bad Native Americans were killed and white settlers definitely never scalped anyone. They were just defending their families and their dreams. Ireland is where leprechauns are from! America is the best country 5ever."

on the upside shows like this do usually drop the cringe after not too long because in the end it is a gimmick. so fingers crossed it won't be brought up much until the finale. buhahaha

[goldenlaquer]

ALSO ALSO THIS ALSO GOT ME CURIOUS TO KNOW, WHEN AND HOW IS TEITO-SAN'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN GINTAMA? HE'S IN THE SHINSENGUMI, SO WOULD IT BE IN THE EPISODE WHERE HIJIKATA-SAN WENT OUT ON A MURDER-SEARCH FOR GIN-CHAN AFTER KONDO-SAN'S LOSS, OR IN A DIFFERENT EPISODE? OR IN AN EPISODE OF ITSELF?

AHEM I'M SO SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY IN ANSWERING I HAD TO LET IT SIMMER A BIT BUT TEITO'S INTRO IS— and you called it!— IN THE EPISODE WHERE KONDO IS MIA AND STALKING OTAE WHILE HIJIKATA IS ONLY MILDLY LOSING HIS SHIT THROUGHOUT THE EPISODE (every episode). But in this, as the head of the communications and media relations division of the Shinsengumi, Teito is the one leading the broadcast crew and narrating into a mic about what's going on in the scene and putting it into context of all the important things the Shinsengumi does for viewers like you and me. I was thinking about also adding those intermission confessional interviews like all the shitty-good reality TV shows have where Teito is interviewing the Shinsengumi members to get their insight on the scene. It'll go as exactly as you might expect. Hijikata trying to save face from the recorded situation ("I did not mean to try to cut down that drunk, I was only trying to wipe off that vomit off his face. With my blade.") Sougo using the interview as an opportunity to sabotage Hijikata's reputation ("Did you know? Hijikata-san scratches his junk and sniffs it.") Kondo using the air-time to profess his love and devotion to Otae ("Otae-san! Every single hair on my ass belongs to you!").

And also, when I say narrating, I mean Teito's narrating EVERYTHING, and very HONESTLY, in a tone that suggests that nothing about what the dear viewers are watching is abnormal, or even heinous: Here, the Shinsengumi members are holding back their vice-commander, Hijikata-san, from attempted murder of a drunk civilian. If you look closely over there, Okita-san, the 1st Division captain, is preparing to shoot a bazooka at Hijikata-san. Please do not panic, this is an ordinary occurrence and casualty losses are kept to a minimum! (pause) Usually! Ah, if you can see here, there is our commander, Chief Kondo Isao, who is passed out on the ground, his crotch hanging out— (Hijikata flies into frame, cussing and yelling Teito's name, "What's wrong with you, don't film this, cut the cameras!", the screen statics out)

[eagna-eilis]

I'm watching the 1994 'Interview With The Vampire' because I need to make my comparisons to my beloved AMC show and I haven't seen it for ten years.

Without further ado, my liveblog.

*

3.26: the straightwashing begins. Daniel and Louis did not meet in a gay bar.

Christian Slater is kinda cute tho.

5.00: Brad is already phoning it in. Jacob really had no competition at all.

9.05: the score is so melodramatic. kind of a bit much tbh. The flouncy shirts are 10/10 though.

10.44: I do love the line 'I'm going to give you the choice I never had' though.

15.35: also 'Actually I'm quite fond of looking at crucifixes'.

I'm remembering that I used to be able to recite lines from this film when I was a teen.

16.00: THERE WERE TWO COFFINS BOOOOOOOO. Not so in the book or series.

21.15: Lestat isn't being straightwashed as much, what with calling that fella a 'gorgeous young fop', but it's so caged in plausible deniability.

25.00: oh hey look, the racism from the book is in the movie what with the way the enslaved people are being portrayed.

29.00: Pitt's delivery is serving Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker and I don't like it but I DO like the fact that we get Pyromaniac!Louis in the movie. He didn't do a single pyromaniac in S1 of the show and it makes me very sad.

32.32: I do like the creepy harpsichord though.

General observation: I remembered Tom!Lestat being a lot flouncier and flamboyant but I guess he just felt that way compared with Stuart!Lestat. I actually used to really enjoy Tom's performance but it hasn't a patch on the sheer chaotic energy that Sam Reid brings in every scene of the TV show.

37.07: KIRSTEN KIRSTEN KIRTSTEN. She is the best thing in this film.

38.26: THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LADY YET. Lestat dancing with the corpse is iconic even to this day.

39.40: I always quoted it as 'I always know where to find you Louis, I just follow the trail of rats' and delivered it with about twenty times more flounce, and so 'All I need to find you Louis is follow the corpses of rats' delivered unflouncily is not as iconic. Boo.

43.33: Kirsten whispering 'I want some more' is perfect though. Both she and Bailey play very different Claudias and both of them are incredible.

45.00: Tom!Lestat is so tender with baby Claudia and it makes me kinda sad that Sam!Lestat and Bailey!Claudia didn't get more cute moments together.

50.50: the bit where Claudia watches the bathing woman and says she wants to be like her is a really good piece of writing. In some ways I think we can consider Claudia of having a sort of dysphoria. She wants a grown up body, an exterior to match her interiority.

53.35: Kirsten really brought the rage. I love her.

59.00: 'I hope it's a beautiful woman with endowments you will never possess' is mean, but Tom just isn't as good at the meanness as Sam is.

01.06.15: I'm sad we won't get Swampstat on TV tho.

01.11.22: I love Kirsten waltzing in the dressmaker's in her pretty blue gown. Want Bailey to get a similar moment because I love Bailey.

01.12.12: A WILD STEPHEN REA APPEARED. fuckin Santiago. he IS a buffoon.

01.13.40: the only person in this film who projects any sexuality (hetero or queer) at all is Antonio Banderas as Armand. I know people were whining about Assad Zaman but he looks way more like I imagine Armand than Antonio does.

There isn't any comparing the two from here on out because we're past the end of S1.

01.26.06: I do enjoy that Armand reads some very questionable romantic energy between Louis and Claudia, because of course the fledgeling of freakin' Marius would read that. Marius is vile.

01.31.30: 'I haven't tears enough for what you've done to me' is also a great line.

01.38.50: The Pompeii effect of Claudia and Madelaine's remains is very smart.

01.40.35: TIME FOR ANOTHER EPIC PYROMANIA FROM OUR BOY.

01.44.32: THEY ALMOST SMOOCH. And then Louis is all like, 'Soz Armand I'm leaving' and Armand pulls a 'If you leave me I will die' but then he still leaves Armand. TV show Louis would never leave a shitty manipulative man so easily.

01.50.05: What I DO hope we get in the show in lieu of Swampstat is Pathetic Husk Lestat telling Louis he's beautiful and being genuinely scared of him and absolutely PETRIFIED of helicopters. Delightful. Sam would nail it.

01.53.10: Actually amazing that Anne only fit one 'preternatural' into her screenplay considering it was her favourite word.

01.55.00: Apropos of nothing, I love Daniel's car.

And now it's time for the ending which remains pretty iconic.

So.

Queue up Guns and Roses.

And say it with me with all the glee we ever said it with before we had the TV show...

I ASSUME I NEED NO INTRODUCTION!

(Tidy up your sleeves.)

OH LOUIS LOUIS, STILL WHINING LOUIS! HAVE YOU HEARD ENOUGH? I'VE HAD TO LISTEN TO THAT FOR CENTURIES!

*

Conclusions...

I don't begrudge it. It's all we had for a very long time.

I remembered Cruise's performance being way camper than it was. Maybe it DID feel camp before we had Sam Reid doing the hair toss and shoulder wiggle and being completely unhinged.

Brad Pitt was so badly miscast it wasn't funny. He gives off the most intense No Homo energy I have ever seen and it's cringe. He does look miserable, but not in the right way. He's so monotone he could be saying 'I hate sand'. His hair is the wrong colour. You never really get any sense of who Louis is as a person.

Compare that to the fuckin' revelation that is Jacob Anderson, who has incredible range.

Bailey Bass was the only one who had any competition in terms of performance and I think the AMC writers knew it. The fact that her Claudia is so different from Dunst's gave Bass the ability to go just as hard, to perform with just as much gusto and pathos and horror, and to not have to face comparison. Both actresses are incredible. I hope Bass's career is at least as successful as Dunst's has been because she's SO GOOD.

It's kind of dull, though, the movie. The humour in the TV series is so important because there is something deeply goofy at the heart of the VC (even if 'IWTV' is very serious compared with the other books).

The movie isn't my favourite vampire movie (that's 'Only Lovers Left Alive') despite the fact that Rice's is the only vampire lore I really care for. It isn't even my favourite Neil Jordan vampire movie. That's 'Byzantium'.

I'm glad it exists. I'm glad it was good enough to keep us going for 28 years. But it's like feeding from rats and pigeons when compared with the TV series, which is like a long drink from the jugular of an attractive member of your preferred gender. It sustained us, but it wasn't a true feast.

[danieljacobes]

ETCETERA MAKES A SPLASH ON THE ENTERTAINMENT SCENE WITH THE LAUNCH OF IAMETCETERA RADIO AND GIANT FEATURE WITH PRODUCER FRAN AM ON HIT TV SERIES "BMF"

New York – September 25, 2023 - AND HE DOES IT AGAIN… Multi-award-winning recording artist ETCETERA has managed to resurface and go in for a double whammy and we aint even know it.

In Mid-March of 2022 Etcetera along with his DJ, Brooklyn Rich launched a new radio broadcast entitled “IAMETCETERA RADIO with DJ BROOKLYN RICH” airing every Friday, Saturday and Sunday from 6-7pm on the West Coast and 9-10 on the East Coast, on the Live365 App, endorsed by California’s own DJ Charley Sharp and powered by BPMBeats1, KPBM and iHeart Radio. The station plays all genres of classic music from R&B, Country, Hip Hop, EDM of artist that are main stream, independent and all in between and will soon be available for syndication stations across the country. In turn IAMETCETERA RADIO with DJ BROOKLYN RICH will soon be launching a media portion of the station that covers the hosting of events with a live journalist for interviews and more. All segment cuts will be available through the iHeartPodcast Network.

Looking at the individuals:

Etcetera is the perfect delineation of the Music Business! He is a music turbine and a businessman. For over a score Etcetera has made the most dynamic music, impressive movie soundtracks, collaborative features and more.  “You are an inspiring person to be around” said Joe Gawalis co-host of the Live Your Dreams Podcast with Joe Gawalis and Chris Victor on iHeart Media. If we take a look back IAMETCETERA RADIO has shown impressive growth numbers in its first year.

Brooklyn Native, DJ Brooklyn Rich has been Djing for over a score. He is a teacher and a student of the culture and also mentoring young aspiring DJs in the inner city. Formerly a Choreographer and Dancer for the Legendary group Technotronic touring with such acts as Madonna, DJ Scratch, whom gave him pointers on DJing, Dj Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, and is currently Etcetera’s tour DJ shows his talent of transition is music genre span is amazing. This also contributes and proves why he is now on one the largest broadcast platforms in the world.

Etcetera with the help of his longtime friend platinum producer Francion “FRAM AM” Corbett and producer of Etcetera’s highest acclaimed album “Character, put together a classic hip hop song that formed a direct connection with the episodes theme and a reflection of why we honor 50 years of hip hop. The song “IS THAT MIC ON” appears on the show courtesy of Derryck “BIG TANK” Thorton, (Music Supervisior and Sr. VP for Sony) on Season 2 Episode 2 of Curtis “50 Cent” Jacksons hit tv series “BMF” and was recently released as a single on all platforms, where ever music is sold.

“I am thankful for all the blessing that have been bestowed up me over the years. I do not take anything for granted, I appreciate everything and everyone, especially the people that make the Etcetera movement possible. You are my inspiration and my driving force. Without you there would not be a me”. - Etcetera

.

Visit – Iametceteraradio.com, Idolmusicgroupinc.com

OUT NOW “IS THAT MIC ON” - https://unitedmasters.com/m/isthatmicon

About iHeartMedia, Inc.

Visit iHeartMedia.com for more company information.

[littlemissidontcare]

Baby is bullshit, of course. But he's really pulled back a lot. No TV appearances before the awards show. Not a single interview during the awards show. No magazine covers lately, no fashion shows just a tiny con and no more social media. He's also saying no to selfies and photos more and more. Actually, except for a few pap walks, he is barely visible.// other than the CCAs he’s done interviews pretty much at every event. And the magazine covers aren’t entirely his decision. He still does selfies with fans, just not when they come to the set and cause disruptions.

[presumenothing]

CHUANG2021 » zhou shen + yep, that definitely sounds familiar

[yanderenightmare]

Okay so this tends to bug me sometimes when I’m reading your Deku fics (btw i love them so much it HURTS) but what do you imagine his appearance as? i think i remember u once saying he was in his early/late 30s and darling is in early 20s, but i feel like you also mentioned him having facial hair? i find his hair the hardest thing to imagine because i try googling him older and googling him with a beard but can’t see anything that looks like him. also, at this age does he have the same hairstyle as his younger version? and i’m guessing his facial hair is a beard rather than stubble, but still close-shaven, right?

goodiebag WARNINGS: yandere, some nsfw, dubcon/noncon, manga SPOILERS in the form of pictures of new character designs

TIP-JAR

yandere ! MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

I write him in different ages based on the concept while still trying to make sure every reader can somewhat choose which age they prefer him in.

Personally, I feel his younger self is more volatile whereas his older self is sturdier. So, if I want a more insane and vengeful Deku I write him in his twenties and thirties, and if i want him condescending and overbearing I write him in his late thirties and forties, even early fifties.

I like to think Deku struggles with a lot of different personalities though.

Not exactly having a split-personality disorder, but having really strong phases, even in his twenties and thirties, before finally settling and calming down in his forties and fifties.

And as we all know, phases really fuck with a persons appearance.

COCKY FLIRTY DEKU

I like to think he has this one side to him that's extremely cocky and full of himself. He'll walk on the scene with means to be a show-off, stealing the spotlight from everyone.

And worst of it all is that it's justified because he's literally the strongest hero in the world, a pillar of justice and the symbol of peace.

And he'll gloat knowing he's clout.

THIS - vid

And he'll care about his appearance a bit too much. Being extremely hipster with all fine-tailored clothing. Gelling his hair into tame curls. No facial hair, but smooth skinned. Obsessed with the media and with looking good for the camera. Taking on every interview and photoshoot and paparazzi-event he has the time for where he'll boast about what an honour being revered as the symbol of peace is.

MID-TWENTIES, THIRTIES - pics

And he'll be so flamboyant. Superhero-landings with his cape flapping dramatically in the wind. Making sure everybody recognises who's come to save the day.

Using his float-quirk to walk on water, blessing babies, blowing kisses that have all the fans blushing and squealing. Whilst every other hero roll their eyes at him. Some giving him a dead glare whilst others chuckle at his antiques.

He'll be a real flirty with everyone too. Especially Bakugou. Whispering small teasing comments to him and smirking when he gets a rise out of the blonde.

Having all the traits of a grade A fuckboy, but with class.

YOUNG ADULT - pic

You'll be stuck at home watching his act on TV. Sick to your stomach to see the world adore him the way they do. Hating his smile and his laugh and the way he poses after winning a fight. Hating how he doesn't even seem to mind the blood-gushing wounds ripped in his flesh with how he pounds that fist in the air in the grand statement that he's there and the day's saved.

Hating how he's completely fine when he comes home. Not even a scratch on him after being treated by whatever row of healing quirks he has at his disposal.

Hating how he'll still make you kiss the strip of scars marring his knuckles while thanking him for keeping you safe.

RUDE CYNICAL DEKU

And then other times he'll embrace the fanatic in him a bit more. Forgetting to look his best and act his best. Rough around the edges, though always getting the job done.

YOUNG ADULT - pic

He'll be cold and cynical and calculating, straight to the point, never fucking around, not giving a single flying fuck about appearances and reputations.

Letting his hair grow wild. Never catching a good night's sleep, having bags for days beneath dead eyes. No smile on his face unless it's cruelly condescending or just plain cruel.

Sometimes unhinged.

TWENTIES, TWENTIES - pics

He'll no longer hold back the comments about those not-so-cute observations he makes. Not exactly going out of his way to be vicious, but doesn't hesitate to bite mercilessly when you first test him.

YOUNG ADULT, YOUNG ADULT, YOUNG ADULT - pics

He'll plainly state that Iida's a one-track moron and Ochako's a naive air-head and Kachan's a little bitch still throwing tantrums right to their faces, and won't be any kinder when he comes home to you.

Quirkless little pussy on legs completely hopeless without him. Lost every single second of every single day without him coming to the rescue.

He'll keep his shit straight when in the public eye though, because he knows that's in his best interest. But when cameras aren't on him, he'll be a sadistic little shit. Hurting villains just a bit more than what he actually needs to.

Laughing while at it.

WORKAHOLIC DEKU

Then other times he's the most righteous person ever. Selfless eyes set on justice and peace. Serious and dedicated.

TWENTIES, TWENTIES - pics

A bit too dedicated. So dedicated that nothing else matters.

Spending time with family doesn't matter, nor does friends, not even you. All that matters is keeping you all safe. No matter what it takes, no matter the self-sacrifice.

If he hasn't kidnapped you yet, he'll devote a few moments in the day to check on you. Crouching on some rooftop while watching you waltz about obliviously in you apartment. It's all the motivation he needs to take down a couple dozen petty-thieves in your neighbourhood.

But if he's already kidnapped you he'll feel the ache of guilt when needing to leave you alone. He'll stock the house up with food enough to last and try to come home for at least an hour every day.

YOUNG ADULT - pic

Sometimes he'll be out for weeks though. Blood, mud and sweat caked over the green of his costume. Green curls so dirty they've turned to dreads. Looking like a walking wraith.

YOUNG ADULT, YOUNG ADULT, TWENTIES - pics, manga spoilers

You feel bad for him when he finally comes home stumbling in through the doorway, landing in a heap just shy of the threshold.

His alabaster skin nowhere in sight, completely smeared with smut and grime and blood. Cuts drawn over older cuts, none of them taken care of properly.

Other times he'll be holed up in his office. Not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. Crouched over whatever documents of the bright lit computer screen, deep-diving to solve some mystery case.

YOUNG ADULT - pic

He won't touch you a lot when he's in this phase. On the contrary, you'll be the one to come to him most of the time.

He makes you feel so sorry for him. You'll be begging him to take a break and to stay with you for a little while longer.

DADDY DEKU

(this is the one i usually aim for)

When he's older he settles down. All his personalities blend into this perfect symbiosis.

He's calm and cheerful. Still cracking the occasional cheeky condescending jokes to piss Kachan off, but in spirits of making everyone else feel at ease. Stating those cheesy catchphrases in a confident and charismatic manner, in effort of reassuring the people that Deku the symbol of peace has everything under control.

THIRTIES - pic

Nearing that age where he's not considered among the requirements of being an eligible bachelor, despite his fanbase never being bigger, his producers calm down on making him look as perfectly presentable for the camera anymore.

And even if they did try, Deku's become so comfortable and acclimated to being a pro-hero that he no longer cares all too much about looking perfect.

FORTIES - pic

Everything is more about practicality now.

He shaves his sides for easy upkeep so curls don't annoyingly hang about his ears and deafen noises, trimming his bangs so they not block his line of sight. Grey hairs left as is as he doesn't feel the need to fool anyone to think he's any younger than what he is.

Light stubble on his face as shaving every morning is a pain and a waste of time. Where, he might even grow some length in colder seasons.

FORTIES, LATE-FORTIES - pics

He looks gruff and worn, though still trustworthy and very much a pillar of strength and peace. Such presence in his massive hefty size. The ground rumbling each time he makes an entrance. Each time he takes a step.

FIFTIES, FIFTIES - pics

You'll feel hopelessly insignificant when fighting him at this age.

If he was younger you'd at the very least be able to get a rise out of him and make him lose his temper, which could be seen as some form of victory if it didn't leave you feeling so awfully crushed at the hands of the following punishment.

But now, he just chuckles at you.

Stroking a thick and knuckled finger across your cheek while looking down at you. Knowing he must be careful with handling you, because one ounce of strength too much and petting your head becomes cracking your skull.

TIP-JAR

[con-fection]

violence and intimacy are the only universal languages | BUCKY BARNES x READER | 18+ oneshot

synopsis: In which Bucky Barnes fucks John Walker’s girlfriend, who turns out not to be John Walker’s girlfriend at all. 

[Alternative synopsis: Bucky happens to meet you, John Walker's girlfriend, and you're nothing like he expects you to be. He's anticipating a woman that's arrogant, mindless and fake, following after Walker like a lost puppy, a woman who puts on a front to the whole world, a terrible person hiding behind the girl-next-door facade. You're nothing like that - you're soft, intriguing and absolutely lovely, everything that's good in the world. And he's very much attracted to you, desperate to show John who you really belong to.]

Content warnings: 18+ This is SMUT. Contains sex/explicit language/,masturbation. 

THIS IS SET DURING EPISODE 2 AND WILL CONTAIN SOME SPOILERS AS IT USES SOME DIALOGUE FROM THE SHOW :) IT’S ALSO TOLD FROM BUCKY’S POV :)

Word count: 17K

John Walker is absolutely insufferable.

He is a man high off his own arrogance, regarding himself as the ultimate authority, and relegating every other member of this planet to being below him. He is a bastardisation of everything that vibranium shield stood for. John doesn't have bravery, but he has pride in spades, which is more than good enough for everybody around him.

Captain America had been so deeply beloved that his loss left a crippling gape in the very heart of the American dream. It was a space that required filling - and so, in the absence of Steve Rogers, the apparent next best thing was located.

But Walker wasn't the next best after a man like Steve Rogers. They may vaguely resemble one another, in their facial features, icy blue eyes and broad, towering stature, but John fails to measure up in each and every way that matters. He fundamentally lacks the most important qualities that Steve had in abundance.

Steve Rogers had been a heart-wrenchingly good man, burdened with a righteous sense of justice, a strong moral compass and compassion. His life had been far from easy, wrought with losses that left him fractured into pieces of himself. He was loyal to a fault - willing to wage a war against the United States' government to try to clear the name of a comrade so close he would have died for him a thousand times over. John would dance to whatever tune the government gave him, so long as it resulted in his name being glorified.

John Walker knows nothing of that sacrifice. Every alleged 'brave' act comes from his warped sense of reality, one that has given him the impression he simply cannot die, that he can't be wrong in any way. 

Each time he jumped on top of a grenade, or put himself in the line of fire, he came out unscathed, and so he did it again and again and again, revelling in the praise he recieved afterwards, and the eventual mantle that was bestowed upon him.

Steve had never once come out of a single fight uninjured. 

That was part of the mysticism, of his heroism. He would be hurt time and time again. And yet, he would never fold. He didn't bend or break under the pressure, under the pain. He didn't so much as waver in the face of all of it. his devotion to doing what was good and what was right always prevailed, irrespective of how many bones he may break or how much blood he may lose.

Despite the fact that John Walker, the second Captain America, lacked any of the characteristics of his predecessor, he became America's sweetheart. People were desperate to have somebody fill the space that Steve Rogers had left, and to the public, it seemed like John Walker was perfect.

He gave flawless interviews, where he came across not as an arrogant, self-serving puppet of the state, but as a humble, bashful, honest man that represented the very soul of America. Watching him talk was reminiscent of his predecessor, and of course, each public appearance had been carefully orchestrated so that would be the case. Every word that spilled from his mouth was premeditated, designed specifically with the intent to appeal to the populus.

John Walker got to parade around wearing stars and stripes, cradling a shield that he was very much undeserving of wielding. And, he got to do all of this accompanied by two people. 

The first was Lemar Hoskins, the Battlestar. Like Walker, he too had served in the armed forces, and was to be considered a decently skilled fighter, though he failed to measure up to the likes of either Bucky or Sam.

...and then there was you.

Bucky found John Walker to be absolutely insufferable, a blight on Steve's legacy, and some tiny, bitter sliver of that hatred was reserved for you, too.

The new Captain America served the country with his best friend Battlestar and his lover, you.

You weren't like them. You weren't some jacked-up soldier fresh out of the army who had kissed enough ass and earnt enough medals to be made into a hero. Instead, you were practically just the eye candy. America's darling, hanging off the arm of their beloved hero. There was something magnetising about you that made people just love you instantaneously. It was a raw appeal that nobody was safe from.

Initially, Bucky had regarded you as an odd choice. You weren't even a superhero. You didn't take up a stupid, convoluted mantle like 'Battlestar' had. Rather simply, you were just there, tagging along, looking pretty and people adored you for it.

 There was something very intriguing to the people of America about their new Captain America and his sweetheart - you, a stunning supermodel-type with a dazzling mind and a blinding smile. It was easy for them to project onto you two, the perfect superhero couple who had a fairytale romance.

Bucky utterly detested John Walker and his lost-puppy sidekick, Battlestar.

Some tiny sliver of that malice had initially been generalised to you, too. It was hard not to feel slightly bitter as he saw the two of you on TV, giving interview after interview, cuddled up to each other. It was all so terribly fake, utter bullshit that people eagerly lapped up because it was the version of reality that they desperately wanted to believe in.

 It had to be fake - nobody is simply that charismatic, especially not when they're holding hands with John Walker. There was something about the way they, they being your PR team, had styled you in a few of the earlier interviews that gave him the distinct impression that they wanted people to be reminded of Natasha Romanoff, minus the bloody past.

For a while, for your first few public appearances, you had been relegated to wearing dark clothes and leathers that made you seem every bit a femme fatale, though any semblance of danger was nullified by your friendly smile. 

It also seemed like that route had been abandoned, and now you tended to appear wearing lighter clothes, whites and creams that were more innocent, like your PR team had doubled back on itself and decided to switch from the 'whore' to the 'virgin'. You seemed more genuine like that, in florals and paler colours.

Bucky would be lying if he said he had never watched any of your interviews. It had merely been a simple fascination, a way to satisfy the nagging feeling of curiosity that threatened to consume him. They were interesting, and he consumed them with an almost ravenous hunger. Simple curiosity, that was all. That was all that he would let it be.

That interview that John had given at his old high school had just been the beginning, his very debut to the American people. Since then, there had been a few more, some featuring Battlestar, who would sit obediently at his side, and others featuring you.

You would curl up next to him, eagerly pressing yourself into John's side, smiling widely as you began the interview. There was a slightly angelic quality about you, a veil of innocence around you, your lilting voice like a siren's call, and your bright, doe eyes. With a well practiced ease, you would entwine your fingers with John's and sweetly tell him, looking at your lover intensely, that he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It was fascinating to watch, to see just what kind of image your PR team could put across. You seemed every bit like the all-american girl, like the unattainable girl-next-door who would go to church every sunday and would be an inspiration to girls across the country. 

Despite the innocent-seeming way in which you were deliberately styled, you never once came across as naive. Instead, there was never any vapid or vain qualities to you. It was like you just didn't know how pretty you were, or the effect you could have on people.

As nice as you may have come across in all of those interviews, every bit the picture-perfect media darling, Bucky knew it was all a farce. John had managed to seem like a decent, determined man who was down to earth and wanted nothing more than to provide inspiration to Americans, no, to the whole world. But all of those things about John simply were untrue.

 Every interaction he had with the public had been carefully created to construct an image of him that incited adoration from the public. There was no reason whatsoever why you wouldn't be the same.

In fact, Bucky found it more likely than not that you were a complete inversion of that sweet, charming woman you appeared to be on TV. It left him with a sour taste in his mouth and biting back at bile rising in his throat. It was nauseatingly fake, all masquerading around as good and just using Steve's emblem.

It wasn't until he met you that the malice rescinded.

His escapade with Sam to see Isaiah had ultimately concluded with handcuffs being wrapped around his wrists and a visit to the local police station. Bucky had been taken into some tiny, isolated cell with boring blank walls that are comprised of chipped bricks covered poorly by cracking blue and white paint, constantly escorted and monitored by police officers, who were buzzing dually with excitement and tension at having both the recently-pardoned Winter Soldier in detention, and avenger the Falcon stood outside in the hall, demanding answers.

Doctor Christina Raynor had strolled into the precinct with both weariness and disappointment in her eyes. She walked almost like a woman defeated, one hand clasping the strap of her handbag and the other falling aimlessly at her side. 

Immediately, she gravitated towards Sam, who was seated rigidly in some tiny, uncomfortable plastic chair amongst a myriad of members of the public, people who were also waiting for news about their friends or family who had been arrested.

Clamoring to put on the most polite smile she could, Doctor Raynor introduced herself to Sam, barely managing to get in a complete sentence before she's interrupted.

Swiftly following the arrival of the Doctor is the entrance of John Walker. John strides into the precinct dressed in the Captain America garb, shield positioned on his back. There's something terribly strategic about the decision to be constantly wearing the suit. Perhaps it's to offer a sense of security, or maybe it's because without it John has no authority to operate on. Either way, his mere appearance results in a horde of frenzied police officers trailing after him, desperate for a selfie or an autograph, something that John mindlessly indulges them in, smiling the whole time. Sam's face instantly sours as John enters, his eyebrows tugging down into a frown.

John Walker simply saunters in, a falsely cherubic smile on his face as he stares down at Christina. "Bucky's not going to be following a strict schedule any longer."

Doctor Raynor's previously jovial attitude towards John's presence dissipates, quickly replaced by confusion. "We haven't finished our work." She protests, setting her jaw. "Who authorised this?"

There's a note of challenge in her voice as she presses John for an answer. She's the professional - she's very much the one capable of understanding Bucky's mind, and yet John doesn't take her concern into account. He doesn't even look phased by it. He's completely unbothered by any opposition thrown his way - it had never mattered to him before, and it had no reason to bother him now.

"I did," John says, pointing to himself.

Sam and Christina both stare him down, equally perturbed. They exchange a brief glance. Doctor Raynor's concerned in a professional capacity - not only is Barnes her patient, and it is her prerogative to help him take control of his mind and heal, but she is also commanded by the state to oversee his psychiatric care. 

Responsibility for him falls onto her - she's the professional. Christina is the doctor, the one who understands the human mind, and John very much is not. Sam, on the other hand, is personally concerned. As much as he pretends he despises Bucky, he does care, albeit begrudgingly. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

A tiny beep goes off, signifying that a door is being opened. Bucky is walked in by two police officers, looking mildly agitated for one second, and completely numb the next, all emotion dropping from his face to put a cool, unfeeling visage into place. It's a mask that gives him obscurity, that allows him to distance himself from the mere possibility of being vulnerable.

Christina forces the two of them into some botched attempt at therapy, forcing them to look into each others eyes and get far closer than either of them are comfortable with whilst she presides over them, poking, prodding, inquiring. 

It's a demand of some emotional vulnerability that Bucky simply does not want to produce. It's not exactly heart-wrenching but it does make him feel robbed, like something had been taken from him against his will. It didn't feel like healing, like what therapy was meant to be. It felt difficult. It felt like a quiet rage building in his gut that he desperately wants to keep under wraps, lest he lash out at somebody.

It leaves Bucky feeling stripped raw when they finally leave the police station.

By the time Bucky and Sam step out onto the streets the sun has already set. The sky is dark, a deep navy blue that's mostly covered by thick dark clouds that besiege the atmosphere. The whole street is lit by lights that have been left on in people's windows, or blinkering blue lamps that run along the outer wall of the police station.

A blaring, almost comically loud beeping noise disrupts the fragile silence of the night. Lined up outside of the station are a series of police cars, all emblazoned with white lettering reading 'BALTIMORE POLICE DEPARTMENT'. 

The sirens of one of the police cars is going off wildly, the noise being one disruption and the blue and red flashing lights emitting from the roof of the car being another. It's an annoyance, and creates a false sense of urgency. Those sirens are normally used when somebody's life is at risk and members of the police force are going to respond. In this situation, there's no rush, no hurry, there's no crime.

Leaned up against the car, grinning wildly, is John Walker, still dressed as Captain America, all dolled up in navy blue and red, a silver 'A' on his breast.

 When he sees that he's successfully captured Sam and Bucky's attention, which he garners from the fact that both of their heads whip towards him, attracted by both the loud noise and the bright lights, he turns off the siren, restoring the tentative peace to the darkened streets.

This time, though, Walker's not alone. 

Next to him, propped up against the hood of the car is Battlestar, also dressed head-to-toe in his tactical gear, arms folded over his chest and a stoic expression on his face. There's something about him that just lacks any individuality. John masqueraded as somebody else, somebody whose mantle he had no right to use, and he's always constantly accompanied by a pale imitation of a comrade.

As likely as it is that Walker and Battlestar have engaged in combat together, they're not comrades, not in the way Bucky and Steve were. He and Steve had been willing to do anything for each other - endure any pain, run from the forces of the state if they had to, even die for one another.

 Walker didn't seem like the type to lay down his life for somebody else out of a genuine heart-felt devotion to them.

And then, stood a few feet away from both Walker and his loyal sidekick is you - the lover. There's a decent amount of distance between you and them, separated from one another by enough space that it quite literally looks like you're desperate to avoid Walker's presence. You huddle over by the wall of the precinct, jaw set like you were irritated by the ear-splitting sound of the siren, though you don't voice a complaint. Unlike the two men, you're not dressed like you're headed out to battle, like you're some kind of protector. No, you're dressed in some pale, flouncy sundress that grazes your thighs, and you're shivering in the night air. Of course you are - it's freezing.

Bucky has to bite back a sneer just at the sight of the three of you, a vile, acrid remark just on the tip of his tongue. He has just spent the best part of his day in some cramped cell that reminds him all too much of a HYDRA facility, and then being interrogated by his own therapist, who is desperate to push him into emotional vulnerability all in the name of progress. He isn't in the mood to play happy families, and especially not with the man now wielding Steve's shield.

"Gentlemen!" John calls out, waving his hands in the air as if Bucky and Sam hadn't already started their stride towards him, matching expressions of disdain on their faces. "Good to see you again. Have I introduced you to my girl yet? No?"

It, of course, was a rhetorical question. The two of them had only ever seen you in snapshots of public appearances that you had made at John's side. You weren't actively accompanying Captain America or Battlestar on any of their missions, and as far as Bucky is aware, there are no plans for you to do so. You're not a soldier. You're not built for battle - you're softer. More gentle. You're not the state's attempt at creating a superhero. Allegedly, you're just a regular girl - pretty and smart and charismatic, but otherwise perfectly regular - who just so happens to be dating John Walker, the new Captain America.

John doesn't wait for a response from Bucky or Sam, but he does gesture to you, beckoning you over to him by crooking two of his fingers.

You approach him, your dress ruffled by the wind. In that instant Bucky thinks that the two of you actually do seem nothing like how you do on those televised interviews - his prediction had been correct. The persona was lovely, enchanting even, but it was just that. A persona, an act for your public image. There's something almost mechanical about the way you approach John, your hands folded across your chest in an unsuccessful attempt to shield yourself from the cold. It's all too robotic. It's not effortless or affectionate. You don't look remotely comfortable, but you slide up next to Walker and Hoskins regardless. Clearly, Battlestar isn't the only one who follows Walker's commands like an obedient dog.

You slot yourself in between Battlestar and John, a grimace passing over your face as you press yourself into his side. It's odd, exceptionally so, for Bucky to see this - god, you look reluctant to accept some modicum of warmth from your own boyfriend, who you'd proclaimed publically that you loved more than anything. It's almost like you resent his touch.

And oh, that's nice. It's almost cathartic seeing somebody meant to love and adore John avoid his touch like he's got some contagious flesh-eating disease.

There's a great deal of recognition in your eyes as you look at Bucky and Sam. It's likely you'd already been made familiar with them as a result of Walker's fevered desperation to unite their forces. 

Bucky's looking at you intently, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to open your mouth and prove him right - for you to prove that you were just as fake as Walker and Hoskins. It almost seemed inevitable, really. It's all too easy to seem good, sweet and polite on those well-orchestrated interviews. But real life is a completely different matter all together.

Bucky's well versed in being able to tell when people are lying, easily spotting their little tells, locating them in the flutter of a limb, the arch of an eyebrow or the twitch of an eye. It'll be a matter of moments until he spots yours. Any act was doomed to fail around him. Everybody gives themselves away somehow.

You introduce yourself, stating your name and giving them a shy wave. "It's nice to meet the two of you." You say sweetly, a smile lighting up your face.

Bucky's eyes widen involuntarily. Oh. It was one thing seeing that enchantment on TV, and another seeing it just feet away from him. There was something absolutely enrapturing about the silky quality of your voice, and the way your eyes sparkled even in the dim light.

 He hadn't expected you to actually be...pleasant. It was all supposed to be this fake persona, and yet, he can practically sense the genuity on you. You don't twitch like some little rabbit, or stumble over your words. There's no sweat beading on your brow, and you're not avoiding eye-contact. If anything, you're welcoming it.

There was no fucking way. No fucking way at all that you could actually be as nice as you were in those interviews and be with John Walker of all people. You should be horrible simply by being associated with the man.

"Well, now that we're all acquainted we can move onto our first order of business." John says, not even glancing at you. His gaze is focused solely on Sam and Bucky, steely and deceptive, completely dismissive of how utterly lovely you look.

Bucky's having a hard time even looking at John, not when you're right there, not too far away, looking absolutely angelic. There was no way it was some act, right? That facade had fallen through for both John and his stoic sidekick the minute they opened their mouths, but when it came to you... the complete opposite was true. Sam had definitely remarked on his staring problem more than once, and Bucky was very much hoping that in the dark you wouldn't be able to tell that he was looking at you in something akin to awe and unrepentant curiosity. He was looking at you in both fascination and scrutiny, staring intently like he was about to authenticate a work of art.

His deep rooted dislike of both John Walker and Battlestar was still very much present, but he was currently experiencing some emotional turbulence over his deep lack of hatred for you. It simply seemed to have evaporated the second you smiled at him. Which was...concerning to say the least. Shouldn't he hate you? Shouldn't your very presence have stoked that spark of malice?

"Look, if we divide ourselves we don't stand a chance. You guys know that." John says. He's all charismatic and confident, self-assured in a way that comes across as mildly condescending. It's a pale, cheap imitation of Steve's ability to rouse even the most slovenly of men and turn them into righteous soldiers.

"So what do you got?" Sam asks tiredly.

John immediately begins his speech, eagerly describing the plight of Karli Morgenthau, and how her journey around the globe is being aided and abetted by sympathisers who want to see the world return to the way it had been during the years of the blip. These sympathisers had much preferred it when half the world had been reduced to ash and something akin to anarchy had been allowed to prevail. 

Whole governments had collapsed in on themselves, and often, borders ceased to exist. It was complete free movement - there was a distinct lack of separation between different human factions, like all of humanity had been united by that grave event that took half of the planet.

Bucky had no idea what that world had been like. He'd only seen the shell of it, the hellscape that was left once the other fifty percent of earth's inhabitants returned to life.

Battlestar makes a few brief interjections, explaining a few minor aspects of the tale - the geotagging, that this threat is most likely operating out of eastern europe, and that Karli has stolen the medicine to take it to one of the camps.

 They don't tend to be sanitary places. Disease runs rampant there, and nobody tends to really care about those who fall sick and succumb to their illness. Of course they need medicine - there's probably hundreds of people who are in the throes of sickness, vomiting their own guts out, their wounds crusted over with coagulated blood, infected and festering.

"Well, there are hundreds of those all over the planet since the blip. So, I guess you'll have to look real hard," Bucky says, shrugging with a sort of apathy. It's rather vindicating to watch the way John's lip curls up in disdain.

"Well I guess it's good we have-" John begins, his jaw set and his tone confrontational, dripping with very thinly veiled rage.

You sigh, a tiny little breathless sound that makes Bucky freeze up slightly. It sounded, for a lack of a better word, rather nice. Melodic, even. "John, calm down." You tell him, not entirely unkindly, but not sweetly, either. 

There's some kind of quality to your voice when you speak to John like you're negotiating for hostages, not like you're having a conversation with your lover. It's curious, but Bucky tries not to attach too much meaning to it.  

Bucky gives you a stiff sort of nod, and you reward him with a smile, your lips curving upwards. "Where is she now? Do you know?" He says, softer than he probably would have if you hadn't been there.

"No. We don't know, Bucky." John's voice is a near yell. He shifts agitatedly, gesticulating wildly, tossing his arms about and shoving you slightly, letting you nearly collide with Battlestar, who is forced to grasp your arm to keep you upright. Battlestar's hand curves around your upper arm, pulling you back until you're steady on your feet. "But it's only a matter of time before we find out."

Relatively quickly, Battlestar's hand drops from your arm, and you give him a whisper of thanks before turning to give John a glare. He hadn't even so much as muttered an apology. He was completely focused on Bucky, the two locking stares in some kind of silent battle, one of wills.

"Things are really intense for you, aren't they, Walker?" Bucky can't fucking resist agitating him, letting the taunt roll off his tongue easily, not even bothering to resist grinning when your lips quirk upwards. Oh yes, you think he's funny - he can see it in the way you press a hand to your lips in a successful attempt to quell a rising peal of laughter.

"Walker's right." Sam is the one to turn to Bucky and snap at him. He tries to diffuse the situation, glancing between you, Bucky and John like he was watching something that had the potential to go very wrong. "It is imperative that we find and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and authorisations you have to get. We're free agents. More flexible. It wouldn't make sense for us to work together."

Tentatively, you set a hand on John's shoulder, feeling the coarse, kevlar-esque material of the suit beneath the tips of your fingers as he turns rigid, looking at Bucky and Sam coldly, all pretences of being nice completely gone, having simply evaporated into the cold night air. "Mr. Wilson isn't wrong."

Like Sam, you seem to have moved on to an attempt to prevent the escalating tensions from reaching their head. You try your best to soothe John, and his shoulders do sag fractionally, like he's just been reminded of your presence. There's something about the way that Walker looks at you that's utterly unappreciative. Perhaps John doesn't want to be grounded - if his will is being resisted then he'd rather be aggressive than diplomatic.

Sam scoffs at the name, "You don't have to call me that. In fact, please don't call me that."

"It's polite isn't it?" You say, smiling, even as John ruthlessly shucks your hand from his shoulder, dismissive of your touch. He gives you an irritated kind of look, a silent admonishment of you challenging his authority. It's not the kind of look that equal partners give each other, and your ensuing glare isn't, either.

"Suppose so," Sam shrugs, his lips quirking up in amusement.

"Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes aren't obligated to help," You tell John softly, seemingly speaking through gritted teeth. "Clearly, we all want the same things - to get that medicine back and bring Karli to justice. But, if you're not all going to be able to work cohesively on a team and get the job done, it may be best to work separately. It gives you all the opportunity to handle things the way you want to. This should be about doing the right thing and accomplishing the mission, not about who's calling the shots."

John nods stiffly, turning to you for a brief moment. There's some kind of red light coming from within one of the nearby buildings, and it's lighting up the dark street in shades of red, crimson light spilling over his cheekbones and dancing across one side of his face. He's the very image of begrudging agreement. "Alright then. Just one piece of advice for you boys. Stay the hell out of my way."

"Gladly." Bucky mutters under his breath, not missing the fact that you catch it and your smile widens.

As Bucky and Sam begin their exit, he can't help but to spare you one last glance over his shoulder. Bucky's eyes quickly roam over your form, as if he's mapping you out, or trying to emblazon the image of you within his mind - bathed in dying red light, still smiling serenely at him even as he's leaving. He really cannot figure you out. 

The line of what's real and what's fake seems awfully blurred when it comes to you. Normally he's excellent at detecting a performance, but when it comes to you, Bucky has no idea whatsoever what is going on. And it's very much intriguing.

John Walker he would have no problem whatsoever in leaving alone.

...but you on the other hand, were a whole different story.

There was some grand, captivating quality that you had in spades that was even more potent in real life than it had been on camera. It was in the way your hair was jostled by the wind, the pale sundress that skirted your soft-looking thighs, the curve of your hips, the way you smiled and that hypnotic twinkle in your eye. 

Walker and Hoskin's lovely personalities had been something of a farce, but yours wasn't. It did, however, make him wonder what somebody like you was doing with them - how you could aid and abet their actions even though it was glaringly obvious you weren't always in concordance with them.

"Man, I do not know what the hell was going on there, but I very much did not like how you were looking at Walker's girl like she was a piece of steak, or something." Sam shudders, muttering quietly once they're out of earshot of Walker and his companions.

"I don't know what you mean." Bucky feigns ignorance, setting his jaw and very much trying to push the phrase 'Walker's girl' from his mind. It just...didn't seem right.

In all of those TV interviews, the two of you had seemed like a perfect couple - you only appeared that way because Walker was plastering on a faux persona. In reality, the two of you seemed fragmented, distant from one another though Walker did have some tiny modicum of respect for you. 

There was nothing about the real, raw interactions between the two of you that indicated any intimacy. It was the complete antithesis of the united front the two of you presented, of the perpetually happy lovers that America adored.

There was just no way it could be true. In fact, it sets off something that's terribly close to jealousy in his gut. Walker's an arrogant prick who carries a shield he has no right to even look at. He especially doesn't deserve you - you with the pretty eyes and an aura about you that screamed 'holy', 'saintly', even.

Yes. That was probably why he disliked it. Because it was probably inaccurate. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way you enchanted him, nothing to do with the sight of your bare legs and absolutely nothing to do with the lovely way you said 'Mr.Barnes.'  It had absolutely nothing to do with that whatsoever.

"No, no." Sam protests. "I've seen you, you know, stare at people before - but god, never like that. Fuck, man."

And it's true. It was obvious to anybody that spent more than thirty seconds with Bucky that he had yet to acclimate and adjust to social scenarios, and that once he was focused on one thing had an abject refusal to move his gaze away from it. Bucky had heard Sam call it both 'creepy' and 'unnerving', and hoped, for some inexplicable reason, that you thought differently. 

After all, your eyes had barely left his. It wasn't staring if both of you were doing it - then it was mutual, some kind of joint focus on one another.

"Like what, Sam?"

Sam just shakes his head, looking disdainful, his nose turned up like he'd just smelled something foul. "Mmhm, like you wanted to do some things to her that, for the sake of my own mental health, I would rather not think about."

Well, technically, he hadn't thought about anything that bad - just your voice, your smile, and the way you might say his name. But, in that instant, Sam's words derail all of those thoughts. Because, really, you had looked so lovely that it would be forgivable to think about you like that.

There was that cute little sundress you were wearing, grazing your thighs whenever you moved or whenever the wind picked up. It's all too easy for him to imagine skirting his fingers up your smooth, soft thighs and let his hands explore you, roaming over your ass and your inner thighs, enjoying the feeling of your skin and the little noises he could provoke from you.

"...stop thinking about it. I can literally hear your thoughts right now." Sam says, grimacing at Bucky's spaced out kind of look - his glazed over eyes and the fingers twitching at his sides. It's all too easy for him to see the gears shifting in Bucky's head, openly reliving the few moments he had seen you.  

"I'm not thinking about it," Bucky outright lies as the two of them continue walking down the street.

"No, you absolutely are thinking about it." Sam objects. "I can sense the impropriety."

"Oh yeah? You can sense it?" Bucky glares at Sam, unable to resist antagonising him. It's safe, reliable even, between the two of them. They'll perpetually annoy one another, being challenging, rude, and utterly impolite, knowing that when it comes down to it, they'll fight side-by-side without objection, trusting each other implicitly. But in these moments when there's no imminent danger, that opposition is welcome. It's routine, even.

"Hell yes, I can sense it."

Bucky just scoffs at him, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. It wasn't really as if Sam was wrong. There was something especially fascinating about Walker's girl - if that's even what you are. He'd known you for a matter of fleeting moments that passed by like dandelion seeds in a breeze. And yet, something about it felt terribly significant. 

He hadn't actually expected that appeal to be real. He anticipated that just like Walker's carefully groomed public image, it would have been falsified.

The only thing that really seemed fake about those interviews was your affection with John. It was non-existent in real life, and for a while, you had avoided touching him, until you had to diffuse the situation. That was very, very curious. Just where had Walker found you? He had to doubt that the relationship was genuine. 

Somebody as nice, as innocent-seeming as you would never go for Walker. Not when Walker's the kind of guy that Steve would have tried to fight as a scrappy teenager, before he even got the serum. The kind of guy who Bucky would inevitably have to knock the lights out of in order to protect Steve. That kind of guy objectively did not belong with someone like you.

Bucky has to shake his head ever so slightly. It's a dangerous line of thinking. God, he doesn't even know you. He's met you once, and you'd exchanged only a few words. Irrespective of how nice you seem, how entrancing you are, he doesn't know you. It hardly matters whether or not your relationship with Walker is genuine. It shouldn't matter to him. It really shouldn't bother him.  

But it does, and that fact alone is almost as bad as the fact that John Walker is the new Captain America. It causes the same bitter feeling to swell in his chest.

Sam and Bucky fall into line next to each other, walking side-by-side, the dull noises of their footsteps hitting the pavement reverberating throughout the streets. There's a comfortable silence between the two of them. Words aren't needed now. They often aren't. For all of their antagonisation, they can understand each other perfectly fine with a single glance. That's what comradery is.

There are neon lights that illuminate the streets in shocking tones of red and turquoise, reflected in stray puddles that pool in the potholes of the roads. The lights seem dulled, boring despite their vividity. He'd seen brightness before. It didn't look like a street sign. It looked like the curve of your smile and the silent rage you directed at John Walker.

---

Bucky's flat is near-barren. 

As much as he hates empty rooms - they remind him of cold cells in underground bases that he wishes more than anything that he could forget - he's also come to the realization that he very much hates rooms that have too much furniture. 

They all feel uncomfortable, unfamiliar, a bastardisation of a normal life that he feels he has no right to live. He's so unused to the feeling of a mattress beneath him that the floor next to his bed is easier for him to sleep on. And he hates that, too. 

The simple inability to slip back into a normal life makes him feel woefully inadequate, like there's still something deeply wrong with him despite the fact that the command words had long since been removed from his mind.

Sam had returned to his own home a while ago, leaving Bucky utterly alone in the flat.

 It's not necessarily loneliness that he feels, but it is a kind of numbness that is close to it - the dulled pain of loss. Perhaps, if everything had gone the way he meant for it to, he would be sharing this place with Steve - Steve who would take a bullet for him, fight any force in this universe or the next for him. Steve who would probably encourage him to sleep in the bed and not on the floor next to it. 

That realisation prompts him to shuck off his leather jacket, toss it into the recesses of his room and try to distract himself.

He runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and just revelling in the darkness. Mindlessly, he sits down on the very edge of his bed, already knowing that he won't be sleeping there. It seems somewhat pointless to even try. 

Despite the Soldier being gone, there are some effects of his presence that linger. Slowly, he's been getting better, but there are a few traits he doesn't know whether or not he'll ever have the courage to discard. Sleeping on the floor is one of them. That constant need to be vigilant is another. Often it manifests itself as paranoia, and at other times as staring.

Oh god, the staring.

Bucky knew it could be bad sometimes - Sam made remarks about it often enough - but today, he really felt like he couldn't help himself. 

Maybe he shouldn't have stared at you so much. It probably wasn't welcome. In fact, it had been described as 'unnerving' and 'creepy' more than once. But there was just something about you that made him not want to look away.

His eyes flutter open and he lets out a ragged groan of frustration, a low noise that originates at the back of his throat. 

Somehow, every little nagging thought always leads back to you, which is inconvenient to say the least. He does have to keep telling himself that he doesn't know you, mentally repeating those words like a mantra, instructing himself to just leave that train of thought alone completely, and to discard any and every thought that pertains to you. You're with Walker. He doesn't know you - but he could.

Bucky takes in a deep breath, hand digging through the pocket of his trousers, emerging with his phone. The internet was a pretty vast thing that had initially taken quite some getting used to, especially when he was still living in Romania. It had been difficult to become comfortable with the amount that society had progressed whilst he was with HYDRA. 

He still couldn't get used to the music or some of the fashion trends. By the time he got to living in Wakanda, he was more than used to the intricacies of modern day technology, despite the fact that once he came out of cryogenic freezing he lived a fairly simple lifestyle.

He can't really resist searching your name.

 Immediately, article after article pops up, all with headlines about you and Walker. Bucky lets out a minor, quiet noise of discontentment, opting to avoid the articles and instead look at the videos, the interviews that you had given. In most of them, you're accompanied by Walker, and occasionally by Battlestar, too. Bucky absolutely does not want to watch those ones. It feels like John simply sitting next to you is somehow corruptive.

There are a select few interviews where, mercifully, you're by yourself. Some of them are from your earlier days, where you're dressed in black leather, which was absolutely a confusing wardrobe choice. 

Privately, he much prefers you in the sundress and the pale colours. In the one that he chooses to watch, you're dressed in another sundress - this one's a pale sort of pink with tiny, blooming white flowers dotted over it. For some inexplicable reason, Bucky thinks he prefers you like this - innocent, summery, and not a pale imitation of somebody who was meant to be scary - not that you had the potential to make him afraid in the slightest.

You're in some room, sitting in front of a grand, white window, seated on a wicker chair opposite the interviewer. There's a few potted plants dotted around the floor, aloe vera, lavender, a cheese plant and some other flowers that are in full bloom, their soft petals unfurled. You're beaming happily as the interviewer begins, soft sunlight spilling over your profile, warming your skin.

"It's a pleasure to finally have the opportunity to interview you - and you're so kind to let us into your house like this." The interviewer says, looking between your angelic visage and their copious sheets of notes, each one full of questions and follow-up questions that they were desperate to ask you.

Ah. That makes sense - all the plants. You seemed like the type to like them.

"The pleasure's all mine." You say, and yes, there it is. That transfixing look about you that he's slightly hooked on now that he's seen it in real life. It's a bit addictive to watch you, and god, even just thinking that does very much make him feel wrong.

"How about we get started, then?" The interviewer says conversationally. "You know, every single person in America is curious about you. I'm just here to ask the questions on everybody's minds! Just who are you? Come on, tell us about yourself."

You don't flounder. Not even for a second. You're utterly effortless in the interviews just as you had been mere feet away from him. "Well, I'm just your average girl, really. I'm nothing special, I promise you. Honestly, I'm so grateful that everybody loves me so much. I really wasn't expecting it."

Sitting there, a serene expression on your face, you sound utterly bashful, humbled and sweet in a way that wasn't quite the same as it had been in real life.

God, seeing you in real life was different to the interview. You had been, for a lack of a better word, better than how he expected. He'd anticipated meeting female John Walker, arrogant, self-assured and willing to try to strong-arm him into fighting for their team, more like Walker's puppy than your own individual person.

 And you were nothing like that - you'd challenged Walker, hell, you even seemed reluctant to touch the guy at first, and then, you'd laughed and smiled devastatingly sweetly whenever Bucky would agitate him.

" - oh yes, my favourite flowers are - " You're still talking sweetly but he's only capturing fragments of what you're saying.

It's hard to focus on your exact words when you've shifted slightly, and that sundress has slid up your thighs ever so slightly, exposing more of your legs to Bucky's heated gaze.

 Fuck - you don't even realise what you're doing and how it's making him feel. You're just innocently trying to get through an interview, talking about something mundane, like your houseplants, and it has Bucky's imagination running wild.

If Sam were here, he would definitely be sensing impropriety right about now.

Bucky swallows thickly, biting his lower lip in an effort to stifle the ragged breath he's struggling to take. It feels almost like there's no air left in his lungs. It's all too easy for him to picture you, right there in front of him, giving him that lovely saccharine smile, your lips pulled upwards. You'd saunter into his room, sundress skirting against your thighs, and he would be utterly enraptured.

He clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut for just a fraction of a second. He could practically feel the blood rushing south, pooling downwards until his cock was pitching a tent, straining uncomfortably against his dark jeans. 

Bucky can't even bring himself to feel any shame - he's just chasing a sensation, chasing a fantasy of you as he tugs his jeans down, shucking them off and discarding them, letting them land somewhere near his leather jacket.

With an unsteady breath, he shuffles back awkwardly onto the bed. Without so much as a second thought, he's pulling his boxers down his thighs and resting his flesh hand against his cock. He's beyond hard, steely even, and Bucky has to bite back a groan. Even the touch of his own hand doesn't offer him much relief.

He discards his phone, letting the interview keep playing, just listening to your cadence and the entrancing way you spoke, not really picking up on the words themselves.

It's all too easy to imagine you being here, in that tiny little sundress, stalking towards him. He'd want you to straddle him, your thighs framing his, sundress riding up, exposing more of your legs. He'd push the fabric up, and instruct you to hold it there. 

You'd probably give him something like a shy little nod and that dazzling smile of yours, your hands fisting the fabric and holding it up.

Fuck - it was all just too good to think about.

Bucky's grip on his cock tightens as he slowly strokes himself. He could easily tug the top part of the sundress down, too, to expose your tits. Maybe he'd even play with them for a bit, licking, nipping and sucking until there's a constellation of bruises and bites decorating your decolletage.

You'd probably beg, all whiney and breathy and absolutely desperate for him, struggling to maintain your hold on your dress, your fingers twitching as you pushed your chest towards him. It would be fucking lovely. He would finally pull away, admiring his work before bothering to address your needs. He'd trail his hands up your thighs.

He had to wonder exactly what you were wearing underneath it. White? Black? Lacey? A tiny little thong that rises high on your hips, the kind he can easily rip off with his bare hands or push aside? 

Or fuck, even more addicting, what if you weren't wearing any at all? His fingers would smooth up your thighs as you trembled, meeting your bare cunt.

Bucky doesn't even bother to try to quell the groan that rises up within him at that thought. God, that would be nice. You'd be wet - so wet, dripping, coating his fingers and trickling down your thighs. He'd rest his dark, metal hand on your waist whilst the fingers on his other hand ran eagerly through your folds, teasing your clit as he memorised all of the little sounds he could pull from you before he'd plunge two fingers into you.

You'd cry out, and he'd swallow the sound with his mouth, crushing his lips to yours and letting you gasp into his mouth. When he finally pulls away from you, fingers knuckle deep inside of you, your face would be painted a bright red, and your lips would be swollen as you begged him, fucking begged him to fuck you.

He'd deny you at first, watching you tremble and twitch on his fingers, practically fucking yourself on them.

Bucky would stroke at your clit, tracing tiny circles over it and watching your face contort in pure, unadulterated pleasure. He'd let you get off on his hand first. Would your eyes roll back into your head? Would you scream for him, yelling out his name? Would you get even wetter, impossibly making his fingers even slicker, fucking soaking him? You'd probably seize up, your spine going rigid, your mouth tumbling open and your walls flutter around his finger, convulsing uncontrollably.

And then, only then, would he fuck you.

God, you'd take his cock so well. 

Maybe the stretch of it would be a bit much at first and you'd squirm in his hold, his metal arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you impaled on him. The noises you would make would be utterly lovely - whines and fragments of pleads that never quite get finishes because you keep interrupting yourself with your own moans.

Eventually, he'd have you in his lap, your legs folded over his, one of your hands holding up your sundress so he can see his cock entering you, pushing you open, the other resting on his face. You'd bounce on his cock, whimpering like a kitten, biting at your bottom lip whilst he stared at you in awe.

You would be good - so, so good, tight and hot around him, absolute perfection.

He'd mark your neck up too, so that it'd match your tits, leaving tiny, bloodied indentations of his teeth up the column of your throat, soothing the sting by laving his tongue over them, the taste of your blood blooming on his tongue.

'Walker's girl' his ass.

It wouldn't be John fucking Walker whose name you were crying out. It would be his. It'd be his love bites littering your neck, and it would be his come leaking out from your cunt, trickling down your thighs.

He's relentlessly fucking his fist at this point, grunting and groaning at the mental image of you riding him to completion, snug around his cock, begging for him. There's some deep, nigh unholy pleasure building within him, ripping through him like a hurricane.

"God, fuck -" Bucky comes almost violently with a cry of your name, jerking quickly, hot come spilling over his knuckles. The pearly white beads trail down his hand, oozing onto the bed sheets.

He can still hear that interview playing, your melodic voice grounding him as he comes down from his high. 

You're talking about some sport you had played in high school, and the interviewer is lapping it up, eager for your attention and the exclusive interview. Bucky's chest is heaving, rising and falling heavily as he struggles to catch his breath.

Was it probably wrong to get off whilst thinking about another man's girlfriend? Yes. But, Bucky didn't particularly care, not when he'd just had quite possibly the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, and especially not when it was 'Walker's girl' he was getting off to. 

Walker probably couldn't make you come if his life depended on it. But Bucky would.

It's definitely strange that he wants you so badly. Maybe he just wants to take something from Walker the way that Walker had taken the mantle of Captain America. 

He didn't really know how he'd react if he ever had to see you again. There's no way he can look at you in any non-sexual capacity, and he can just sense that this won't be the last time he comes whilst thinking about you.

It's probably for the best then, that he'll be staying out of Walker's way. There will be much less temptation on his part to interfere with your relationship. Yes, it's definitely for the best. He's probably just stressed and overworked, and that was the reason he felt the need to fuck his hand whilst thinking. about you. Just stress. And it's not exactly wrong to want to relieve that stress, is it? No. Not at all.

This is perfectly fine, and even if it wasn't, he wouldn't be seeing you again.

---

Just as Bucky had been getting ready to go out for the morning, dressed in jeans and some dark jacket that did a reasonable enough job of hiding the distinctive metal arm, a loud rapping reverberated through his apartment.

Immediately, he's frowning, and some of that old, ever-present paranoia is reawakening, like it's coming out of a coma, its dormancy ending abruptly. He pauses, slowing his gait and balling his hands into fists, bracing himself.

The knock doesn't sound like anybody he knows. It's not Sam - Sam either barges in, makes one single loud bang, or will just yell obscenities until Bucky stumbles out of his flat to meet him. This knock, a gentle rapping, is softer, more polite, and unfamiliar. If he's lucky, it'll have been just somebody who had got the wrong apartment number, or who wasn't yet aware that the previous tenant had moved out. It happened sometimes.

This knock could have a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it - it could be an honest mistake, or some unfortunate door to door salesperson whom he was about to scare off. Still, despite the fact it could be innocuous, it does have him on edge.

Cautiously, Bucky approaches the door, taking in a deep breath as he undoes the latches one by one. Slowly, he opens the door. It feels like ripping off a bandaid. To his surprise, it's neither somebody who's out to hurt him, nor somebody who's got the wrong apartment number.

It's you, standing outside of his door, wearing another one of your pale sundresses and a knitted cardigan, looking like something out of one of his dreams.

So much for not seeing you again.

Maybe he just had exceptionally bad luck, or the universe hated him. That absolutely had to be what it was - some grand, sadistic cosmic being had it out for him and was desperate to make his life hard.

Why the hell were you here? Was Walker sending you to harass him? That would be objectively cruel, and an unfitting punishment just for rejecting the opportunity to work with him. And - how the hell had you found his flat? That absolutely wasn't meant to be information available to anyone.

"Walker's girl?" He says, staring down at you, frowning. 

Bucky doesn't dare call you by your name, not when the last time he said it was when he was coming all over his own hand. He hates the fact that he calls you that, and even more than that, he hates the wince you make. It's perfectly understandable that you don't like being called that, irrespective of whether it's accurate or not. Which he hopes it isn't. And then he resents himself for even being bothered by whether it's true or not. 

He doesn't fucking know you. He shouldn't care.

You remind him of your name - as if he could ever fucking forget it. You brush it off pretty quickly though, smiling up at him. "Mr. Barnes, do you mind if we talk?"

Bucky is very much not enjoying the emotional turmoil you're putting him through. "Sure. Come in. And it's just Bucky."

He most definitely should not be letting you in. That would be a bad decision and he especially didn't want to get ideas about you whilst you were in his flat. And yet, he found himself readily opening the door and welcoming you in, before closing the door after you.  

You make your way into his flat, looking at him gratefully.

"What's the deal with you and Walker?" The words tumble from Bucky's mouth, gruff and awkward, before he can even think to stop them.

A look of mild confusion passes over your face as you blink up at him. "Oh, John? I mean, we're not really a couple."

"I thought not." Bucky says, feigning impassiveness, even though there's absolutely nothing neutral or disinterested about the hopeful feeling that blooms in his stomach.

"Yeah. It was meant to be good for his public image, you know. The all-American guy with the perfect relationship. And I have debt I need to pay off - tuition and all that - and they compensate me for my time." You explain, laughing lightly. It sounds like bells chiming in the wind, and awakens in him some long forgotten memory of watching the sunset. It's reminiscent of something, someplace happier where his head was a whole lot lighter.

Bucky actually feels a genuine bolt of relief skirt down his spine. Of course he had been right. There was no way that Walker could get with somebody as good as you, somebody who seemed very much like an angel put on earth.

Your eyebrows tug slightly downward, "Was it obvious?"

"You looked like you'd rather have been anywhere else."

That prompts a peal of laughter from you, and all traces of concern simply evaporate from your visage, quickly forgotten. "Yeah, I suppose so. John can be...difficult at times. He's very strong-willed and we don't always get along."

"You two seem to get along well enough on camera," Bucky remarks, voice lower than he intended for it to be. Really, he doesn't want this to descend into some kind of interrogation, and he doesn't want to scare you off.

"I'm a decent actress," You say with a shrug. "And we normally do our TV appearances when we're getting along. John's not always easy to get along with, but occasionally we manage to put it all behind us. It may seem scummy, I guess. We are practically lying to everyone, but I do need the money and it's easy work."

It further reassures him - of what, Bucky doesn't quite know, but he doesn't feel half as on edge as he had been earlier.

You're not Walker's. He fucking knew it.

He couldn't possibly even conceive of a universe in which you would ever even consider Walker's advances. That bastard was lucky you even looked in his direction.

"I get that." Bucky says understandingly, a tentative smile playing across his face, his lips quirking upwards.

"I do actually have a reason for being here, Bucky." You say, sighing softly.

Oh. Yes. Of course you did. He'd almost forgotten that you needed a reason to visit - this wasn't a social call, of course it wasn't. The two of you had only ever met once, no matter how well he thought he knew you after having seen what is probably hours worth of footage of you. It's probably not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you - no, it's definitely not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you. In fact, it's probably very bad, especially with his proclivity for avoiding any form of emotional vulnerability or attachment.

"I...have the clearance to access some information that may benefit you." You say. Right now, you're being the most serious he'd ever seen you. There was a sort of solemn expression about you - your mouth set in a firm line rather than a happy smile - it's bordering on grave, and he's immediately compelled to listen, a frown forming on his face.

"Yes?"

"You and John both want the same thing, but you're not going to work together. I know for a fact you won't, and I really don't blame you. He's planning on going to see Zemo for information about the serum."

Bucky doesn't even tense up at the name. Helmut Zemo is an absolute bastard who had almost ruined his life, in addition to temporarily forcing him into a dangerous headspace, into a part of himself that, at that point, was very much present and very much not under control. 

But now, the codewords are gone. They won't activate shit. Zemo's practically been neutered in that regard. He may not be able to invoke the Winter Soldier, but the mere mention of his name absolutely does invoke some kind of visceral, biblical rage that howls for revenge.

It's the kind of anger of the Old Testament, though Bucky isn't much for religion these days - the kind of anger that is desperate for 'an eye for an eye', to make Zemo hurt just as much as Zemo had hurt him. For retribution.

"We were planning on seeing him, too." Bucky says, a little stiffly, though he retains his composure.

"You'll want to get there before John does. He's planning on telling the guards not to let you in - Zemo will have his visitation rights revoked and you won't even be let on the premises."

Bucky lets out a tiny noise of irritation, a bitter little sound that originates in the very back of his throat. Of course, of fucking course Walker wouldn't be content with just working separately from himself and Sam. 

Rather than just let it be, he'd try to actively obstruct their ability to work on the case - to help people. There was something about Walker's willingness to possibly prevent a breakthrough for the sake of his own ego that left a very bitter taste in Bucky's mouth. It was a complete stain on Steve's legacy.

"You have two days until John and Lemar visit Zemo. They'll probably be alerted when you show up, though, so I suspect you won't have long." You continue.

There's a possibility that you are working with Walker and this is all part of some elaborate scheme to impede his involvement in this. You could be lying through your teeth. 

You had already told him you were a decent actress, and he definitely believed that to be true. Anybody that could be lovesick around John fucking Walker was either delusional or worthy of an oscar. Bucky was inclined to believe you were the latter.

That story about needing money for tuition made sense, and it also seemed reasonable that Walker's PR team would want to give him a girlfriend. A similar kind of thing had happened with Steve back in the forties. He'd been made to do all sorts of stupid campaigns, and a lot of them had involved pretty women like yourself who were willing to act, hell, even sing and dance, for the money.

Bucky wants to believe you're genuine. Surely he'd be able to tell if you're lying - he's good at that, at identifying people's tells and the falsehoods they're spewing.

"Thanks for the heads up." He says somewhat gruffly as he looks down at you.

"Lemar had a lead on the medicine and vaccines, too. But I don't know exactly what he's found." There's something about the way that you sigh that indicates frustration. "It's difficult to get information out of him. He's nice and all, but we're not close enough that he's willing to divulge a lot."

Bucky's slight frown deepens and he steps just a little closer to you, revelling in the fact that you don't stumble back or glance at the door. You're not afraid of him in any capacity.

"You're fishing for information for us? Why?"

That's the one thing he can't work out. Why show up here? Why bother to give him the warning? What could you possibly have to gain from it?

"It's the right thing to do." You say simply, that solemness receding from your pretty face to allow that sweet smile to return. "Whether it be you or John, somebody has to bring these guys down. It's only fair that you both have the same information, and I can get it to you."

How lovely. God, how had you managed to embody the spirit of Captain America more than the man who carried the shield?

"Right, right." Bucky doesn't even have a hard time accepting the answer. He should - he should poke and prod at your motives, but he doesn't want to. He finds that the desire to do good for the world is sufficient enough, especially when it comes to you. Because of course you want to help people, of course you want to help him - as if you hadn't been perfect enough already.

"I'm looking into the camps, too. It's hard to narrow the parameters, though. There's just so many of them." You say, somewhat aghast, like you're disappointed that they even exist in the first place. 

There's a haunted kind of expression in your eyes, like you'd seen too much. And you probably had. Looking into all of those camps, rampant with disease, crime and horrifically painful deaths, couldn't have been easy, especially if you weren't acclimated to something so macabre or devastating.

"Hey," Bucky places a hand on your shoulder - the human hand - and he can feel the soft texture of your knitted cardigan beneath his fingers, as well as the heat radiating from your body. "Thank you. I appreciate it. You're doing the right thing. You're good."

Words of encouragement are somewhat difficult for him to come up with. He has no idea what will reassure you, so he just tells you what he knows to be true and it's enough. It's more than enough judging by the way your eyes light up and you smile at him. There's something almost devastating about that smile, and knowing that he had been the one to cause it.

"Thanks," You say, your voice barely above a whisper, voice a little hoarse. Oh. Oh. Your pupils were blown wide, and you were staring at him intently.

He falters for a fraction of a second, wondering if he'd done something wrong. And then it dawns on him - you'd liked the praise.

You had fucking liked it when he praised you. Well, shit. The rush he got from that realisation alone made him feel nearly high, like his head was in the clouds and he'd just done copious amounts of illegal substances. It was addicting, in short.

It's then and only then that he actually notices just how close the two of you are, and suddenly he's revisiting the thought that maybe letting you into his flat wasn't such a good idea.

 Bucky can very nearly feel your skin beneath his hand. Having you here is such a unique brand of torture - you're exquisitely close, and you're looking at him like whatever it is that's between you, this mad, mutating attraction is reciprocated. It all feels a little too good to be true.

You probably shouldn't be looking at him like that. There was no way that the attraction he felt could be reciprocated. No way whatsoever.

"I should probably give you my number," You say, your voice still a little low - if anything, it's become silkier. Sultry, even, and it has Bucky's head spinning. "I'll send you everything I have."

"Yeah," He says, somewhat breathlessly. It's with a deep reluctance that he drops his hand from your shoulder, already missing the warmth and the closeness. 

He probably shouldn't have touched you in the first place. You were so small next to him, dressed in your pale little sundress, cardigan slipping down one of your arms, pooling at your elbow to reveal a single, unblemished shoulder. There's something almost painfully innocent about you, the complete antithesis to him.

He had been a killer a thousand times over. Bucky had taken more lives than he could even begin to count, and despite his best efforts to reconcile and to make amends for it, his hands were still stained red with blood. They didn't deserve to touch you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Suddenly, you're turning away from him, snatching a piece of paper that had been lying around his flat and scrawling a series of numbers onto the back of it - your phone number. Without so much as a second thought, he's peering over your shoulder as you write them, eyes carefully following every digit that you inscribe.

You whirl around, paper clutched tightly in one hand and settling the other on his chest, fingers ghosting over his shirt. You're so, so close - a mere matter of inches away from him, and your hand is directly over his heart. Hopefully you can't feel the way it beats slightly faster as a result of the contact.

There was a high chance that if it had been anybody else, Bucky would have avoided their touch and shirked the vulnerability. He liked being in control of himself, which often translated in remaining isolated. But he doesn't really want you to take your hand off his chest. He doesn't want that at all. In fact, he'd much prefer it if you touched more of him.

The tension is literally palpable, hanging about the air like a thick fog. No, more like smoke really, with the way your presence threatened to asphyxiate him.

"Bucky," You say, so softly, your voice dripping with reverence. There's just something about the way you whisper his name that's so much better than any fantasy he could ever concoct. He's half-certain that you're going to drop your hand from his chest or shove him away, admonish him for getting too close. But you don't. Your hand remains pressed against him, fingers splayed over his torso.

He can't help but say your name in turn, his voice raspy as he looks down at you. Carefully, he takes the paper with your number on it from your hands and sets it down on one of the countertops. And still, you don't remove your hand from him. You're looking up at him and your eyes are so dark, tumultuous pits of lust that bore right through him.

Bucky leans ever so slightly closer to you, his flesh hand cupping your jaw. His index finger is curled under your chin, and the pad of his thumb is resting on your plump lower lip. In response to his touch, your lips part ever-so-slightly, and he can feel your breath ghosting over his flesh in light, shallow puffs of air.

"Do you want this?" He asks, his voice a low rasp, rough and bordering on ragged. It feels very much like he's entered dangerous territory. This is like playing with fire whilst being desperate to get burnt. He just needs to be sure. He's desperate for that reassurance, for you to explicitly say that he's not crazy or creepy, that this is mutual.

"Yes," You say, lip moving against his thumb as you speak.

In an instant, he's moving his thumb to caress your cheek and then crushing his mouth to yours. There's something utterly greedy about the way he consumes you, teeth smacking together, tongues roving throughout each others mouths, completely plunderous in nature. Because that is what he's doing - consuming you, entirely ravenous in the way his lips press repeatedly against yours.

Your hands become fisted in his shirt and jacket, and his metal arm wraps around your waist, crushing your chest to his, anchoring the two of you together. It seems as if you've gone weak in the knees. You practically crumble against him, pressing yourself into his torso until his metal arm is the only thing that's holding you up.

Oh. This was definitely reciprocated.

There was absolutely no need for him to wallow in guilt or shame or wish not to see you - because you wanted him to. It didn't fucking matter whether or not his hands were stained red, not when all you wanted was for them to touch you.

All too soon, your mouths part slightly and you're panting against one another. Your lips are red, beautifully swollen, and wet with saliva. With a mixture of his and your saliva.

"Tell me to stop," Bucky mumbles heatedly against your lips. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll never touch you again. I promise."

It's a promise he won't want to keep. Not when he feels like a single kiss has completely fucking ruined him for anybody else.

"What if I don't want you to stop?" You whisper, gazing at him with this blazing fire in your eyes, challenging him.

"Do you want me to keep going?" He asks, and he's afraid of the answer. He has no idea what he wants - he's partially inclined to want to avoid the emotional implications of getting involved with you like this, of succumbing to your allure, but he also very much wants you to say yes, to beg him to touch you like you need nothing else more than you need him.

You tremble against his chest, a soft, keening whine tumbling from your mouth that has Bucky feeling dizzy, like the world had just tilted on its axis without any warning. It's a delightful little noise, melodious and sinful. It was so, so much better than he had imagined. He can barely refrain from rutting against you, high off the sound of your moans.

"Yes." You sound absolutely fucking devastated, pushed into abject neediness. He's reduced you to some kind of desperate mess, clinging to his chest like he's a lifeline, like you're remiss to let go of him.

And fuck, that one simple word is all the confirmation he needs.

 Every single disparaging thought shatters to pieces, demolished by your eager moans. The way your chest wracks with sudden shudders, the way you breathe unevenly, perpetually unable to get enough air in your lungs as he keeps stealing it from you, your dilated pupils and your desire for his touch is all for him. 

It's intoxicating.

Eagerly, he presses his mouth back against yours, revelling in the way you groan into his mouth, your eyes fluttering closed so your lashes can rest against your cheeks. Fisted into his shirt are your hands, bunched up in the fabric, constantly tugging him towards you in eternal desperation for more contact.

In the next moment, he's using the metal arm curved around your waist to hoist you into the air, letting your feet hover above the ground. It's all too easy for him to lift you. 

Your legs had long since turned to jelly, your knees weakened and buckling. Your weight isn't a burden. He could toss a car around if he felt the urge to, which he doesn't. That is absolutely not even close to the urges he's having right now - the urges to make his fantasies a reality, to experience every lewd thought about you that had flitted through his head.

You release a small noise of surprise that Bucky eagerly swallows, biting at your bottom lip and memorising the delightful noises that the action pulled from you.

With his arm anchoring you to his chest, and you quite literally swept off your feet, it's easy for him to maneuver you through his flat, keeping his lips connected to yours as he walks you through to his bedroom.

The only time Bucky's mouth leaves yours is when he relinquishes his steely hold on you, laying you down gently on his bed, letting you rest atop his plain sheets, your sundress riding upwards. 

And even then, he doesn't allow that separation to last long, clambering on top of you and surging forwards, capturing your lips again.

He's practically caging you in with his arms, allowing you no opportunity for escape. 

Your fingers slowly unfurl from their previous position where they're been fisted, harshly gripping the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in what had been a successful effort to bring him closer to you. Now, your hands are wandering, beginning to explore. They roam freely, smoothing over his chest, tracing indecipherable shapes and fragments of words across his torso.

They easily pause at the lapels of his jacket, tugging it off with precision. Bucky has to move his arms slightly to help you divest him of the item of clothing, and he flings it somewhere across the room, not even bothering to check where it's landed. A single item of clothing seems totally irrelevant when you're beneath him, writhing at his touch.

"Please," You say between intense kisses, eyes blown wide with lust. Your pupils have expanded immeasurably, leaving a tiny ring of colour around them. "Off," You demand, tugging at his shirt.

Bucky chuckles, the low noise reverberating throughout his chest, making his torso rumble under your hands. Grinning, he pulls the shirt up and discards that too, leaving himself in just his jeans and you in your pale sundress and knitted cardigan. It's then that he falters, realising you can see the arm - of fucking course you would see the arm. There was no way that you wouldn't. It was just another horror of his existence that couldn't be avoided.  

Strangely, though, you don't look at it in abject horror, reminded of his crimes, of the despicable acts of violence he had committed in the name of HYDRA.

Instead, you look at it reverently, one of your hands coming up to trace the grooves in the arm. 

It was darker than any of his previous ones, a midnight matte black with stunning strips of gold running through the divots between panels. You trace the labyrinth of steady golden lines gently, fingertips tracing over the plates that comprised it. You were just as gentle with it as you were with the rest of him. His breath hitches in a way that is utterly obvious, though you don't outwardly react to it.

Your hand skirts down his metal arm, your fingertips coming to rest against the palm of his hand. The two of you aren't quite holding hands, but you very nearly are. Softly, so devastatingly softly, you tug the dark metal hand towards your face.

And you turn his metal hand over, planting a soft kiss to the centre of his palm before releasing it.

It was rather lovely, really. It made his chest swell up with some emotion that evaded description. Immediately, he's going back to kissing you, licking up into the cavern of your mouth, wordlessly showing you just how much he appreciated the small gesture.

Then, Bucky's mouth begins to traverse away from yours. He plants kisses down the column of your throat, only pausing in his quest to stick his nose into your neck, inhaling strongly. Your skin had a scent - a beautiful, honeyed kind of scent that he could very easily gain an addiction to. Fuck, everything about you was easy to gain an addiction to.

Before long, he's going back to suckling at the skin of your neck, interspersing his licking and sucking with bites that make your spine arch and prompt you to groan loudly. This great expanse of smooth, soft skin is available to him and he intends to take full advantage of it, making your skin bloom like some otherworldly piece of artwork, covered in red and purpled bruises. Interspersed between them were perfect iterations of his teeth, little crimson indentations from his incisors.

There was something absolutely animalistic about marking you up, covering you in aching bruises with his mouth alone. There was something about it that made him feel like he was laying claim to your skin, warding off anybody else who so much as dared to want you, somebody like John fucking Walker.

He probably shouldn't feel thrilled at the prospect of other people seeing you like this, your neck collared with a constellation of bruises and bitemarks that he had put there. Especially if it's one of your PR team, or even Walker himself.

Bucky pulls away from you, admiring the absolute mess he had made of you. Your hair is haloed around you on his bed, your throat is blotched in various shades of red and purple, your lips are swollen, your eyes are blown wide, and your nipples have pebbled against the fabric of your sundress. You look so fucking beautiful.

With some great urgency, Bucky divests you of your knitted cardigan, flinging it away and discarding it with some of his clothes. With his flesh hand, he eagerly tugs down the top-half of your dress, sliding the thin, flimsy little straps down your arms and pulling the fabric over your chest away to expose your breasts to his hungry eyes.

"Fuck," He breathes, shuffling forwards, one shin planted either side of your torso as you lay down, looking up at him in awe.

Bucky lets out a low noise of approval, sliding his hands up to your tits and squeezing them, earning him a strangled sort of noise that rips itself from the back of your throat. He pulls, tugs and pinches, listening intently to the different kinds of moans you reward him with - if he tweaks your nipple just right, you'll give him a breathy cry of his name.

"You like that, hm? You like my hands on your tits?"

"Yes, yes I do," You whimper. The metal hand and the human hand offer very different sensations. The flesh hand is warm, calloused, trembling slightly against your skin. The dark, metal hand with streaks of gold through it is no less dexterous than the organic one. It is, however, slightly colder to the touch, and smoother, comprised of plates of metal that don't have much of a texture. Both make you arch into their touch, perpetually desperate for more.

Bucky really can't help himself. He lowers his head, licking a broad stripe up one of your tits, eagerly mouthing at it whilst he tugs on the nipple of the other one, constantly keeping his mouth occupied. You're wrapping your hands around the back of his head, splaying your fingers over his skull, making desperate little noises as you drag your hands through his short hair.

He has you a squirming, pleading mess beneath him as his tongue roams over your chest, as he alternated between sucking, biting and pinching, watching reddish marks bloom over your torso. He's very much set on making your chest match your neck, painting it with bruises. There's something about this - the marking - that makes him feel absolutely feral, like some kind of rabid animal giving in to its most base urges.

"Please," You're begging for him - fucking begging. When he glances up, he can see your lips trembling, the perspiration beaded at your hairline and your glossy eyes. You look absolutely wrecked, and you sound it, too. Bucky's half tempted to ignore your pleas, but he doesn't want to be cruel. Not with you.

"Please what, doll?" The affectionate word slips from his lips and he hadn't even thought to stop it. "Do you want me to touch you here instead?"

His flesh hand slides down from where it had been cupping your tit, ghosting along your clothed ribs, down the plane of your belly. His touch prompts you to moan, despite the fact his hand isn't making contact with your bare skin. Not yet, at least. It's fascinating how receptive you are - so good for him. 

Bucky keeps going, smoothing his hand down the curve of your hip, tugging your sundress up to expose more of your legs to him. His hand splays over the top of your thigh, thumb resting at the junction of your thighs, concealed by the very edge of your sundress.

You do something that surprises him. With a desperate groan, you reach down and grab his hand, tugging it towards your cunt. "No. I want you to touch me here, instead."

Well, fuck.

The very tips of his fingers meet your panty-clad sex, and immediately Bucky is using his metal arm to yank the bottom part of your sundress upwards, folding it up onto your stomach. Really, it's been reduced to a scrap of white fabric bunched around your waist, having been previously tugged down over your tits.

The panties were lacey. White. With thin, flimsy pieces of lace running up your hips. Bucky takes in a deep breath, staring intently at the slightly translucent patch over your pussy, the delicate fabric saturated, made wet by your liquid arousal. His fingers drift up over it almost in awe. Fuck, you're soaked. Absolutely soaked for him - all for him.  

Bucky's fingers retreat from their position, but only temporarily. He slides your panties over, pushing them to the side so that he can appreciate your cunt. You gasp, your hand flying off his, where you'd previously been guiding his fingers, slapping over your mouth, barely muffling a groan.

With a renewed sense of confidence, Bucky dips his fingers into your folds. They're slippery - slick is seeping out from your neglected cunt, wetting the inside of your thighs, making them fucking gleam. You're soaked, absolutely dripping onto his fingers as he explores the most intimate part of you, slowly dragging his fingers over your clit and then circling them around your hole. You twitch and moan prettily in response to every tiny movement he makes, hypersensitive and desperate.

"Fuck." Bucky chokes out, dipping a single finger inside of you and admiring the way you convulse around him. Tight, hot and wet. His avid imagination and fucking his fist is one thing, but the sensation of you wrapped around his digit is another thing all together. Some stupid fucking fantasy could never compare - why had he even bothered to imagine that it could?

"God, Bucky, please." You whine helplessly, one hand still clamped over your mouth, muffling your words slightly.

Spurred on by your plea, he crooks his finger, pumping it in and out of you a few times before he adds a second one, using it to push against your walls, spreading them slightly in an effort to scissor you open.

"So fucking wet, aren't you?" Bucky's voice is verging on a growl, utterly animalistic as you gush over his fingers. You shuffle slightly, your hips rising and falling in a stunted rhythm. You're trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperately chasing an orgasm, your face contorted in pleasure. The fingers splayed over your jaw are twitching. Every single part of you is affected by him, writhing and trembling, perpetually desperate for more.

"Yes - yes," You chant, your voice a dying whisper, almost lost between your moans and whimpers.

"You're dripping," Bucky remarks, watching in fascination as your slick tumbles in steady streams down his fingers, "Fuck. All for me?"

You not emphatically, moving your head up and down, struggling to look him in the eyes, desperate to let your head fall back against the bedsheets. "Yes."

Bucky's thumb rubs harsh, unforgiving circles over your clit, his forefinger and middle fingers rocking into you, stuffed deep inside your cunt, covered in the slick arousal that's practically pouring out of you. You buck wildly against him, crying out in pleasure.

"Please - I'm gonna," You manage to stutter out, working your hips downwards, grinding onto his fingers, chasing your pleasure.

"Come for me, then." Bucky says.

He's incredibly fixated on every single thing about you as you come undone - the way your walls clamp down on his fingers, clenching tightly around the digits, the way your pretty, lust-blown eyes roll back into your skull, and the absolutely angelic noise that the pleasure he and he alone has brought you tears from your throat. Watching you come undone is wonderful. It's some kind of magical sight, made a thousand times better when you moan his name as you reach the apex of your pleasure. It's so fucking gorgeous that it threatens to make him come in his own pants like some rabidly horny teenage boy.

If Bucky hadn't already been uncomfortable, cock straining his jeans, rutting against the denim almost painfully, he would be by now. Especially when you give him that hazy post-orgasm look, a contented sigh leaving you as you finally remove your hand from where it had been clamped over your mouth.

Slowly, he drags his fingers out from inside of you. They're gleaming, coated in your arousal. Without an ounce of hesitation, he brings them to his mouth, eagerly sucking them clean, his tongue darting over every callous, every wrinkle, every crease on those two fingers, chasing your taste, completely ravenous as the flavour of your cunt explodes over his tongue.

He'd fucking ruined himself. There was nobody else after this. They wouldn't be able to compare to you in any way.

You bat your eyelashes at him, biting your already bruised lower lip seductively. Bucky's looming over you, pulling his saliva-soaked fingers from his mouth, the two of you breathing raggedly, panting like dogs.

Wordlessly, you reach forwards and palm his hard cock through his jeans, squeezing him in a way that leaves Bucky groaning, desperate for more.

"You're gonna let me fuck you, doll?"

"God, please." You breathe, eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. If he hadn't been so close to you then he probably wouldn't have caught it.

Eagerly, he undoes his belt, pulling it free from the confining loops of his jeans, and discarding it. Even as he's divesting himself of his remaining clothes, Bucky's eyes are always on you, watching you intently. 

Oh yes, you definitely sparked his staring problem, especially when you're looking at him with hooded eyes, the expression on your face one of pure lust, pure need for him. Quickly, he pulls his jeans down, readily discarding them, along with his boxers.

Bucky's hard, leaking cock slaps up against his stomach. Taking in a weak, ragged breath, you beckon him closer until he's looming over you again, his chest pressed to yours and his cock jutting into your leg.

"Please, Bucky. Don't tease. Just fuck me."

"Oh, gladly," He quips, lips tugging upwards into an infuriating half-smirk.

Your panties are still pushed to the side, allowing him to run his cock through your folds until it's coated in your warm, slippery arousal. He lines the very tip up, teasing you with it for just a moment, revelling in your breathy whimpers and ensuing pleas. The very head of him catches on your entrance, and he uses it as an opportunity to begin to enter you.

His flesh hand is resting on your hip, fingers curling into your side possessively, the black and gold metal arm being utilised in an effort to keep holding himself up. Your hands, gentle and soft, scrabble to find purchase on the plane of his back, nails raking over his skin, leaving tiny red lines in their wake. Fuck. You were marking him up, too.

 He wasn't even bothered by it. If anything, Bucky was pleased - he'd proudly wear whatever marks you gave him. They were little pieces of you, a litany of evidence that you'd touched him - that you had wanted to touch him.

The very head of his cock breaches you, splitting you open. He's thicker than you had anticipated, but the stretch is welcome. He practically burns you as he enters you the first time, stilling half of the way in to allow you a moment to breathe.

Happily, you writhe against his chest. It burns - but oh god it burns so nicely. The wonderful, near-painful intrusion of him is heavenly.

You're panting into the crook of his neck, frenzied breath ghosting against his throat. "More - please, more."

There isn't a single ounce of reluctance within him as he pushes the rest of his cock into you until he's fully seated.

"So fucking tight," Bucky babbles. His chest is trembling slightly, crushed against yours. There's just so much to feel - so many sensations to comprehend and decipher. You're so tight, gripping his cock like a vice, all wet and warm. It feels like fucking paradise - like some slice of heaven that he'd been gifted. Perhaps some cosmic being didn't have it out for him after all. If they did, there was no way they would allow him this.

Your legs shift, wrapping themselves around his waist, coaxing him deeper inside of you. You're moaning directly into Bucky's ear, your breaths fanning across his neck, fingers digging into his back as you cling desperately to him, saying his name like a prayer.

"Please - move." You're begging, on the verge of sobbing, lips pressed up against the column of his neck, mumbling little indecipherable words that all lead back to him fucking you hard.

And he does. Bucky unrelentingly pistons in and out of you, fucking you into the mattress. It's almost aggressive between the two of you. His hips are snapping up against yours, colliding almost violently, whilst your nails are shredding his back, though he barely feels the pain that he should.

You're a fucking mess. If he's destroyed by this, then you absolutely are, too.

Pathetic, mewling whimpers leave your throat, muffled only by the fact that your mouth is pressed into his neck, though your lips will occasionally move against his skin, your mouth falling open in a near-silent gasp as you try to pull air into your lungs. Your tits, marred by bruises and bitemarks that he had put there, are crushed against his chest. Your legs tremble from where they're almost, but not quite, interlocked around his waist, keeping him as close as possible.

He rocks into you, spearing you on his cock, enraptured by the cacophony of reactions he pulls from you.

"Can John do this? Can John fucking Walker make you feel this good?" Bucky's talking incessantly, those words dripping from his mouth before his mind can even register that the thought had ever even flitted through his brain.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about John fucking Walker whilst he's inside you, whilst his cock is nestled deep in your cunt and you're close to coming for a second time. 

But he is. He looks at the vibrant red and purple bruises that litter your neck and torso, the bite marks across your body, the evidence that he's been here with you, the evidence that you had let him touch you, and he can't help but wonder if Walker had ever done this to you.

He can't help but to wonder if Walker had ever taken you like this, like a fucking animal, leaving his own god-awful marks across your throat, fucking into you with one of those sundresses that you wore whilst masquerading around as his girlfriend bunched around your waist.

Bucky really fucking hoped not.

He couldn't conceive of anything that Walker deserved less than you. Walker may not have really been dating you, but he still got to touch you, to put his hands all over you in those stupid interviews, utterly undeserving of that privilege. Walker didn't have any fucking right, any fucking right at all.

You weren't 'Walker's girl'. You didn't belong to John. And for good reason, too. You were so much better than him - the kind of person who was able to look at the mission objectively, put your differences aside, and feed the other team information. All because you wanted to do the right thing.

You gasp against his shoulder, head falling back onto the bed so that you and Bucky can lock eyes as he ruthlessly pounds into you, the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the room.

"I - fuck - I never fucked John," You say, struggling to even form words.

And god, doesn't that make him glad.

"Yeah?" Bucky challenges you slightly, still grinning as his eyebrows raise a fraction. "And you're not fuckin' gonna."

Walker didn't get to put his filthy paws on you. Bucky wouldn't allow it.

You seize up around his cock, hands grappling at his back, and then sliding over to hold onto his shoulders, the fingers on one of your hands splayed over the seam that ran over his black and golden metal arm. Your fingers gently caress the border between machine and man, gentle, in complete contrast to the way you'd clawed at his back. His blood was probably under your fingernails considering how hard you'd scratched.

"'M so close," You whimper, desperately rolling your hips.

There's something utterly debauched about you. All of that angelisism had easily given way to depravity under his touch. You were practically mewling for him, making these little breathy noises that cause his cock to swell, getting increasingly desperate to climax a second time. That debauchery is located in every single moan that leaves your mouth, in the marks you've scratched into his back and in the way your sundress is bunched around your hips as Bucky fucks you.

"Yeah? Gonna come again?" Bucky asks, breathing raggedly.

He already knows the answer. Of course you're going to come again. He can feel your walls tightening around his cock, constantly fluttering, on the very precipice of your climax. You're close, probably painfully so, and so is he - but he's not gonna come first.

"Mhm," You groan excitedly as Bucky rubs at your clit, sending sparks of pure pleasure racing through your gut.

"Walker couldn't make you come like this," Bucky says more to himself than you, though you seem to really enjoy when he talks, convolusing on his throbbing cock as you desperately chase your high, all whilst he's snapping his hips up into yours, fucking you so hard that at times your eyes will begin to roll back into your skull, and your legs will shake against him. "C'mon, doll. Who are you gonna come for?"

"You. You. You."

"Good girl," He remarks, grinning as you tighten around him. "Fuck, doll. You have the best pussy I've ever fucked - 's mine. Not fucking Walker's. He doesn't get to have you like this. And I do - fuck."

It's then that he spears hard up against something pleasantly devastating inside of you. That sensation, delivered in tandem with Bucky's fingers circling your clit has you coming instantaneously. The barrage of pleasure washes over you like a tsunami, wrenching a cry from within you. You shatter beneath him, falling apart to a thousand pieces, utterly wrecked.

"Bucky," You sob enthusiastically as your orgasm crests, speaking his name over and over again like a prayer, like it's the only word you know.

It was one thing watching you climax on his fingers, and another when it's his cock. It feels otherworldly, watching you come undone as he fucks himself into you. It's probably the best, most arousing thing he's ever seen, you, beneath him, writhing, squirming, calling his name out over and over again.

He doesn't even bother to stave off his own orgasm any longer. It would be impossible of him to even try. If the image of you under him, legs hooked around his waist, trembling from the sheer force of the pleasure he's given you wasn't enough, the fucking heavenly feeling of your cunt wrapped tightly around his cock is. You clamp down around him, as tight as a fucking vice.

Bucky's own orgasm barrels into him like a truck. It's a burst of pure, blinding, hot pleasure that rips forth from somewhere in his gut.

It strikes every single nerve ending in his body, and suddenly he's coming, emptying himself inside of you, ropes of his come painting your insides, filling you up.

You both lay there for some time - it could be seconds, or it could be minutes. It's impossible to tell. Time seems hazy when he's with you. He's still laying over you, panting and grinning at the same time. The two of you just smile lazily at each other, completely spent and sated. He shifts most of his weight to be on the metal arm, lest he crush you with his weight.

Eventually, you surrender his hips from your legs, letting him pull out of you and roll onto his back so he can lay next to you whilst you both catch your breath.

Tentatively, you pull the straps of your sundress back up your arms and fix your underwear. Bucky panics internally, quickly turning his head to face you.

"Going somewhere?" He asks, as casually as he could.

"I do have to get back to work," You laugh. It sounds like bells in the wind. "I have an interview tomorrow that I have to prepare for."

Bucky just nods stiffly, trying to quell the internal disappointment rising within him. What the fuck had he been thinking? He shouldn't have touched you in the first place, and now you were probably regretting the fact that you let him fuck you.

"I'll swing by tomorrow with whatever I can find on the medicine," You say, so sweetly. "If that's okay with you?"

"It is, yeah." He says gruffly.

They need the information. The near-devastating disappointment he's feeling right now is irrelevant. Walker and Hoskins have the state's resources at their disposal. 

He and Sam have whatever leads they can scrounge up, and whatever you're willing to give them. Because you're good - so good, and he knows that, but he also feels like he's dying a little bit on the inside because of you.

"Maybe I'll let you take me out to dinner next time."

And Bucky falters, looking at you with wide eyes. "Next time?"

"If you want a next time." You say, avoiding his gaze.

Bucky sits up slightly, cupping your jaw with his hand and gently tilting your face, forcing you to look him in the eyes. Now, you look enraptured by the sight of him. "I do want a next time."

"Good," Your voice is quiet, a mere whisper, talking to him in soft, hushed tones. "Because I want a next time."

He leans in closer to you, giving you every opportunity to stop him as he lowers his lips to yours. You don't. You don't want to stop him, not when you're completely enchanted. 

Bucky hadn't been the only one that felt rather awestruck that day you'd met outside of the police precinct.

Really, you didn't much like your job. It paid the bills, and kept you ahead on your debt payments, but you didn't like it. The men you worked with lacked the heart that Captain America had. 

And sometimes, the weight of pretending got a bit much for you. It had culminated in your guilt, and ultimately you lying in Bucky Barnes' bed, kissing him tenderly.

"So, I'm sending you back to Walker, huh?" Bucky chuckles as the two of you pull away from each other, proudly eyeing the bruises that descend down your neck and below your, now rumpled and creased, sundress. 

He'd be sending you back to John Walker with small brands of possession bitten all over your torso, not to mention the fact that beads of his come were streaking your inner thighs.

Well, that'd probably show Walker that even though he got to publically call you 'his girl', you'd never belong to him in the most intimate of ways.

Bucky very much wanted Walker to see it - to see what he'd done to you. God, he'd pay so much fucking money to see the look on that bastard's face when he realised the woman he flippantly called 'his girl' was fucking somebody else.

 Not just anybody else, no. She was gladly fucking one of the people that Walker hated the most. Bucky can almost envisage the way Walker's jaw would drop and the rage that would blaze in his eyes.

"I'll be back." You laugh. "As if I'd want to stay away."

Even more beautiful than imagining Walker's reaction, though, was the prospect of you coming back again.

[johannestevans]

Update 05/06/2022

Good evening!

Firstly, some bits of media I've very much enjoyed over the past 2 weeks:

Bloods (2021, cr. Nathan Byron & Samson Kayo) - Bloods is fucking excellent, it's a sitcom about paramedics starring Samson Kayo (Oluwande of OFMD) and Jane Horrocks, and it's so fucking funny. Really, really tightly written with so much good, strong character work, lots of commentary on paramedicine and also on NHS issues whilst being so fast-paced, excellent soundtrack, and just in general a real triumph. Also appearances from Nathan Foad (Lucius in OFMD) being painfully entitled and awkward as Jane Horrocks' son and every time he's on screen I cringe from my soul to my hole, he's horribly effective in it. ALSO SAMSON KAYO SINGS AND IT'S GORGEOUS, and every single person who watches this will undoubtedly fall in love with Daryl and Darrell. Fucking hype for S3 next year.

Truth Seekers (2020, cr. Nick Frost, Simon Pegg, James Serafinowicz & Nat Saunders) - This is also comedy but with horror - it was cancelled after one season, unfortunately, but it's still worth a watch! Also featuring Samson Kayo as a protag. Truth Seekers does some really cool stuff with subverting horror tropes as you'd expect from anything with Pegg & Frost at the forefront, but it's also just genuinely funny and quite heartfelt in places while really doing some layered, subtle work around perceptions of abuse + mental health issues. That latter isn't the core theme of the show but is continuous throughout, and while the show didn't grip me as other stuff has, I've really been enjoying that aspect.

Westworld (1973, dir. Michael Crichton) - I hadn't seen this before and watched this in preparation for starting the TV series, which I'm guessing will be more to my taste, but I thought it held up surprisingly well for being fifty years old at this point. So many 70s movies, especially sci-fi and adventure movies don't really push my buttons, but this one is quite character-centred and has some charming homoeroticism. It lacks a bit of urgency, and if you've seen Jurassic Park, you already know Michael Crichton's anxieties around nature's unpredictability vs tech malfunctions vs amusement parks, and like-- Westworld says nothing that isn't said better or more adeptly in JP, but I still thought it was good!

I've also been playing Rune Factory 5 on my Switch and loving it so far, and I really enjoyed this interview with Con O'Neill. I also watched S4 of Stranger Things this week, and if you made the decision to stop off watching it after they started doing the anti-Russian stuff and are like "hm, maybe it's doing better and I should get back into it", you absolutely should not. The writing is truly very bad in so many places, and while it's adequate as background viewing it's just... Yeesh. A lot of choices are made. Different choices would have been better.

I have few media recs this week so here are just a collection of my favourite SNL sketches:

Barbie Instagram

Meet Your Second Wife

Wells For Boys & My Little Step Children

Spelling Bee

What's That Name

Dylan McDermott or Dermot Mulroney

Coroner

New Works Published

Erotic Short: Little Vows

An exhausted father of two meets an old uni friend for sex.

Rated E, cis M/M, 3k. Neil drops his girls off for their piano lessons and goes across the road for his regular appointment — getting himself fucking railed. Infidelity, anal, dirty talk, DILF4DILF and bear appreciation, doggy, overstim, mentions of barebacking and creampies.

On Medium / / On Patreon

Erotic Short: Stuffed

A man is handfed almost to bursting by his husband.

Cis M/M, 1.1k, rated E. Stuffing, handfeeding, D/s, begging, overstimulation, mild sadomasochism (stomach cramps etc), teasing.

On Medium / / On Patreon

Our Flag Means Death S01 E03: A Gentleman Pirate

Examining OFMD E3: A Gentleman Pirate in close detail and liveblogging/analysing the text.

On Medium / / On Patreon / / On Tumblr / / On Ao3

Fanfic Updates: Repentance & Forgiveness

42k+. Frenchie-centric, Frenchie/Izzy, plot-focused, post-S1.

On the Queen Anne, Frenchie can't sleep.

Desperate to just get whatever he can away from Blackbeard's crew, he knocks on Izzy's door and invites himself in.

On Ao3

Erotic Short: Work Hours

A man enforces the boundaries of his boyfriend’s work-life separation.

M/cis M, rated E, 1.3k. Public blowjobs out of doors, mild D/s, teasing and banter. Light-hearted and breezy.

On Medium / / On Patreon

[pascalina]

The brothers' movie

11/07/2015

They don't use the same last name, but they are siblings. Pedro Pascal (40) the Chilean actor who starred in Game of Thrones and now has a starring role in the Netflix series Narcos, uses his mother's surname because it is easier to pronounce in English. 17 years younger, Lucas Balmaceda Pascal (23), also an actor, debuted in Los 80 and today stars in the TVN series Juana Brava. Here, both talk for the first time about their relationship, their love for cinema and their mutual admiration.

José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal was born in Chile, but a few months later he had to go into exile with his parents and his older sister, Javiera, to Denmark. It was the end of 1975. Thanks to the Rockefeller scholarship granted for his father, the doctor José Balmaceda Riera, a year later they moved to the United States: first they lived in San Antonio, Texas. Life there was just beginning and it was not easy.

Seventeen years later, in 1992, Lucas Balmaceda was born in Orange County, California, into the comfort of a family that was financially in its prime. His dad was at the peak of his career: as a fertility specialist and director of one of the University of California's reproductive health centers. But suddenly they moved back to Chile when Lucas was three years old and his brother Nicolas was eight. The two older ones stayed there. Pedro was already studying drama at Orange County High School of the Arts. Then he went to New York to study theater at the Tisch School of the Arts at New York University.

After a couple of small appearances in TV series, in 2014 he took the big leap in his career: he played Prince Oberyn in Game of Thrones, which made him world famous. Today, he has a starring role in the series Narcos. He is also filming a movie with Matt Damon and Willem Dafoe.

Fame came early for Lucas. After leaving Saint George High School in 2010, he studied theater at the Universidad Católica, and he began to shine: in year fourth, he starred in the theater play "La noche obstinada", by choreographer Pablo Rotemberg, and got a role in the successful television series Los 80 and today, in his last year, he is the co-star of Juana Brava, the new TVN nighttime series.

Scene one:

Lucas appears in Pedro's life

P: "I was 17 when Lucas was born. He was a baby when I left to go to university. I remember my first visit back and Lucas, who was not even two years old, was already the owner of the house. I remember those looks, wanting to tell me: 'I don't know who you are, but this is my house, mate.

To this day I have never seen that personality in another child. It was fascinating to see that wit in someone so small. Since he was a kid he had that fierce intelligence... The four siblings, Javiera, the eldest and the queen of the family; Nicolas, the doctor; Lucas and I are like a compact and consistent unit. I can't imagine life without them".

L: "Pedro was studying at the university in New York when I was born. When he went home for vacations to see the family, as I didn't know him, I thought: 'who is this guest, who is this weirdo who kisses my mother? She's mine!'. Back in Chile, every year Pedro came to visit us. It was the most entertaining thing in the world for me. He was much older and he would come with all the coolness, with all the culture of cinema, with horror movies that were not available here. Then we would watch them and play them out, we would do sketches. We would play that Pedro was a murderous monster and we would escape from him. We were each a character. He was very funny, he did voices, he impersonated people. He gets mad when I tell him, but I've always found that he has a Jim Carrey thing about him, he manages to make some impressive faces. When he came on, I couldn't stop watching him, he was too entertaining. We are all big movie buffs thanks to my dad. When I was three years old, he took my brothers and me to see Batman. I remember crying hysterically. I was very young, sensitive, and being in the cinema was like entering to another reality: loud noises, giant screen. I didn't understand anything.

Scene two

Transplanted

P: "What's Chilean about me and what's gringo about me is a very interesting question, because I don't think even at 40 years old I've been able to figure it out. I was raised and educated in the United States and socialized a lot with American pop culture, but Chilean pride has always been unwavering. My parents were exiled for eight years. So our visits to Chile were regular. My whole life I have lived in the United States and my whole life I have visited my relatives in Chile. However, since my siblings were raised in Chile, my connection to the country is much stronger today and it is something I am grateful for. Something that happens to me a lot is that when I say I've been in the U.S. my whole life, they say, "Well, you're a gringo then! And after a conversation in my fluent Spanish with a clear Chilean accent that same person turns around and says: I've been listening to you, you're Chilean!

L: "I am Chilean because I lived and grew up here since I was three years old, but at the same time I have a cultural disconnection: my parents lived 25 years in the United States, my brothers are gringos. My visual culture is super gringo, the TV shows I watched when I was a kid or the movies I watch to this day I understand them from that place: as an American. More than being born in the United States, I feel it's because of my family's background".

SCENE THREE:

The performance

P: "There were good years and bad years (when I started my acting career in the United States). Many years I was a waiter to supplement my income. But from a very young age I was auditioning for professional jobs. In my late twenties my career in the theater was relatively consistent. Then, when opportunities in television arose, I was consolidating and it became much easier to pay my expenses. I think that struggle, going through those situations, empowers you a lot and it's one of the things I'm enormously grateful for. And Game of Thrones was an incredible gift. It's the best role I've ever played and they're the best people I've ever worked with."

L: "It's Pedro's fault that I wanted to be an actor. But when I told him I wanted to study theater it was hard for him, more than anything, because he cares about me and studying theater is hard. You have to be very wise and have a super high self-esteem to take care of yourself. Pedro went through many things. If there is an actor who doesn't have contacts in the United States, it's him. Everything he has achieved is because of his work. That's why when people ask me why I don't go to the U.S., it's a resounding no. Being Pedro Pascal's little brother is not going to get me around the corner; I would have to be Tom Cruise's twin to achieve anything. Even so, Pedro had many failed career starts. In 2011, for example, he was offered a starring role in a series called Wonder Woman and it was eventually canceled. That's why, when Games of Thrones came up, I was like, wow! We were all freaking out, because Games of Thrones is like a worldwide trending topic. All the episodes he was in, we were all watching them together at my house, eating pizza or sushi."

SCENE FOUR:

Mutual lessons

P: "I try not to get too involved in anything Lucas does or how he does it. He has single-handedly created each of his experiences and is one of the most inspiring things I've ever seen. He loves his work and is continually developing his skills for television and theater, and eventually film. He executes like a real artist and, to be honest, it is more common for me to learn something from him than for him to learn something from me. I mean that very sincerely. Lucas reminds me to work hard and keeps me inspired. When I saw him in Los 80 I was incredibly proud, but not surprised. I was seeing something I had always known. The only advice I've given him is to not be such a workaholic, to take care of himself and to be proud of what he's accomplished and what he still has yet to accomplish. Deep down, I'm always going to be the protective big brother."

L: "Pedro is an object of admiration for me. What he says is law for me. Sometimes I ask him: 'Pedro, did you see that movie?' and he says: 'Yes, I didn't like it'. I tell him: 'Oh, I didn't like it either'. The nice thing about our relationship is that it happens so sporadically, once or twice a year, that the moments when we see each other are very intense. We either fight a lot or we love each other too much, but it's always like a story, like a movie. While he's there and I'm here, we talk a lot on WhatsApp and Facebook".

P: "With Lucas we always keep each other up to date on what movies to watch, what TV shows are good. I bug him all the time asking him about what's going on in his life and I'm always asking him about his perspective on things. Despite being away from each other for a long time, Lucas and I are very close and always have been. I see Lucas at the beginning of an amazing career, with an unwavering curiosity and passion. I love it when he confides in me about things he is enjoying or situations he is dealing with."

L: "I've never seen Pedro in theater, but I've been told he's tremendous. On camera, I find that he has a very intense look. He also has, and in that we are very similar, a very strong visual culture, the fact that we have always liked horror movies. He plays characters that hide something, dark characters. A great strength is that he is very sensual, he knows how to handle himself well from seduction".

P: "Lucas is brave, he's fearless. There's nothing he's not willing to try, he's never going to give up on a challenge, he's never going to leave something halfway, no matter what that means to him. Lucas is unstoppable.

Link interview

[limmastyles]

"hey know that here is going to do well in the US which is why they stick to what they know and which is why they have so many shows in the US."

And that is where the issue is! If Harry wants to cement his career as a global musician (legendary level like, prince) and his career to have longevity he needs to do more promo in other countries. Take South Korea for example, if he wanted to break into their market he would have to do some TV appearances on popular shows where their biggest artist appear on. Also my country Australia, every promo tour harry does an interview with the same people, video call appearance on 'the project' and 2 radio interviews, smallzy and ash london (now one because ash is a mum has stopped her radio show and has a podcast). He announced stadium tours for 2023 here and one thing about Australia is that stadium tours normally don't go well unless you're Ed Sheeran, Adele or Taylor Swift level. Tickets for single shows in the cities he's going sold fast on ticket release day but there are still tickets remaining in seats and general admission. Big cities like Melbourne and Sydney have sold their VIP packages fast but however their second shows that have been added are less sold than their first which are still not sold out. He just became the first artist to have 13 songs inside the Top 15 in one week on the ARIA Singles Chart in here so he does have the audience. But his promo has been poor, the only time I saw adds for his tour were leading up to the ticket sale date, if not for me following him on Instagram I would not have known harry was touring Australia. Especially when he didn't post the tour dates on his main post but only his story. What also is hurting his reach for that legendary level is his team (because we know he doesn't run his socials) communication with tour dates. His team canceled Canada tour dates without saying anything with no message. At least Australia got a message when he cancelled ours but that was after not hearing anything from his team for 3 years straight. That also may be a fact hurting his stadium tours here is Australia, lack of communication. Additionally, the fact that Canada gets less shows than the US after missing out last year is such a slap in the face! In the end I really hope his team starts focusing in other regions in the world to help his career he can only focus so long on the US before he damages his status in others.

[lokiondisneyplus]

LOKI 4 PRESIDENT! For a narcissist trickster sorcerer with the personality of a praying mantis, there are few occupations in the world that would suit Loki better than president of the United States. A few years ago, in the summer of 2016, comic book writer Christopher Hastings imagined just that in a satirical limited series for Marvel titled Vote Loki.

Five years later, Vote Loki has found its way to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. In the fifth episode of the Disney+ series, “Journey Into Mystery,” a variant Loki (still played by Tom Hiddleston) appears in the desolate “Void” surrounded by a Mad Max-esque posse. On Loki’s tattered blazer is a red, white, and blue “Loki” button, indicating this Loki was, uh, elected to lead. Turn on the subtitles on Disney+ and you’ll find this Loki is credited as “President Loki.”

In an email to Inverse, Christopher Hastings says he had no idea this was going to happen.

“I found out [they were doing Vote Loki] when a trailer for the show featured the campaign outfit from Vote Loki,” Hastings tells Inverse.

When Inverse exchanged emails with Hastings, it was prior to the episode’s premiere, to which Hastings said he was “very curious to see exactly what from the comic gets into the show.”

“I love time travel and multiverse material,” the writer says in praise of Loki. “I am a big fan of the TVA as a setting. I'm eager to see how it goes, and what it might mean for the next phase of MCU movies, especially since multiverse wackiness seems to be a major part of those upcoming movies.”

In 2004, while a student at the School of Visual Arts in New York City, Hastings wrote and illustrated The Adventures of Dr. McNinja, a serial webcomic about a doctor who is also a ninja. The series was a cult hit, at one point attracting 110,000 unique visitors a day. By 2011, Hastings was doing work for Marvel, writing single issues of A+X and Howard the Duck. With Chris Bachalo, he co-created Gwenpool — a bizarre blend of Spider-Man ex-girlfriend Gwen Stacy and Deadpool — and penned the 2016-2018 solo series The Unbelievable Gwenpool, teaming up with Japanese studio Gurihiru to create the character’s deeply unique comedic tone.

But during Gwenpool, Hastings spent the summer of 2016 playing with a different Marvel trickster: Loki. In the four-issue miniseries Vote Loki, Hastings spoofed the chaos that was the 2016 race between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. In Vote Loki, an ambitious Loki seeks the seat of the president with a very unique campaign strategy: being honest about lying.

With “President Loki” having a minor cameo in the MCU, Inverse caught up with Hastings to look back on his explicitly political riff that took place inside the Marvel Universe.

This interview has been edited for clarity.

Take me back to the origins of Vote Loki. When did the seed for the story plant in your mind? What was going on in the world of culture/politics at that time?

Gosh, it's tough to come up with one thing specifically, because we were making the comic by the seat of our pants, and so many things got scrapped and rewritten along the way, often at the last second. But one of the core topics I wanted to cover had to do with narratives versus reality. It's kind of a given that in the world of politics, truth is this malleable thing, and now more than ever all you have to do to make people believe a lie is to repeat it enough times.

I liked the idea of Loki playing with narrative in a way that wasn't necessarily outright lying, more bending. (Except the bit about being born in Maryland. One outright lie there.) The other driving point I wanted to explore was how Americans can have a tendency to incorporate their national-level politics into part of their identity, and what that does to a person, particularly when a character like Loki is the one on the ticket.

What sort of conversations did you have with Marvel about a political satire starring Loki? What was the elevator pitch that got approval?

Like I said, things changed so many times, I'm not even entirely sure how many versions were kind of approved and then scrapped on the way to get to what was actually published. I think it was more that I assured editor Wil Moss that I could jump on the book (which Marvel was determined to make; they just hadn't decided who was writing it when I was pitching) after talking about the stuff about narrative and identity, and the basic idea that the viewpoint character shouldn't actually be Loki but a journalist covering Loki's campaign.

Vote Loki introduced the character of Nisa Contreras. What was the primary inspiration for her?

That would be my real-life friend, Nisa Contreras. She's not a journalist, but she’s someone I'm sure could take down Loki if he were a) real and b) got on her bad side. I wanted the story to be more about witnessing the tension and the comedy of Loki running for president, about not knowing what was up his sleeve. And so I came up with [a] journalist.

Vote Loki was published over the summer of 2016 when the election was ramping up in awkward ways. (“Pokémon Go to the polls!”) Did the real election influence the comic in any way, including any specific moments?

The comic was a direct response to things that were happening during the 2016 campaign, specifically that a “joke” candidate that was obviously terrible could get pretty far with enough media oxygen and a comfortable political system that ignored the disgust a lot of people had with it.

Vote Loki ran for four issues. Was there ever a possibility for more?

If it was a smash hit, I believe there would have been a President Loki to directly follow Vote Loki.

What do you think of Vote Loki's inclusion in the TV series?

Top five surreal moments of my life.

Do you think Vote Loki could be the focus of its own adapted series/movie?

Oh for sure. You wouldn't even have to take the material from our comic; there's so much more brand-new political madness that a new Vote Loki series or movie could tap into.

A lot has happened in the five years since Vote Loki was published. What are your feelings looking back now in 2021? Did your opinions on the book ever change?

There was a lot happening in American politics in 2016 I missed and wish I had been able to see to include. For example, how broken political polling has become. I had no idea, along with the rest of the country.

It was tricky to do a cohesive narrative amongst a shifting Marvel continuity we had to stay inside; a lot of feedback and demands from various sources within the company and an election that was changing every single day. It was truthfully (heh) a quite stressful book to write, but looking back on it I'm proud to see what we absolutely nailed about American culture. In particular, what we had to say about politics as entertainment and identity, and how a slippery enough politician can not only shake scandal [off] by speeding up an already fast news cycle but embrace and twist it to their advantage.

LOKI WILL AIR ITS FINAL EPISODE JULY 14 ON DISNEY+. VOTE LOKI IS AVAILABLE NOW.

[natromanxoff]

Record Mirror (July 14, 1979): 119/?

THE QUEEN BACKLASH ENDS HERE

WITHOUT DOUBT Queen are among that elite number of bands universally hated by the rock press.

The rancour is, make no mistake, mutual which is understandable. If you find yourself on the receiving end of an inveterate dislike at the outset of your career and watch it being nurtured and carefully cultivated over the next six years you’re bound to retaliate.

Queen’s hatred manifests itself by their continued habit of ignoring the music press i.e. refusing to give interviews. There is the occasional token “chat”, pointless as it is innocuous, but in the main it amounts to a blanket “No.”

One of the last interviews Freddie Mercury gave was the last nail in the perspex coffin. Under a headline which boldly asked ‘Is This Man A Prat?’ the king of the leotards was demolished by one of the old school Queen haters and Freddie obviously came to the conclusion, in its wake, that interviews in future would be both superfluous (he was popular enough) and detrimental.

The curtain, velvet naturally, closed.

Roger Taylor, a little wary, a little weary, sits stiffly in an armchair. The juggernauts rattling the Chelsea Street outside create a sonorous buzz bomb hum in the room.

You expect a member of Queen to look elegant. In fact Roger is only wearing a wine colour mohair jacket, black shirt and blue jeans.

He apologises for being a little late and explains how he went to the wrong address. Roger seems to be the only member of Queen left who is prepared, albeit rarely, to open his mouth in the presence of a hack. A question springs to mind . . . why?

“We all sat around a table before I flew over from Munich to discuss the press situation and we agreed I should be the one to represent the band. Freddie is very uncompromising and refuses to have much to do with journalists.

“Obviously, he’s had a few raw deals with them in the past,” observes Taylor.

Roger himself has a rather low view of the music press.

“Most of it is rubbish. There was something I liked recently, a piece on Malcolm McLaren, but in the main I think I’m the only one of Queen to actually read the music papers.”

Why does he think the band are systemically slagged?

“I think it’s because Queen have always come across as being a rather confident band. We seemed, to other people at least, to be very sure of ourselves. I think the press may have misconstrued the confidence, mistaking it for a form of arrogance. Hence they became wary of our motives which bred a dislike for our music.”

Now that’s what I call a neat conclusion.

At the risk of being sent to Coventry by my colleagues I’d like, if I may, to come clean. I love Queen (you’re fired, Ed).

I think it all began with a simple pre-packed but indisposable line – “Dynamite with a laser beam” and has continued uninterrupted (despite the occasional flaw) right through to ‘Queen Live Killers’.

A combination of reasons, Freddie Mercury’s lascivious lisp – the most attractive intonation known to man . . . Brian May’s reel ‘em off rococo riffs that would, in his capable hands, transform the theme music for ‘Waggoners’ Walk’ into a meisterwork . . . John Deacon’s almost stoic stance, incongruous yet integral . . . Roger Taylor’s intense power, so unexpected from one so slight . . . the ability to go over the top without failing into the trap of caricature . . . a desire to give the punters what they want without pandering . . . that cast iron confidence . . . those nine glorious winter weeks of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ which kept the cold away from my soul . . .

Yes, I love Queen.

Roger explains the story behind ‘Killers’ which features just about every Queen classic which ever found its way into a silk lined memory bank.

“We always knew that one day we would make a live album. I think it was well planned. About 90 per cent of our last European tour was recorded on a mobile unit and we then spent weeks sitting through the songs in the studio.

“The result is a 100 per cent LIVE album. Nothing has been touched up in the process of selection, I think that’s pretty rare these days. Many ‘live’ albums are tampered with.”

The choice of single is unusual – ‘Love Of My Life’. “It’s not so unusual when you hear the way it came out. The song seems to have such a wide appeal. Everywhere we go the reaction to it is the same. The audience are just bursting to sing along.”

The result is Queen’s best single since ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ (that was their LAST one crawler, ED)

As I mentioned earlier the band are currently residing in Munich where they are “experimenting” in the studio.

“We are recording in a totally different way for us,” says Roger who speaks with a delicate London accent only typical of cockneys with dramatic training and David Essex.

“Every time we entered a studio in the past we had a good idea of what we were going to do. This time we started from scratch and the result is amazing. The music is nothing like anything we’ve done before, I guess you could say it’s much simpler.”

And this novel approach to their music also extends to their shows. On their next British tour – in the late Autumn – the band will be playing much smaller venues than they are accustomed to.

“In London for example we went to play to audiences of about two or three thousand in different areas. I think it’s much fairer to the fans.”

But won’t this affect their stage show which is after all a crucial factor for any powerpomp outfit?

“Not really. We will just scale down the show accordingly. Besides,” he says taking another bite out of the biscuit, “we haven’t used dry ice in years.”

The monkey on Queen’s back, as corpulent and cantankerous as ever, has been put there by those who firmly believe the band can never emulate past achievements. Roger is cognizant of its presence but refuses to unpeel its bananas.

“That all began after ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. When it stayed at number one all those weeks we were kindly informed that we would never be able to make another single to rival it both artistically and from the point of view of sales.

“Yet ‘We Are The Champions’ sold a great deal more and has since become the biggest selling single in the entire history of Elektra Asylum – our label in the States.

“We don’t do the amazingly complex things any more because we’ve moved on from that. We concentrate on the music we are doing now and we intend to do it the best we can, it’s ridiculous looking behind and and what you’ve done.

“There’s nothing like going back on the road to re-unite the bond between the four personalities and strengthening our belief in the band. We are a real working unit and, in my experience of the music business, one of the most democratic bands around today.”

A statement like that cries out to be expounded.

“People think every member of all the bands, not naming any names, are treated equally that is get the same money as their colleagues. That’s rubbish. In many bands there are a couple of guys that get all the money. The rest are on wages. Queen share the profits equally.”

And they don’t have a manager taking his cut either, John Reid departed a couple of years back and now the band themselves make all the major policy decisions. Why did they decide to dispense with the services of a manager?

“Basically because we were fed up with giving other people money. Y’know it never ceases to amaze me how naive those guys are in bands who have just had their first hit. After all this time I’ve forgotten just how naive we must have been at the beginning.

“I mean, everything seems so great when you get into the charts for the first time. You’re living on cloud nine and nothing else matters. But in truth that hit means absolutely nothing. So few people achieve any amount of financial success in this business.

“Oh, you think, you’re really living . . . for a while. Somebody gets you a flat in Chelsea and it’s all free. But one day the rent stops being paid for you and you realise you’re skint.

“Since John Reid has gone the four of us have always made a point of discussing everything together. We have various people working for us but all the important decisions are made by us alone. That way we get freedom of choice – and financial independence.”

My attention is suddenly diverted.

“FORTY-LOVE!” Wimbledon, the Persil White opiate for the hoi polloi squashed in a strawberry crush wrings out its perspiring petticoats on the TV in the next room.  Roger’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive French girl called Dominique, is engrossed. The couple have lived together for two years. Crippled old marriage questions permeate the air.

“I don’t believe in marriage,” says Roger. “It’s simply a contract and the fewer contracts I enter into the better. If you get on well with someone then there isn’t any harm in living with that person – but marriage is something else again.”

They live in a six bedroomed Victorian house just outside London, which is set in 20 acres. Roger has a “tiny” town house in Barnes as well. What’s it like having a bank full of money at the age of 29?

“I don’t hide away from life. Queen have never been one of those ‘being grabbed in the street’ type bands. It may happen when the four of us are together – but when we are out alone we are seldom bothered. That gives me the opportunity to enjoy myself. I go to clubs a lot. I like having a good time. I don’t think you could describe any of the band as leading sheltered lives.

“But I have completely lost touch with how much things cost. When you find yourself living in hotels for so long you never really deal in money as such. Everything is available whenever you want it – but you never see the cash actually being handed over.

“I’ve forgotten what it was like to be penniless which Queen were for years. I guess that must happen to many successful rock bands.”

Another thing that happens to many successful rock bands – they quit the country. But not Queen it appears.

“We have always based ourselves in England and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue to do so. We could leave at any time but we choose to stay. People believe we are tax exiles because we spend a lot of the time out of the country recording in studios all over Europe and touring.”

And what will happen when the band finally trudge wearily down the road leading to that  ivory strewn elephants’ graveyard . . . ?

“I know it’s bound to happen one day. I suppose I’d take a long, long holiday . . . and then make a solo album.”

[infinites-chaser]

Librarian! PH. 52 MLQC MC / Victor :)

HELLO ANON U WERE ONE OF THE FIRST PEOPLE TO RESPOND TO MY LIBRARIAN ASK GAME I’M SO SORRY IT’S TAKEN SO LONG,,, victor is just. hard to write. aLSO I'm doubly sorry since i’ll be combining this with the Victor ask from @truth-be-told-im-lying ​ hope neither of you mind T-T i don’t think my mind could do two victor ficlets akwlfjsdkls

ANyway I love you both LOTS AND LOTS hopefully this attempt at Victor isn’t extremely out of character;;; it’s a lowkey soulmates AU if that counts for anything :> aND this fic gets the special treatment of an actual Title bc True was wonderful enough to help me by typing Victor as an Enneagram Type One

okaaay and without further ado, 

49, 52 + Victor/MC

‘[He] wakes up in [his] bed, determined to begin again.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 49)

‘As [he] pushes through the onlookers to meet [her], he is certain he is the only person moving.’- These Ghosts Are Family, Maisy Card. (pg. 52)

((pronoun changes in both quotes to better fit the ficlet))

spoilers for Victor/MC’s childhood!

spend my whole life searching

Victor doesn’t believe in soulmates. (After half a lifetime of searching turning up nothing, he doesn’t believe in much.)

Once upon a time, he might’ve. (He wanted to). His heart rate doubled and sped up to match hers— a carefree little girl skipping across the road, too far away to hear his nerves cry danger, too caught up in dreams and fantasies to hear his warning shout. Time slowed down so he could save her, and on that afternoon on the crosswalk, drops of rain suspended in the air, he did.

At that age, he hadn’t had the sense to wonder why a young girl like her had been crossing the street without supervision. Why her smiles had come freely, but had always looked a little sad, a little wistful. Why she’d been so eager to accept his baked treats. Why she’d been at the playground without a parent. Why she’d always been alone.

Now, seventeen years later, he wishes he did. Wishes he’d known something as simple as her last name.

He dreams of her. Of finding her again: the girl whose heartbeat matched his. The girl whose smile had slowed down time itself for him, as if short moments with her could’ve each stretched into a gentle eternity. He’d wanted them to. He’d wanted to capture every moment spent with her, to make them last, to savor them, so they’d pass slow and sweet like honey on the tongue.

Time had passed slow when he’d wanted it to. Those sunlit afternoons had been sweet, they’d been happy.

Only, time is a fickle thing. When he takes his eye off it, it races away, too fast for him to keep up.

The kidnapping. The experiments. The torture.

The escape.

She saves him. He’s too slow to save her.

And even if he can stop time, here’s the thing: he can never turn the clock back.

Still, he wakes up. Every morning, he gets out of bed. Gets dressed and goes to work. The world around him moves on, and demands he does, too, even if his heart’s still eleven years old and clutching her motionless body, eleven years old, the only sound in his ears his pounding pulse, the absence of the accompaniment of hers an accusation more painful than any hateful words.

It’s a recurring theme in his life, time. It’s ironic, really, when he thinks about it. That he can stop time without lifting a finger, and yet, when it comes to things he cares about, people he loves most, he’s always eleven years old again, always too late.

(His Evol’s time control, but perhaps, all this time, he hasn’t been controlling time, it’s been controlling him. He’s imprisoned by a single moment, a memory, a regret. A past that can never be undone.)

Whenever he has spare time, he devotes himself to searching. Resigns himself to the fact he’ll probably never find her, if all he has to go off of is a child’s face, once preserved in his memory, now fading. Hair color. Eye color. Age. A name. Nothing more.

The searches turn up nothing. 

He spends late nights in the office to distract himself, builds up a capitalist kingdom of a company, if only to put off for a few hours more the prospect of returning home to face his nightmares alone.

His father praises him for LFG’s growth over dinners filled with awkward silences. The name Victor Li appears more and more often in business newspapers. Investors approach him. He gets interviews. Gets offers for TV appearances, for sponsorships.

He takes them, these material successes. Wonders if any amount of them could ever make up for the failure from his childhood. If they could bring her back. He tells himself if he finds her, when he finds her, when he brings her back, it’ll be to a more perfect world. One in which he’ll never fail her again. It’s a foolish thought, but it keeps him going. With it in mind, he proceeds to work twice as hard.

Souvenir is what saves him. A small allowance, a self-indulgence, a seed of hope planted in what he thinks is his darkest time.

It’s for her, more than any of his frantic searching ever was. A dream, a foolish one, that one day she’ll step through his memories and through the restaurant’s door, that one day they’ll share a pudding together again, their hearts beating as one.

He doesn’t get to open Souvenir often; his job doesn't let him. He made sure of that, long ago. But when he does, after the last customer’s left, and he’s put up the closed sign, he cooks for two.

(The first time, Mr. Mills had taken a single look at his silent, still face, and his expression must've spoken volumes. The older man hadn't said a word, only helped clean the kitchen after, the normally gentle lines around his mouth pulled taut in a worried frown.)

He sets the second place at the table himself: carefully places fork, knife and spoon beside lukewarm appetizers, tucks a napkin under soup bowls going cold. Watches the empty seat and the untouched meal for an eternity before finally eating his own. His technique's impeccable. It has been ever since he'd aced his culinary lessons, since he'd bought out the school. He'd used the finest ingredients. He always does.

The food still crumbles like ash in his mouth. (It always does.)

Mr. Mills will find him there, nursing a glass of wine long into the night. He knows better not to question it, but sometimes he'll pull up a chair, drink a glass, too. talk of everything and nothing, talk of his parents, his sister's family, of times gone by.

Victor will never admit it, but the older man's presence makes those nights less hard. his stories, his memories — they keep the ice in his heart from spreading any further when it feels like nothing else will.

Ten years stretch into thirteen, into fourteen, into fifteen, into a broken clock, time stopped because does the passage of time mean anything if he measures it, measured it in time with her? If she's gone?

The meals shrink. First appetizers vanish, then entrees too, until all that's left are desserts, puddings that he stares at all evening, puddings a girl had loved once, that he can almost imagine her sitting there eating, her noticing him watching her and her answering blush and smile. His smile back.

Almost, because after all these years without her, he can’t quite imagine her face. Not as she would look now. Not even as she was, seventeen years back.

(He dreams and finds he doesn’t remember what her smile looked like, exactly. Doesn’t remember the sound of her heartbeat mingling with the sound of his.

Memory is cruel. Memory is imperfect. No matter if you can stop time, no matter how hard you try to memorize a moment, when you revisit it, it’ll never be the same as when you lived it the first time.)

Then:

The day starts like any other. He wakes up, gets out of bed, gets ready for another day of work, another night of searching. He scrolls emails while waiting for his espresso machine to heat, then puts his tablet aside when the coffee's done. He eats in silence. As always, he's done five minutes before he needs to leave for the company, the perfect amount of time for him to do a last-minute check in the mirror— his tie's straight, his shirt unwrinkled, not a hair on his head out of place. The reflection that stares back at him is unchanging; these days it barely shows even the passage of time.

He sighs. Shakes the thought off like the piece of lint it is on his otherwise immaculate state of being, and heads for the door, the lock automatically clicking behind him at eight o'clock am, exactly on schedule, exactly as planned.

He's about to take a seat in his car when an inexplicable urge to walk to work takes hold of him. He pauses. Calculates and re-calculates the time it would take (fifteen minutes, not accounting for rush hour traffic making crosswalks slow), and he's about to decide it's not worth it, it's a silly thought, but the urge intensifies.

Do it, the eleven-year-old in his heart seems to be telling him. You won't regret it.

He frowns and rubs his forehead— for a moment, he wonders if all his searching, all his foolish hopes are finally getting to his brain.

He decides to take the walk, anyway.

He regrets it, not nine minutes later, when despite the sun's light shining strong through the clouds, a light rain begins to fall.

Worse still, the traffic lights haven't changed once in the past ninety seconds. He won't be late, he'd accounted for this, but he's stuck in a crowd of pedestrians, and their chatter's beginning to grate on his nerves. He's considering calling the mayor about it after exactly one hundred seconds have passed— clearly, the light's broken, this is far too long for commuters to wait— but then, finally the walk sign flicks on.

He's already across the street when it happens:

First, a phone rings.

Then, the loud honking of a car.

Tires screech.

Time slows. Time stops.

He's back on the crosswalk in a matter of heartbeats, the inattentive idiot in his arms (it's a girl, it's always a girl, hair dark, eyes wide, expression shocked).

"You..." She says, blinking up at him with those wide, almost-familiar eyes. Distantly, he registers the echo of a heartbeat overlapping with his.

"Who are you?"

Who are you? His mind asks, but deep in his heart, he already knows the answer. It can't be.

"Evolver?" He says instead, shoving down memories that threaten to surface: another rainy day, another crosswalk, another heart that had seemed matched to his. He tells himself he's being delusional, that he thinks he can hear her heartbeat because she's in his arms, wide-eyed and fragile, her heartrate skittering back and forth like a fool— this isn't like his careful, methodical searching, this is a fluke beyond flukes, it means nothing, it'll lead to nothing in the end.

But she's in his arms, warm and soft against his protective embrace, she's in his arms and it feels so right it's almost painful, his pulse pulled into a panicked pace to match hers.

He sets her down abruptly, as if burned, and turns to go.

"Someone can't come to your rescue every time."

Around them, suspended raindrops begin to fall. The world, resumed. The world, once again predictable and mundane. Except for her.

He knows, without looking back, she's staring after him, her heart, his heart, still racing.

He allows himself a smile.

He allows himself some small sliver of hope.

(His frozen time starts moving again.)