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inbabylontheywept · 10 days ago

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Reach Heaven (Through Violence)

When I was in 2nd grade, my school started a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. I want to emphasize that I started out very excited for this program. I was a small, visibly autistic child on a playground with fourth graders on it. In theory, this program might as well have been called The Rescue Babs Initiative.

In practice, however, zero-tolerance programs almost always sink into madness. The motivations never line up right - too many incentives for cheating.

The first victim of the program was actually my friend, Sam. I was standing next to him in line when one of the fourth graders gut punched him. There was no reason for the punch, he was just small and in arm's reach. Sam got the wind knocked out of him, but he managed to gasp out the phrase stupid motherfucker right as the playground aide ran over to keep the peace.

(Sam had an incredible vocabulary for a 2nd grader. Consequence of his dad being a recently divorced mechanic.)

Puncher got a two week suspension. That was fine. But Sam got a one week one for verbal abuse, which was beyond the pale. But that’s just what zero-tolerance is, right? No hitting became a rule everyone had to follow, and it didn't stop when someone hit us. So our options as kids were to somehow make like Jesus and ascend up to heaven… or solve things ourselves.

We started solving things ourselves.

I'll be honest, I think that was always the plan. A school can do a lot of things to reduce bullying, but if the goal is zero, there's only one path forward: Shoot the messenger.

---

My part in the story was a few weeks after that. Long enough to know that the school's new unofficial policy was to suspend kids that reported problems, short enough to have no idea how to defend myself. It turned out the 4th grader that hit Sam was part of a trio, and that trio had their sights on me next.

I asked some of my classmates what to do, and they said that the best idea was to just ignore the bullies. Refuse to give them a reaction. That was dogshit advice, but it was common enough in the early 2000s and it's not like I can fault 2nd graders for not knowing much about life.

Anyway. I took the advice and I ignored my bullies. I ignored them when they said nasty things about my mom, and I ignored them when they bounced soccer balls off my head, and the one time I broke was when the biggest of the trio grabbed my arm hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises. We were watching a movie in the gym when he did that, and I leaned over and told him he could hold my hand if he was scared of the dark. Which worked, thank God. The grip hurt bad enough I had to excuse myself for a bit to keep my composure.

I think a more mentally flexible kid would've changed strategies by then. Clearly, things were escalating. But it's hard for me to change my mind, so I stuck to my bad strategy, right up until the day the big kids caught me after school. I was crossing the baseball field when they got me. It was just one of those places you had to walk through to make it to the bike rack.

The big guy, again, was the instigator. He pushed me down then stood over me, yelling for me to get back up. But I knew that if I got back up, he'd just push me down again, and for whatever reason, their Bully Code didn't allow for kicking a kid that was already down. So I stuck to the grass, and they tried a bunch of things to goad me into standing back up. Eventually, I started kicking at them while on my back, and one of them took the opportunity to grab my leg. Second bully thought that looked fun, so he grabbed my other leg. Kicking me like that was off limits, but dragging wasn't, so they just started pulling me around that way.

They were so much taller than me that I was almost vertical during the pull so all my weight was put on my shoulders. And the fields were just made of unkind stuff. There was crushed gravel all over the place, spilled out from the divider between the big kid playground and the little kid playground, so every time they dragged me over a piece it just ripped a new gouge up my back. The ground itself was sunbaked caliche and dead crabgrass. There was a grit to it, like sand stuck to the outside of a clay pot.

It grated all the skin off my upper back. Everything between the bottom of my neck to the bottom of my shoulder blades. I don't know at what points I went from yelling, to screaming, to just crying, but I did, and I know they seemed almost giddy every time it changed. Eventually they finished off with one loop around the baseball diamond and that hurt the worst. The dust there stuck to the snot and spit all over my face and made it into a foul mud, and the same happened in my shirt. The dust stung like salt, and the gravel in the lines tore open a few more cuts for dirt to pour in. I remember them stopping, and actually crying again I was so relieved. It was done. Thank God, it was finally done. They were done hurting me.

They left me on my back near homebase. They'd finally got the reaction they were looking for.

It took me a few minutes after that to stagger back to my feet. I was able to wash the snot-mud off my face in the bathroom, but I couldn't bring myself to touch my back. It just felt like it was on fire. Then I made it back to the bike rack.

That’s where my older sister, Liz, was waiting for me. She was just a grade ahead of me but it always felt bigger than that. There’s some deep weight associated with being the oldest. She could see that I was dirty and tear soaked so she asked what happened. I didn’t know how to put it in words, so I just tried lifting my shirt to show her. It made a sticky, tacky sound coming up - like the plastic coat coming off a slice of American cheese. Tchhhhk.

I didn’t know how bad they’d got me before I heard that noise.

She looked at my back for maybe two seconds before telling me to put my shirt back down. I never actually looked at it when it was fresh, but I still had straggling scars by the time I got to highschool. Long silver-grey lines, visible mostly for the dirt still stuck in them. She looked a little sick when I turned around, but she kept it cool, which I really appreciated. I always hated crying in public, and I was half a hair from crying all over again. I don't think I'd have been able to keep it together if she'd freaked out too.

Instead, she just asked me some questions. Who did this, how long they’d been doing it, what I’d been doing, if I’d told anyone. Some 4th graders, a month, trying to ignore them, nobody.

She mulled those answers over. I could see her trying to chart a course forward - trying to figure out what it would take to solve this problem for good. She's always had this weird, sad, blank face that she'd make when she found a solution she didn't like. She'd make that face, then think some more, then make the face. Then think.

Eventually, she just made the face.

Don't tell the parents, she said. I can fix this. But only if you don’t tell them.

I believed her. She was the most capable person I knew, and her word was gold. So I didn't tell our parents. I biked home, and every drop of sweat that rolled down my back felt like acid on my skin. I remember getting home and beelining straight to the bath, because I needed something to put the fire out. Took that as my moment to cry it out again too. First time I'd cried was from pain, but the second time was from the cruelty. Second time took longer, but the nice thing about a cold bath is that the water never runs out. I could just pop the plug out with my toes and just keep rinsing and draining and rinsing and draining until my mind was as clean and empty and stark as the tub itself. Then I could go fill that emptiness up with Calvin and Hobbes.

It worked.

Mostly.

---

I spent the whole next week feeling nervous anytime I was outside and Liz wasn't nearby. Some days she'd beat me to the bike racks, and I'd be relieved as hell to just go home. Other days, I'd be the first one out, and then I'd have to spend a few minutes worrying about what I'd do if the big kids showed up. But they never did. Liz always got there just a few minutes later, and I'd pretend I hadn't been planning escape routes.

Friday, I was sweating by myself when she showed up a few minutes later than normal. She unlocked her bike but she didn't move to leave. She had this big, long cable-type lock, maybe six feet of braided steel. She folded it over in her hands so it looked like a swatter and swung it a few times in the air. Made it whistle like a falling anvil in a cartoon.

Today's baseball practice, she said. All Our Guys are on the baseball team.

Our Guys. Odd phrasing. Also, I actually hadn't known that about them, but I nodded along anyway. She wasn't really looking at me as she talked - she was inspecting the lock.

My plan, she continued, is to wait here until baseball's done. Me and you. When it gets time I'll send you outside the bike cage.

The cage was a chain link fence, maybe six feet tall, built all around the rack. They’d lock it after school as an extra precaution against bike thieves.

Your job, she continued, will be to hold the gate closed after they're all in. Keep em’ stuck. Think you can do that?

She was being very frank, which helped me think clearly. I didn't think I could actually hold the gate closed if all of them ran into it at once, but I knew where a big half broken cinder block was, and I knew if I could wedge it in there, it would hold. So I told her that.

Great, she said. Do that.

Then I went to go get the block. She gave the cable a few more experimental swings, right as I made it around the corner.

I'd been thinking in straight lines before that. Just meeting goals. It wasn't until that moment that I really allowed myself to know what was happening. That I allowed myself to have a choice.

I chose to jog a little faster. I wanted revenge.

---

I came back with the block a few minutes later, then we just talked like nothing was happening. The sun was shining, and we’d both gotten into bionicles, and it was easy to talk and be people. Normal, happy people.

But that feeling went away when I heard the coach tweet a long whistle. Me and Liz both knew that was the signal that practice was done. I walked out and got my bric while she folded the cable in half in her hand again. Then we both waited.

Eventually I saw the kids that drug me around the baseball diamond emerge from behind the portables. I watched them make a straight line back to the bike rack. They were laughing together, having a good time. Being normal. Like me and my sister. I realized I could let things be normal too. I saw my chance to let things go softball pitched to me, nice and easy, and I didn't even bother to swing. I didn't want normal anymore. I wanted this. I knew why my sister had that lock, and I'd thought about it, and I liked it.

God help me, I think I needed it.

The kids went inside the bike cage. I gave them ten paces head start, then put the cinder block under the gate. That was the signal Liz had been waiting for.

She blitzed those boys. There were three of them, and the smallest still had two inches on her, so they probably would have kicked her ass if they ever had a moment to think. But she never gave them that moment. She picked the biggest kid, and decided he needed the first blow. I remember how much muscle she put into that swing - the cable was so heavy, and she was so small, that it kind of swung her back as she made that first half spin. Like a dog getting wagged by its own tail.

It was a perfect connection. Flawless. She swung through her target, not at it, and the resulting slap that the cable made bouncing off the biggest kid's stomach was loud enough to echo through the cage. It brought a tear to my eye. It brought a tear to his eye too.

The trio split after that, bouncing around the cage like fresh broke billiards. I can't describe how Liz did it, exactly, but she managed to chase the boys back together so she could hit them all more efficiently. She had a real knack for getting them right between the shoulders, so I never got to see the real perfection of her work, but she wasn't above swinging for the arms or legs if that was all she had. Those marks I could see, and they were brutal. The welts were wider and thicker than my thumb, like giant purple worms were trying to burrow out of their skin. Some even bled. I cheered on every hit.

Liz, for her part, just had a sort of grim, single minded determination to her. She was so angry she was shaking, and so scared that tears just kept running down her face, and she was grinning all the way back to her molars, but the grin didn't get any bigger after a solid hit than a glancing one. When the kids started blubbering, she didn't change her process. I'd spent my time crying, she'd spent her time crying, of course they were getting theirs in too: That's what violence does. It brings tears. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.

Eventually, one of the kids split off from the main herd and scrambled up the fence, gecko-style. Liz let him go. It was either that, or take her attention off the other two. Easy choice.

Now, there were two kids left, the big one, and one of his smaller friends. Smaller friend did the same trick. I was worried he was gonna turn back, fight me and open the gate for his buddy, but he just fled for the hills. I remember thinking, damn, I hope they never forgive each other for this. I hope this ruins their whole friendship. I hope this festers into something awful.

The one kid that was left really was trapped though. He wasn't built for climbing and he had no one to work as a distraction for him. Every time he started trying to make it up the fence, my sister would just twist up like a spring, then swing the cable with both hands right into his spine. The slap it made every time she did that was loud enough to hurt my ears. He never made it more than two hits like that before hopping off the fence and just trying to run around some more. He could get Liz tangled up in the bikes for a bit if he really tried, but it never bought him enough time to actually get out. She'd always find her way out of the thicket, swing the cable, and send him running again.

Eventually, he just couldn't run anymore. He sat down, and my sister hit him a few times, telling him to stand up. He refused. He knew he was gonna get hit either way, so he might as well get hit sitting down. He put his arms up after a bit and let those take a beating too. Eventually he just started begging her to stop. So she did.

He cried he was so relieved. I remembered how that felt: It’s done. Thank God, it’s finally done. They’re done hurting me.

Liz told me to come in and show him my back. I took my shirt off, and I showed him a scab as large as a dinner plate. Cracked up like dry river mud.

He looked sick. Started babbling about how he didn't know. Said he thought I was crying because I was just a kid - that he didn't know he was actually hurting me. That he'd just wanted to get a rise out of me and didn't know it would take so much.

He didn't know he'd gone too far until it was too late.

And suddenly, it was like looking in a mirror.

Two snotty, welted boys, crying alone in the dirt. Backs burning like fire. Ashamed. Trapped. Realizing that they'd just done something awful, and worse, that they’d dragged the people that meant the most to them along for the ride.

I hated him more at that moment than when he drug me over gravel. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill anything but their own brokenness reflected. Looking at him was unbearable. Like staring straight into the sun.

I could've hit him again if I hadn't just gorged myself on violence. But I had. I was fat with it, sick and aching - anything more and I would have puked. So I just told him to get his bike and go. Please. Just go.

He did. He staggered to his feet, and he grabbed his bike before running away like all the demons in hell were following behind. All bar two. There was a swingset nearby, and once he was fully out of sight, Liz and I walked over to it. We picked two seats next to each other and sat for a while, talking until our hands stopped shaking. Can’t remember about what. We didn’t really know how to process what had just happened. Still don’t, to be honest.

Then we went home.

---

Thanks to @elisabethdeep-blog, @foldingfittedsheets, @amateurmasksmith, @caramel-catss @arataya, and @rozenkingdom for being my alpha readers.

And thanks @lizardho, for being my first friend, my best friend, and my childhood bodyguard. I know it took a toll on you. I'm truly sorry.

#tw: bullying #tw #babylon-lore #this story is kind of gruesome tbh #but its done and i can offer it up to tumblr #enjoy this wildly unpleasant event from my childhood

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navybrat817 · 26 days ago

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Since we see this mentioned in Game Nights, what does it take for Bucky to stab John and how does the team react?

That is an excellent question, Cole! I'm so glad you asked.

Don't Look or Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Stabbing (yes, Bucky stabs John), arguing, humor, kissing, implied smut, Thunderbolts spoilers, we love Bob, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: We have Not Exactly a Secret, Game Nights, and now this for our Tower Shenanigans. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the inspo!), but any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky wasn't in a good mood today. He claimed he didn’t need as much sleep as the average person, but he still needed to get some shut eye and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Too many things were running through his head. You wished he woke you up to talk or help take his mind off things, but you knew he hadn’t wanted to disturb your rest. Had the roles been reversed he would’ve wanted you to wake him up first thing.

“I’m your girlfriend, Bucky. If something is bothering you, it bothers me,” you reminded him. “So, please, wake me up next time, okay?”

It didn’t matter how big or small of an issue it was, you’d help him through anything and everything.

“You need more sleep than I do,” he tried to argue, a ghost of a smile on his face when you narrowed your eyes.

“I can always catch a nap later,” you said.

“If you say so,” he said, sounding in better spirits than he had moments ago.

But that didn’t last when he started fighting with Sam via text. He didn’t like fighting with his friends and it wore on him as the day went on. You saw it in how he carried himself. If that weren’t enough, Alexei accidentally shot a paint gun in the common room and hit Bucky’s thigh. The flare in his nostrils told you he was two seconds away from losing his shit when John laughed.

You half expected Bucky to punch John, but he silently got to his feet and went to change. “So sorry!” Alexei called after him, also leaving the room.

“Did you have to laugh?” you asked John. Sure, you all gave him a hard time, but he dished it out as well and it was clear that Bucky wasn’t in the best mood.

John shrugged, not at all phased. “He’ll live.”

“You won’t if you keep pissing him off,” you teased, going to get Bucky’s jacket while you waited for him to come back.

Bucky returned a minute later, somehow looking more pissed off. Maybe it was because John scooted closer to you once you sat back down. As much as you adored Bucky’s signature grumpy stare, this was different. That look was on his face because of his bad mood. Your heart went out to him, and what kind of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t try to cheer him up?

“Hey,” you smiled, holding out a hand so Bucky could help you to your feet. You gave him a quick kiss once you were close enough and handed him his jacket. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride?” he asked, closing his eyes when you brushed his hair back.

“Yeah, a ride,” you smiled. As much as you both loved being in the tower, he needed to get out and you were more than happy to join him. “And maybe we can stop off at that bakery you love?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. Between a ride with you and stopping off to get a treat, he’d be in a much better mood. “Let’s go.”

“Hang tight for just a minute. Just need to grab something,” you said, sneaking in another kiss before you headed toward your room. You wondered how much Bucky would argue if you tried to pay for the treats. He was always such a gentleman when it came to-

“FUCK!”

You stopped at the sound of John’s loud and piercing scream. It wouldn’t have been the first time he yelled, but that was typically done out of anger or frustration. This scream, however, sounded like pain.

“Oh, shit,” you mumbled, rushing back to the common room.

Your eyes went right to your boyfriend since he was always at the forefront of your mind. You took a step forward when he locked eyes with you, the coldness in the blues almost making you shiver. He happened to be right beside John who was a bit more pale than usual and gripping his arm like a lifeline. Your mouth fell open when you realized the former Captain America had a knife in his hand. And he wasn’t holding it, oh, no. Bucky’s knife was through his hand. You knew it was Bucky’s knife because you bought it for him.

What the fuck happened, and why did that excite you?

Ava phased beside you, likely drawn by John’s scream. Yelena and Bob came in seconds later though Yelena didn’t seem too concerned. “What are you…” she trailed off with a snort. “That’s not good.”

Ava sighed. “And we just got the blood out of the sofa from the last incident.”

“No fucking shit this isn’t good! And who gives a shit about the blood on the sofa!” John snapped, screaming again when Bucky yanked the knife out.

“You’ll live,” he muttered.

Your eyes went wide. Super soldier hearing and all, had Bucky heard John mutter his earlier comment? “What happened?” you asked. You had only been out of the room for a few seconds. What possibly happened during that time to cause this?

John scrambled to find something to wrap his hand with. “Your fucking boyfriend stabbed me!”

“Yeah, America’s Asshole, I stabbed you.” Sitting back on the sofa, Bucky got a cloth out of his pocket to wipe his knife. He stabbed John. He really did it. But why? “And you have the serum. You’ll be fine.”

You made the mistake of looking at Ava who had a smirk on her face. It didn’t do you any good to look at Yelena either since she also looked pleased. Only Bob looked concerned. And where the hell was Alexei?

“Okay, Bucky,” you began, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice because you had to be the mature one. “I know you threatened to stab him during Uno.”

“He put down Draw Four…” He sneered at John. “FOUR times.”

“I know, I know. Dick move. And I know I threatened to stab him because he raised his voice at Bob because, well, we don't yell at Bob.” You gave Bob a smile when he dipped his head. “But-”

“He’s lucky I didn’t cut this tongue out,” your boyfriend growled.

You tried hard not to whimper, which was tough since the sound was sexy as hell. “But why-”

“You can still cut out his tongue,” Yelena encouraged, taking out one of her own knives. “Allow me.”

You put your hand out while John took a few steps back. “No, Yelena. Not today,” you said, which earned you a pout in response before you turned your attention back to Bucky. “Just tell us why you stabbed him, please.”

“He talked about putting his hands on your ass!” Bucky snapped, wincing when he realized how loudly he said it.

You could hear a pin drop from the silence that followed. Your eyes darted between Bucky and John, seeing the mixture of anger and discomfort. There was no way John was dumb enough to say something like that in front of your boyfriend. Right?

“He what?” Yelena asked for you.

“Ew,” Ava whispered.

“But she… she’s not your girlfriend,” Bob added.

“I didn’t say I’d put my hands on your ass!” John defended himself, taking a breath when everyone stared at him. “Look, all I said was ‘I’d never leave my bed if I could get my hands on an ass like that’ and that’s it! That’s all!”

You were thankful you didn’t take a drink of something because you would’ve spit it out. As admittedly smart as John could be when it came to missions, he could also be an idiot. “Bucky, put the knife down,” you ordered when his grip tightened on the handle. You couldn’t have him stabbing him again.

Though it was kind of hot that Bucky stabbed someone in your honor.

“I might stab his other hand,” he said.

“Do it,” Yelena encouraged.

John sputtered when Ava nodded in agreement. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, one, Bucky, we both know I’d never let John touch my ass. Sorry, but. No,” you said, shrugging at the bleeding agent. Your ass was off limits to him. “Two, it doesn't sound like he said he was going to put his hands on my ass.”

“I don't care.” Bucky carefully inspected his knife. “As far as he’s concerned, you don’t have an ass.”

The girls scoffed with you and you weren't sure if you should've felt flattered or offended. “Okay, old man, so I have no ass now? Do I not have tits either?”

You held your breath when Bucky slowly got to his feet, his jaw clenched. It wasn't fair how hot and bothered that stance made you. “Did he look at your tits?” he asked in a low voice.

John quickly shook his head out of the corner of your eye. You felt for the guy, but you weren’t going to lie. “He may have glanced at them when I leaned over the other day.”

“Oh, when you were wearing that black top?” Ava asked, humming when you nodded. “Oh, yeah. He looked.”

“What the fuck, Ava?!” John shouted. “You looked, too!”

“I didn’t look,” Bob said immediately, his hands up in surrender. He was too pure for this world.

Bucky swung his head toward John. “Forget your other hand. Let’s see if that serum helps you grow your eyes back.”

Oh, shit. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything. “No! No more stabbing today!” You moved to block Bucky’s path. The mood he was in, you had no doubt he’d stab him again if he got the chance. “I appreciate you defending my honor and I always will, but we are going for a ride. Now.”

The former assassin pouting shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was. “But he-”

“You didn’t sleep well, you’re in a bad mood, and you need a breather,” you gently said, framing his face so he’d only see you. Your touch took most of the anger away. “Please, let’s go. We can go right to bed when we get back.”

Sex, cuddling, sleep, all of it, you’d give him whatever he needed later.

Bucky huffed, but put his knife away. He recognized that your tone wasn’t one to argue with. “He better not look again or try to touch you.”

“He won’t,” you said for John, looking over your shoulder to glare at him.

“Jesus, it was meant to be a compliment,” he told you, daring to glance at Bucky. “You have a good looking girlfriend, okay?!”

“Stop talking,” you begged when Bucky tensed up. You had just calmed him down.

“If you want to compliment him or her, tell them how murderous they look,” Yelena suggested, looking to the others for support. “That’s cool, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ava said.

“Um, Bucky?” Bob asked.

“Yeah?” he answered, slipping an arm around you.

Bob swallowed a little. “If she looks nice, am I allowed to say so? Or should I just avoid looking at her?”

You giggled. Bob deserved the whole world. “You can say whatever you want,” you replied. Bucky would agree.

“Okay,” he smiled a little. “I just. I-I don't want to get stabbed.”

“No one will stab you, Bob,” Yelena promised, ever the protector.

John looked around the room and asked, “So, Bob can say whatever he wants, but I can’t?”

“Yes,” everyone answered in unison. Bob wasn’t an asshole like John.

“Now apologize to each other so we can leave,” you said. The longer you stayed, the bigger the chance that Bucky would snap again.

The men stubbornly refused to look at each other, like children being scolded after a fight. John broke first when you cleared your throat. “Sorry for complimenting your girlfriend, I guess.”

“Sorry for not stabbing both of your hands,” Bucky mumbled.

“And we’re leaving now. Try to behave while we’re gone,” you announced, pulling your boyfriend away. Chances were that they’d start arguing over dinner or dish duty. “I can’t believe it.”

“What, that I stabbed him?” Bucky asked, grinding his teeth. “He gets under my skin.”

They were teammates now, but it didn’t get rid of the bad blood or the past. You sympathized with that. “I know he does, and I can’t believe that it took this long for you to stab him, but maybe try not to do that again?”

His warm laughter brought a smile to your face. “I’m surprised it took this long, too, and I’ll try not to again, but I’m not sorry that you were the tipping point.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Bucky Barnes stabbed a man because of me.” You weren’t exactly sorry that you were the tipping point either. “In his defense, my ass does look good in these pants,” you smirked.

Bucky waited a beat before he smacked your ass, making you shriek. “He still isn’t allowed to look or touch.”

Hadn’t you made it clear earlier that you’d never allow John to touch you? Even if you weren’t Bucky’s girlfriend, that would never happen. “So possessive, but I love that about you,” you teased.

His eyes softened, the look making your heart race. “I’m not too much?”

Your gaze softened, too. “You’ll never be too much,” you assured him, almost to the elevator when Alexei waltzed by in his robe.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“I stabbed John,” Bucky answered.

The Red Guardian looked stricken. “And I missed it?”

The last thing you heard before you and Bucky stepped into the elevator was John yelling, “What the fuck?!”

“Right to bed when we get back?” Bucky smiled, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it.

“Right to bed,” you smiled back.

He pulled you against him to give you a deep and thorough kiss, one that left you breathless and yearning for more. “And thank you.”

“For what?” you asked breathlessly.

“For trying to cheer me up,” he whispered, touching your cheek. “And for being mine.”

You leaned into his touch, thrilled to be his. “Thank you for being mine, too,,” you said, hoping the ride and treat would make him feel much better before you went to bed. Maybe tomorrow he could hash things out with Sam. And maybe you’d look through the footage later so you could see for yourself that Bucky stabbed John.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d make a copy of the footage for Bucky if he ever needed a laugh after a bad day.

So, did John deserve that? What other shenanigans do we think this group gets up to? ! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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un-fwuit-un-fwog · 4 months ago

Text

Hold your ear to my heart. Hear it beat.

Part three of The Rain series

Synopsis: Leona's POV from the night of the collapse + When he comes to visit The Prefect in the infirmary for the first time afterwards

TW: Injury, Ramshackle collapsing on The Prefect, Leona finds The Prefect, The Prefect IS NOT in a good state, Blood, Leona Vomits, Leona Cries

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (here), Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 (coming soon), . . .

Leona wasn't going to answer the phone that night. When he got a call a call at 9pm at night he was planning to hit decline, but, by some stroke of fate perhaps, his finger slipped and he hit answer. He cursed under his breath and was about to end the call when his blood ran cold. On the other end of the line he could hear distant shouts and the sound of harsh rain before a voice broke through the noise: "Kingscholar, we need you at Ramshackle immediately! Ramshackle collapsed and The Prefect got caught under the rubble-"

Leona hung up on Professor Crewel before he could finish talking. Well, he didn't really hang up; he crushed his phone.

Leona was out the door in less than a second. He dashed through the Savanaclaw lounge, startling Ruggie into spilling a basket of laundry and causing Jack to drop a weight on his foot. The lounge went quiet as they watched their dorm leader make a mad dash for the mirror. Nobody had ever seen Leona run like that before.

Barreling out of the mirror, Leona didn't once let up on his pace. Even when he got out into the rain that was so heavy he could barely see ten feet ahead of him, even when he was running on slick stones, Leona ran. When he reached the place where Ramshackle should have been he gagged.

He didn't gag because the sight of the dorm was hard to take in; he gagged because of the thick scent of iron that hung heavy in the air. It took every shred of will within the Lion not to throw up.

Crewel quickly filled him in on the plan and Leona got to work. When his magic pen was full of blot, the teachers lent him their respective magic stones. It wasn't until 12pm (On the dot. Everyone was sickeningly aware of how much time was passing with you under there.) that he finally got to you. The scent of iron flooded his lungs, but that wasn't what caused his face to shift to one of utter horror.

Bones weren't supposed to bend like that. They weren't supposed to be visible either. Was that even you? There's no way. . .there's no way. . . .

The STYX crew, who had arrived an hour earlier, rushed past him and quickly began checking you over and preparing to get you onto the stretcher. Professor Crewel had to pull Leona back because he couldn't move. He was like that until the STYX crew began to rush you to the infirmary.

Even then, he only moved to follow you. The staff didn't bother sending him back to his dorm. They knew he wouldn't leave now.

It wasn't until Leona was standing in the hallway outside of the infirmary that he looked down and threw up on the spot. He was covered in blood. Your blood.

Sam got him clothes to change into, and when Leona got back the area had been turned into a makeshift waiting room (and his vomit cleaned).

He stayed there until morning when he was forced to go back to his dorm to rest. He didn't sleep a wink.

Every time Leona closed his eyes, he saw you laying in the rubble covered in sand and dust and soaked in a mixture of rainwater and your own blood. You looked so cold. His hand only brushed yours, but you had felt so cold.

The counselor he was assigned was more of an annoyance than anything. They weren't able to get a single word out of him.

When Leona heard you woke up, he was just frozen. He didn't even put up a fight when the staff said he'd have to wait a week before he could see you. Honestly, he was scared.

His hand felt like lead as he reached it up to knock on the door.

A raspy, muffled "come in" came like a dying breeze through the door and Leona choked.

It took him longer than he'd like to admit for him to finally open the door and force his legs to move.

You could tell when he saw you that he was struggling to keep it together. You were hooked up to machines and covered in bandages. You had undergone quite a few surgeries since that night.

He was heartbreakingly silent as he stood there by the door.

You gently patted the bed next to you in a motion that made it clear you were still in a good deal of pain, but what he could see of your face betrayed no sign of it. The bed dipped as he sat by your side, facing away from you.

"Leona." You croaked his name, but he didn't respond. "Le-"

Before you could call his name again he had already turned around and, without giving you a chance to look at his face, gently ducked his head into your shoulder. He placed his head on a spot with no bandages, but still just barely hovered his head over you, scared he would cause you pain.

Everything was still for a moment before you lifted one of your arms, your bones creaking, to rest on the back of his head and gently, with what little force you could muster, bring it to rest just above your still beating heart.

He eventually caved and let the little weight of his head rest fully on you as he listened to the beating in your chest. When you looked behind him you could see that his tail was softly swaying to match the rhythm.

Before long you could feel the spot where his head laid begin to become damp. You still couldn't see his face as his head laid so his ear was pressed to your heart and the back of his head facing you, but you had a pretty good idea of what was happening. You gently made circular motions with your fingers still in his hair (your would pet him, but moving more than just your fingers that much wouldn't be in your best interest).

You stayed like that for hours before he eventually had to leave. The entire time he was there he didn't speak a single word, but he didn't need to. You could tell what he had been feeling from the tear stain on your shirt.

As Leona was closing the door to the infirmary, he heard two soft words slip through the crack between the door and the frame "Thank you."

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#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst fanfiction #twisted wonderland fanfiction #angst?#angst #hurt/comfort #angst with comfort #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #un-fwuit-un-fwog #un-fwuit-un-fwog's The Rain series

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strangenightmaretraveler · 23 days ago

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I'll protect you, I'll be your vengeance

Alternate title: What's The Difference Between Vengeance and Protection?

When Danny became a halfa, he had become a protector. Protecting Amity Park, protecting Sam, Tucker and Val, protecting Dani and Jazz (and Dan if has undergone his redemption arc) , protecting his parents. This had become his obsession.

Ever since Jason became a revenant, all he could think about was revenge, on the Joker, on Batman for not avenging him and replacing him, on Tim for being his replacement. This had become his obsession.

When these two had started dating, those who knew about their obsessions were afraid that they would clash, and they did, but to them, it was in the best way possible.

It took about a year of them dating for Jason to be comfortable enough to Danny tell him about how he died and when he did, Danny didn't take to kindly to it.

One day, Jason had a nightmare about the day he died, it took a while for Danny to comfort him to go back to sleep but eventually, he did then he remembered when Clockwork had told him that those with vengeance obsessions, could on be at peace once their reason for it was destroyed, so he snuck out of the apartment and came back only once the sun had risen, with a mason jar of Jokers soul.

To Danny, this was protecting him, but for Jason, it was relief, that someone had finally avenged him.

Danny and Jason talked about their hero/vigilante work often, but the one Danny talked the most about was Vlad Masters, he was sick of dealing with him and Jason could tell.

After another day of dealing with Vlad, Danny was tired, injured and just wanted to rest, physically, mentally and spiritually. But for Jason? He swore that Vlad would never be the one to hurt Danny again.

So he checked that his goons could handle his business for the next few days, and that the other bats and birds could handle his patrol shifts so he could travel to Amity Park. He didn't kill Vlad, Danny doesn't like when Jason kills unnecessarily, but he did make sure that Vlad got the message.

Imagine Dannys shock when he gets a call from his dad saying that his "Uncle" Vlad was sent to the hospital, he asked Jason if he knew anything about it, to which he didn't lie about it, he blatantly said "yes, I'm the one who sent him, I wasn't gonna let him hurt you again"

To Jason, this was revenge for any harm that Vlad did to Danny, but to Danny, this was what it felt like to be protected

#dead on main #dc x dp #dcxdp crossover #danny phantom #jason todd #Dcxdp

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nightingale-prompts · 5 months ago

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Just your average coffee shop AU-DCxDP prompt

What do you do when you've been blacklisted from every coffee chain in Gotham?

You have to find other sources.

That is Tim's current predicament but he put out a few messages out and an informant got back to him about a new café that opened on the outskirts of the city.

There wasn't much else on it other than the fact that it was located in an old cemetery. No details or anything.

Desperate for the black icker that made up his blood by this point Tim went.

Walking down the cobblestone path Tim began to doubt if the shop was real. The decrepit tombstones seemed to be the only people here but as he passed the mausoleums he saw a single stone crypt that had a sign.

Hours:

Tues-Saturday 12pm-3:00 am

Sunday: All day

Mon: Closed

(Vlad Masters is banned)

Tim opened the stone door and heard the faint sound of violins and saxophones. A staircase led deeper to an aged wooden door.

The rusty door henge screeched as he opened the door like a doorbell. The room was a lounge with plush seats and smooth wood tables. A dance floor was in the center currently occupied by well dressed patrons. The scent of fresh dark roast coffee filled the air. A band played live music, it was a blend of gothic folk and Jazz. The booths were filled with a few patrons cheering for the performers as they drank coffee and played cards.

The counter where he could order his drink was a bar. Despite what you'd assume they weren't selling alcohol at least not yet. The man behind the counter beckoned him over.

The barista dressed in a white dress shirt and a black buttoned vest embroidered with a ribcage design. He had fingerless gloves with matching skeletal hand design. The man's face was a pale bit warm tone with a blueish green hue on his cheekbones. His lips were a dark ashen black with a subtle shine. It was probably just the aesthetic.

"Evening, traveler." His voice practically purred as he greeted the weary young man"The rhythm's alive, and the spirits are waiting—how can I make your afterlife?"

"Coffee. Black." Tim said gruffly despite to get it in his system.

"Oh, you got it bad, don't you? Let me get you something that will actually help." The bartender said turning to brew a cup.

Tim's eyes scanned the chalkboard menu that hung above the bar.

Hot Coffee Drinks:

Graveyard Brew – A rich dark roast with a hint of smoked caramel. (Tucker's pick)

Phantom Flat White – A smooth flat white with ghostly foam art. (Danny's pick)

Latté of the Damned– A spiced pumpkin latte with black cinnamon dust. (Jazz's pick)

Eternal Espresso– A bold, double-shot espresso.

The Velvet Casket – Mocha with dark chocolate and a touch of vanilla.

Sepulcher Spice – Chai-spiced coffee with a hint of nutmeg. (Val's pick)

Necromancer’s Nitro – Nitro cold brew with a dash of maple syrup. (Dan's pick)

Iced Coffee Drinks:

Cold-Brew Crypt– Smooth cold brew with a splash of sweet cream.

Chilled Cadaver– Iced coffee with coconut milk and a shot of hazelnut. (Dani's pick)

The Frosted Requiem – Blended mocha with chocolate drizzle.

Soulful Swirl– Iced latte with caramel and a swirl of blackcurrant syrup.

Moonlit Macchiato– Vanilla macchiato with activated charcoal. (Sam's pick)

Tim definitely sensed a theme here.

"I added a few shots of expresso and some dark chocolate liquor. It should get you right and some minor heart palpitations. I think I'll call it 'The Black Veil'." The barista smiled very cat-like.

"Am I getting my name on the board?" Tim quipped without thinking as he sipped the hot coffee. Actually, it was cooler than he thought it would be. It was the perfect temperature. And the taste was amazing.

"Only if you're a regular and I think your drink might be too much for anyone else." The barista laughed softly.

"So...this place is pretty um...gothic?"

"This place used to be just for the dead but we've recently over up to the living."

"Heh, I get it."

"Get what?"

Tim coughed awkwardly. He didn't want to stop talking to the goth barista yet and the quality coffee was convincing. Maybe it was the environment. It was like walking into a different world.

"So what's this place called? So I know what Im coming back to." Tim tried to sound cool but let's face it, he's been beat.

"This is the Catacomb Club. Where the spirits swing and the night never sleeps. You should come again soon, cutie. I think I got a good surge of inspiration just looking at you." He purred in delight as he leaned over the bar tapped Tim's cheek.

Tim felt his face burn, the touch felt like electricity tickling his skin. A string of babbling seemed to come out of this mouth as he tried to respond.

"Heh heh, don't keep me waiting dear," he laughed "Oh, and by the way. My name is Danny. Catch me in the early shift. My brother works the late shift mixing the alcohol. But if you want you can catch me on the stage or on the dance floor. I might even make you an extra cup or two." Danny said.

Tim found his footsteps on the way up lighter and only when he made it back the cematary gate did he notice.

He never paid.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #dead tired #brain dead

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fawniswriting · 2 months ago

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After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time.

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become.

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action.

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand.

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on.

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent.

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth.

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs.

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin.

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard.

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground.

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.”

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation.

However, between every swift kick and precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red.

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle.

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.”

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe.

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.”

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind.

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes.

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that.

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat.

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips.

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…”

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here? Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice.

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend.

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it?

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered.

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.”

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

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rin-may-1103 · 1 month ago

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Aspiring Escape Artist (part two)

Last | Master Post | Next...

"Why don't we all head inside, yes?" Mr. Wayne suggested, waving his arm in the doors general direction.

"Yes, that sounds great," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to Danny like she was debating whether or not she should drag him inside. Danny was very against that idea and glared at her. She huffed but turned and started making her way up the stairs.

The other, he can't really say kids because he's pretty sure half the people standing in front of him were over the age of eighteen, but they still lived with Mr. Wayne, apparently, so kids it was. The other kids continued to try to stealthily watch him as they made their way into the building. (He refused to call this place a house; it was bigger than Sam's manor for Ancients' sake.)

The gray-eyed girl waited for him, the not-so-happy but happy sparkle back as she watched him approach. Pausing for a moment, Danny turned and gently patted the bush closest to him, it had been practically begging for attention for the past ten minutes and Sam would have throttled him if he had just ignored it.

She treated them like demented puppies, and it's against every unspoken law (in danny's books, atleast) to ignore a puppy.

The gray-eyed girl (man, he was going to have to learn their names, Ancients, why were there so many people here?) tilted her head curiously, eyeing the plant he just patted.

"My friend has plant powers," Danny huffed, which was true. Sam still had lingering plant control and a connection to the green because of Undergrowth. Danny was just leaving out the fact that he also had plant powers. He wasn't sure why he always got new powers after beating new powerful ghosts, but it happens, and now he needs to pet the plants because they get sad if he doesn't.

(Jazz theorized once that the new powers were due to his half-a nature, but then they looked at Vlad and decided it was probably something else.) (Also, why in the world did he get ice powers and then almost immediately plant powers? like, seriously, why?)

"Close friend?" Gray asked, turning to follow Danny inside.

"One of my best friends," Danny agreed. Man, he missed them. He'd have to figure out how to get out of here soon; there was no way he was going to just not see his friends on Tucker's birthday. Which meant he had about a week to bust out of here and get back to Amity. Oh, and stay under the radar so Vlad doesn't find him.

Glancing around the entry hall, or was the term foyer? like, the place was fancier then most five star hotels he's seen (which he wants to make clear, was against his dying wishes. fuck vlad and his not hard earned money.) like, sure, it wasn't all white modern minimalist like the hotels, but he's pretty sure the vase just sitting a little too close to the edge of a table was worth more then a human heart on the black market.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor," Mr. Pennyworth started, closing the doors with a heavy thud. He didn't lock it, though, Danny noted. Probably because Ms. Clance still needed to leave.

"may I have your coats?" he asked, holding out his arm to Ms. Clance and looking over to Danny. Ms. Clance immediately started to shrug off her jacket and dropped it onto his arm without a second glance, trying to talk to Mr. Wayne about an office or something.

Danny shook his head, "No thanks. I prefer to keep my things with me." especially in a new place, who knows what they'd do to his stuff. last time he handed anything over it had been locked up and never returned. (or well, not returned until he stole it back right before leaving, but that's getting into semantics.)

"So, Daniel was it?" the older guy from the first three asked, smiling brightly and trying to act casual. He was failing.

"It's Danny," Danny huffed, glancing around to study the others.

Gray was nice, he had a feeling they'd get a long fine. she was like an open book, all her opinions and emotions right there for him to see. Though that just meant she was awear of them and could easily hide them.

The others not so much.

Eyebags looked tired but alert, watching Danny like he was a new puzzle. Which was fine, Danny could deal with that. He probably wasn't as bad as Jazz or his parents were when obsessed with new things, so he goes lower on the list but not off.

Mr. Casual over here was watching him AND the others, which meant he was probably the peacekeeper. That or he was the one who antagonized the others into acting without them noticing. Same as eyebags, then.

Blondie looked like she was planning how to prank him right then and there, but also like she was evaluating him for something. Like he thought earlier, she'll probably stick around until she gets bored. So, hmmm. Keep an eye on more than eyebags, but probably not a problem.

there was a kid maybe two-three years younger than him trying to hide on the stairs out of view, he looked pissed off and annoyed. Something was telling Danny he should stay away from him. So, definitely going to the top of his list right next to butler man.

And finally, Mr. Wayne. He was smiling and chatting with Ms. Clance like he didn't have a care in the world. And it would have been believable if it wasn't for the fact that the man was easily steering the conversation away from the stuff Ms. Clance wanted to talk about, without Danny around, before leaving. Which means Mr. Wayne wanted Danny to be part of the conversation, probably to get both sides of the story.

He was smart and knew how to manipulate situations without people catching on.

Also, top of the list, then.

"Only people who want to kill me call me Daniel," Danny added, watching as Ms. Clance tried to bring up his file and fell for another diversion.

"Really?" Eyebags asked, actually surprised for some reason.

Oh, wait, murder isn't normal. Ha, to live a normal life. It must be boring. Couldn't be him, even if he wanted it. There was nothing normal about growing up with mad scientists, and nothing normal about being half dead and a vigilante.

"Yeah, my friends and I made a chart and everything. Granted, we didn't have many people to add to the list to compare with, but it's checked out so far." Danny admitted, turning to face Eyebags.

Honestly, it was just Vlad, his parents, a few GIW agents, and those very few times his friends almost killed him. But come on, they all called him Daniel at some point. Therefore, it totally checks out.

"Huh," Mr. Casual blinked, glancing at his siblings before shaking his head. "Right, so uh, why do people want to kill you?"

"Because they're Fruit Loops," Danny grumbled, finally deciding to approach Ms. Clance. Might as well get this done and over with. The longer she stayed, the less time Danny would have to scout the place by himself later, after all the introductions.

Next (to be written)

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #danny just wants to leave and meet up with his friends #this is not what the batfam was expecting #part two #Aspiring Escape Artist Au

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novelistwriter · 1 month ago

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The Necromancer

DP x DC Prompt inspired by 'The Ghost Warlock' on A03 by Cas3_Blanca

The Justice League has been dealing with matters related to the Undead recently. And JLD could barely handle the undead. That is until Constantine had called in a favor from someone he knew. A young man in a black trench coat with a skeleton following him everywhere, that skeleton had a burned headband on it.

The young man is a necromancer, and he is very good at handling the matters of the undead. He just has a bit of disdain for the Justice League and keeps to himself whenever he is around any Justice League member. The only person he seems to trust is Constantine, as he doesn't even interact with the rest of the JLD members. The young man had told them that he's only helping because he owed Constantine quite a few favors, and once Constantine used up all those favors on helping the Justice League, he's done with them, which means he'll leave the Justice League and Justice League Dark to deal with the undead.

Danny's life was as good as it could get. His parents had accepted him as Phantom, Clockwork assured Danny that he doesn't have to be the Ghost King just yet, his grades are steadily rising, and he is scheduling fights with his Ghostly Rogues.

That is until the GIW had shown up again. They were in the process of isolating Amity when the entire city fought back against them.

There were a few casualties, which mostly consisted of people Danny is close to. His parents, Jazz, Sam, Tucker, Valerie, Dash, Mr. Lancer and Star had perished during the struggle, and only those close to Danny hadn't become Ghosts. There wasn't enough to recover from them. Danny only has a few things to remember them by. His mom's Goggles, his dad's fudge recipe, Sam's bracelet, Tucker's PDA, and Valerie's earrings. Jazz was the only one to be buried, as she still had a body that wasn't vaporized.

He tried looking for Dani and Vlad but learned from Technus that they were captured and ended by the GIW. Now, the only person he has to lean on is his "Uncle" Constantine.

Constantine has helped Danny many times during his first years as Phantom. That's why Danny owes Constantine so many favors. He had tried to call help from the Justice League whenever Constantine wasn't around, but he was just brushed off. Hence why he doesn't like helping the Justice League's undead problems. He had also asked Technus to put his information and anything else related to him under lock and key. He doesn't want the Justice League to access and have files of his information. He's got Jazz's skeleton with him because he's taken up the role of Ghost King, and it came with Pariah's ability to raise a skeleton army if need be, but he only uses it on Jazz and other nearby buried bodies to help him deal with undead that aren't Ghosts. He also doesn't want to show his Ghostly half to the Justice League.

He's gotten quite good at hiding his mental presence from the Martians on the Justice League, but some of his emotions and thoughts slipped through. Now, the Justice League is being annoying to him by trying to apologize to him for whatever it is they did to him so they could still rely on him for any undead related issues.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcu #dp crossover #dp x dc prompt #ghost king danny

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svtiddiess · 2 months ago

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Please, Officer?

Synopsis: One reckless, tipsy night lands you right where you least expected—wrapped in the arms of a cop. And not just any cop: a total DILF. Now you're determined to get him to fuck you seven different ways, no matter what it takes. A little flirting? A lot of teasing? You're prepared to use every card in your hand to get into his bed.

Pairing: dilf!officer!Seungcheol (SVT) x afab!reader

Genre: smut, crack, oneshot

Rating: mature/nsfw

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: age gap, penetrative sex, protected sex (we cheered!), oral (fem receiving), squirting, daddy kink, size kink, manhandling, bondage, handcuffs, makeshift gag, big dick!Seungcheol, dom!Seungcheol, sub!brat!reader, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: DILF Officer Cheol. DILF Officer Cheol. DILF Officer Cheol. DILF Officer Cheol.

Thank you so much Raven @shadowkoo for the delicious banner! Thank you A @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping me with the synopsis! Thank you Tiya @gyubakeries, Serena @gotta-winwin, Sam @joonsytip, Celeste @mylovesstuffs, and Cherry @cheolaholic for betaing and screaming about DILF officer Cheol with me!

Click here to join my taglist!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

Fuck. Maybe three bottles of soju was a mistake, after all.

You think this as you do your best to stumble your way home, your legs barely cooperating. It'd been a very long week at work, and in a moment of desperation, you decided to drown your stress at a bar—three whole bottles deep.

Now, here you are, wobbling down the street, regretting your choices just a little as you trip over your own feet. You brace yourself for impact, arms outstretched, eyes squeezed shut—except the pavement never comes. Instead, a strong arm catches you, stopping your face from making an unfortunate acquaintance with the ground.

Blinking, you look up at your unexpected saviour, and your jaw drops. He's gorgeous—broad shoulders, lean muscle, black hair that falls perfectly around his face, and the most mesmerising deep brown eyes you've ever seen. His lips, full and just pouty enough, look criminally kissable. Maybe the soju wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" he asks, voice rich and laced with concern.

Oh, shit, he sounds hot too.

"Ma'am?" he prompts again, helping you to your feet.

You sway, the alcohol making it nearly impossible to stand on your own. Without hesitation, the handsome stranger wraps an arm around your shoulders to steady you. But instead of pulling away, you lean in, resting your face against his firm chest.

"I'm doing so much better now that you're here," you purr, a lazy grin on your lips.

He looks down at you, clearly unsure what to do with the drunk girl clinging to him. He tries to pry you off gently, but you refuse to budge, deciding his chest is far too comfortable to let go of just yet.

"Are you able to get home?" he asks, still subtly trying to create some distance.

"I think I'd rather get in your pants," you smirk.

His ears turn pink as he clears his throat. "I could help you get a taxi, ma'am."

"Ugh, stop calling me that! My name's Y/N," you whine.

"Alright, Miss Y/N," he sighs, and you swear your heart skips a beat at how your name rolls off his tongue. "Let's get you a taxi. You're definitely not making it home on your own."

"I don't want a taxi," you huff, tightening your grip around his waist.

He hesitates, caught off guard, then exhales slowly. "What do you want then?"

Grinning, you tilt your head up at him. "I'd rather have your dick."

He blinks at you, processing, before sighing yet again. "Where do you live?"

"My, so forward of you, mister," you tease, trailing a finger down his chest. "But luckily for you, I like forward men."

"I’m sending you home, Miss Y/N," he deadpans.

"And then fucking me, right?" you beam.

He ignores that. "Can you walk?"

"Nope. You're gonna have to carry me," you declare, pouting up at him.

Another sigh. "Alright. Get on my back—I'll carry you to my car."

Giggling, you eagerly hop onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck. His grip is firm yet respectful, his hands carefully placed over your dress rather than your bare thighs.

You swing your legs playfully as he walks, feeling like a carefree child. But when you spot his car—a sleek black Bentley—your jaw drops all over again.

Oh damn. He's rich rich. It just makes you want to fuck him even more.

The two of you finally make it to your apartment building with you spending the entire drive shamelessly flirting. He, on the other hand, politely declines every one of your advances, much to your disappointment.

He carries you up to your apartment and once you reach your door, he gently sets you down, and you immediately whine at the loss of his warmth. He prompts you to enter your door code, but you decide to play coy, pretending you're too drunk to press the buttons.

He sighs—he's been doing that a lot tonight—before unlocking the door himself after you lazily mumble the code.

As you stumble inside, gravity betrays you once again, and he's forced to catch you by the shoulders before your face meets the floor. You giggle, pressing yourself against him. Looking up at him, eyes dark with mischief, you trail a finger down his chest.

"Why don't you stay the night, handsome?" you purr. "I'll make sure to reward you for all your hard work."

His response? Peeling you off of him and unceremoniously dumping you onto your couch.

"Good night, Miss Y/N," he says curtly before turning on his heel and walking out.

You pout, watching the man of your dreams disappear out of your apartment. With a dramatic sigh, you flop back onto the couch, the exhaustion—and alcohol—finally catching up to you. Within moments, you're asleep, dreaming of the hot stranger who just slipped through your fingers.

The weekend rolls around again after a long, exhausting week, and like always, you find yourself at the bar, drowning your stress one drink at a time. You're about to grab another cosmopolitan when your eyes land on someone at the other end of the room.

Oh. It's him. The handsome stranger.

You don't remember much from that night, but his face—and that body—are burned into your memory. And damn, does he look just as good now. Messy hair framed his sharp features. A black shirt fitting him just right, sleeves cuffed to reveal strong forearms. You'd take him right then and there if he told you to; no hesitation.

You take a slow sip of your drink, letting the liquid courage settle, then saunter your way over to him.

You slide onto the stool beside him, resting your elbow on the table as a smirk tugs at your lips. "Fancy seeing you here, handsome."

He turns, clearly caught off guard by your presence. "Miss Y/N? Well, this is a surprise," he says, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Enough with the Miss," you say, rolling your eyes. "Just call me Y/N. Or yours, if you prefer."

You shoot him a wink, and to your delight, he chuckles.

"I think I'll stick with Y/N," he says, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

Undeterred, you scoot closer, your chest brushing against his bicep as you trail a finger down his arm. "So, what's your name? Or should I just call you mine?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't you already try that pickup line?"

"Nothing wrong with shooting your shot twice," you smirk.

He lets out a low chuckle. "You can call me Seungcheol, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Your heart stutters at the way it rolls off his tongue.

"So, Seungcheol," you say, savouring his name as you take another sip of your drink, "what brings you here?"

"Same thing as you." He shrugs, mirroring your movements.

"Drowning your stress in alcohol, then?" you grin.

"If that's what you're doing, sure," he chuckles.

You hum, leaning in until your lips are dangerously close to his ear. "You look lonely. Let me fix that."

He tilts his head back with a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. Your gaze immediately drops to his neck, and god, do you want to mark that beautiful skin with your teeth.

"So, what do you say, Cheollie?" you purr.

He shakes his head, amused. "Stop, sweetheart, I'm way too old for you. I have a son around your age."

You frown. "Shit, you're married?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Nope, it's been three years since I got a divorce."

A smile returns to your face again, and your desire for him skyrockets. Not only is he hot—he's a hot DILF? You absolutely need to get into this man's pants.

"It's a good thing I like older men then, daddy," you murmur, watching closely as his eyes darken for a split second.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "You'll end up regretting this later."

"The only thing I'll regret," you huff, "is not being fucked by you right now."

Seungcheol snorts, rolling his eyes, but there's something almost fond in his expression.

The night goes on with you getting drunker and even bolder, your flirting growing more ridiculous by the minute. Eventually, you're on the verge of blacking out, slurring nonsense as you try (and fail) to order another drink. Seungcheol promptly stops you, which earns him a half-hearted glare, but you're too far gone to put up a real fight.

Once again, he ends up taking you home—good thing he already knows your address and door code. And, just like last time, he deposits you onto your couch, and just like last time, you try to convince him to stay.

But, once again, he only sighs, tells you good night, and walks out.

You pout as you watch the man of your dreams disappear from your apartment yet again.

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. This is your first time getting pulled over, and you’re not even sure what you did wrong—you definitely weren’t going way over the speed limit. Definitely not.

A knock on your window pulls you from your thoughts. You take a deep breath before rolling it down, your frown instantly flipping into a grin the moment you see him.

Seungcheol.

Not only is he a hot DILF, but he's a cop too? Oh, things just keep getting better and better.

"Fancy meeting you here, Cheollie," you purr, batting your lashes. "I didn't know you were an officer."

"It's because you were too busy trying to get into my pants instead of getting to know me," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"And just so we're clear," you grin, leaning in slightly, "I still want to get into your pants."

"You know, officer,” you tease, resting your chin on your hand, "it must be fate that we keep running into each other. Maybe it's a sign that you should just give in and fuck me already."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, clearly unimpressed. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Because you have an overwhelming desire to bend me over and fill me up?" you say sweetly.

"...You were speeding," he deadpans.

"Speeding into your heart," you wink.

He blinks at you. "License and registration."

"Oh no, officer, are you going to arrest me?" you pout, feigning innocence.

"No, but I am going to give you a ticket for speeding," he sighs, rubbing his temples.

"Please don't arrest me, officer," you whine. "I'll be a good girl, I promise." Then, lowering your voice, you add, "Unless you don't want me to be."

Seungcheol's jaw tightens, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he visibly struggles to keep his composure.

Finally, he exhales. "Look, I'll let you off with a warning. Just—don't do it again," he mutters before turning on his heel.

As he walks away, your eyes immediately drop to his ass—round, firm, and criminally good-looking in those tight uniform jeans.

"Damn, that ass is fine!" you call out.

Seungcheol stiffens before hurriedly covering his backside with his hands, speed-walking to his car without looking back.

You giggle, rolling up your window as you bite your lip.

You've decided. You will get into bed with this man—no matter what.

You scan the bar expectantly, swirling your drink as you glance around. This is the third week in a row you've come here, hoping to run into Seungcheol again. You met him here once—surely, fate will work its magic and bring him back, right?

With a sigh, you take another sip, deciding to call it a night once you finish your drink. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot him. Your head snaps around, and a grin spreads across your face the moment you confirm it’s really him.

There he is, leaning back in the corner of the room, wearing a perfectly fitted white tee with the sleeves casually cuffed, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He looks absolutely delicious.

Giggling, you make your way over to him.

"Oh my, officer," you purr, sliding into the seat next to him. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Seungcheol doesn't look the least bit surprised. If anything, he looks amused. "Are you stalking me, Miss Y/N?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe," you reply, biting your lip.

He lets out a deep chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

"You know I could have you arrested for that, right?" he teases, tilting his head.

"Arrest me, but make it sexy, daddy," you murmur, leaning in.

His tongue flicks over his lips as he studies you, his gaze flickering with something unreadable before he shakes his head and takes another sip of his drink.

Frustrated, you grab the collar of his shirt and tug him closer—so close your noses almost touch.

"Just give me one chance, officer," you whisper, your breath ghosting over his lips. "I'll make sure to give you a night you'll never forget."

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. "I don't think you can handle me, sweetheart," he smirks.

"I don't think you can handle me, daddy," you shoot back, eyes glinting with mischief.

Seungcheol lets out another laugh, but this time, he leans in even closer, his lips hovering just over yours.

"You wanna prove yourself?" he murmurs, voice low and teasing. "Fine."

Before you can process his words, he suddenly stands and, without warning, scoops you up into his arms.

A surprised squeal leaves your lips as he carries you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing at all. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck, grinning from ear to ear.

He carries you outside and places you in his car, shutting the door behind you. The moment he gets in, your hands immediately fly to his lap, but he catches them before they can wander any further, pinning them down onto your thighs.

"Behave," he growls.

The way his voice drops sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but bite your lip, thighs squeezing together. You decide—just this once—to be a good girl and keep your hands to yourself.

The same can't be said for Seungcheol.

His hand finds your thigh midway through the drive, drawing slow, deliberate circles against your skin, his fingers teasing but never wandering too far. It's torture. Absolute, delicious torture.

By the time you arrive at his place, you're practically vibrating with anticipation.

And then he carries you again—princess style—up to his apartment.

The moment he steps inside, your jaw nearly drops. Calling this place an apartment would be an insult. No, this is a penthouse. High ceilings, sleek modern decor, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering cityscape—everything screams luxury.

You knew he was rich. But this? This is on another level.

He carries you straight to the bedroom and drops you onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath you as you let out a breathless giggle. The second you settle, his lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding. You moan into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just hard enough to pull a low groan from his throat. He dominates the kiss, and you let him—surrendering to his control. His rough hands slide up your torso, calloused palms skimming your body before settling on your chest, squeezing just right—drawing a whimper from your lips.

He breaks the kiss, breath ragged, and tugs impatiently at your shirt and skirt.

"Off," he growls.

You laugh, teasing as you peel off each piece, giving him a slow, deliberate show. His gaze darkens, raking over your body, still clad in nothing but your bra and panties.

"These too," he commands, fingers hooking into the delicate fabric before letting it snap back against your skin.

You pout, biting back a smirk. "I don’t know how…guess you'll have to do it for me."

"Brat," he rumbles, but the dark chuckle in his voice sends a thrill through you.

His lips find the curve of your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing downward as his fingers make quick work of your bra clasp. You sigh as his mouth drifts lower, the cool edge of his glasses grazing your skin, leaving faint marks in their wake.

Then he meets your eyes, holding your gaze as his teeth catch the waistband of your panties, peeling them down with agonising slowness. You bite your lip, stifling a moan at the sight—the way he's looking at you makes your core pulse with need.

He leans in, capturing your lips in another deep, hungry kiss. Before you can even catch your breath, his fingers slip between your folds, and you gasp at the sudden touch.

"So wet already?" he teases, voice rough with amusement.

"Only for you, Cheollie," you purr, arching into his touch.

A sharp smack lands between your legs, making you jolt with a startled whimper. His grip tightens, holding you in place as he growls, "That's not my name."

You bite your lip, breath hitching. "I—I'm sorry…daddy."

A low hum of approval rumbles in his chest before rewarding you with another searing kiss. "Good girl," he murmurs against your lips, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

He spreads your legs wider, his own framing yours as he cages you beneath him—his broad body towering over you, making you feel deliciously small. The sheer dominance of it sends a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs. His rough, calloused hands roam your bare skin, dragging shivers from you with every slow, possessive stroke. You arch into his touch, pressing up against him, craving more.

You notice he's still fully clothed, and you're the one fully naked. The imbalance thrills you, that unspoken dominance sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You pout up at him. "I want to see you too."

A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Maybe if you're good, I'll reward you," he purrs, before dragging his tongue up the valley between your breasts. You whine, arching into the heat of his mouth as he licks and nips, teasing until your skin flushes.

Then he guides your wrists to the headboard—a sharp click snaps through the air. Your eyes fly open. Handcuffs.

"Wha—?" You jerk against the restraints, but Seungcheol just smirks, fingers tracing the inside of your trapped wrist.

"Didn't you say you wanted me to arrest you, sweetheart?"

A whine escapes you as you tug uselessly at the cuffs, and his laugh is pure wicked satisfaction. "Look at you," he murmurs, gaze raking over your naked, squirming form. "Helpless. Perfect." The words coil low in your belly, heat pooling at your cunt.

His lips brush your ear. "Gonna taste that pretty pussy of yours."

He licks the shell of your ear before he's moving down, kisses searing a path to your core. You writhe, his breath ghosting over your slick folds before his tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe up your slit.

"Just as sweet as I imagined," he growls—then devours you.

You gasp as his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking in ruthless rhythm. Every stroke is deliberate and experienced, and when he plunges deeper, lapping at your dripping entrance, your back arches off the bed.

"The glasses—ah—they scratch. Take them off," you pant, squirming.

"Such a demanding brat," he mutters under his breath, but he yanks them off, tossing them aside before hauling your thighs over his shoulders. His mouth crashes back into you, lips and tongue working in tandem until you're sobbing, broken chants of "daddy" leaving your lips.

Then his fingers are inside you, curling just right, and your vision whites out. "Daddy!"

"That's it, baby," he rasps, adding a second finger, stretching you deliciously. "Tell me how good I make you feel."

You're beyond words—just moans, hips jerking against his hand as he pounds into that sweet spot, over and over. His free hand pins your hip down, holding you in place as his mouth returns to your clit, sucking hard just as his fingers curl at your sweet spot—

You shatter.

Pleasure rips through you, your cry echoing off the walls as you clamp around his fingers. But he doesn't stop—if anything, he doubles down, fingers relentless, tongue circling your oversensitive clit until you're thrashing, tears pricking your eyes.

"F-Fuck!" You cum again, harder this time, your body convulsing as you squirt across his chin, and ruining his shirt.

Finally, he pulls back, lips glistening. The sight of him—hair dishevelled, eyes blown dark, skin flushed and drenched in you—is straight up, sinful. God, you wanted to touch him so bad.

"Uncuff me—I wanna touch you," you pant, twisting against the restraints.

His low chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. "Don't think you've earned that yet, sweetheart."

You whine, tugging harder. "Come on—"

"Still such a brat," he mutters, voice rough. "Guess I'll have to fuck that attitude out of you."

A smirk curls your lips. "You sure you can handle that, daddy? Or is your old man dick all talk?"

His eyes flash dark, a growl rumbling from his chest. In one smooth motion, he strips off his shirt and pants, and your breath hitches. The thick outline of his cock strains against his boxers—fuck, it's massive.

Noticing your stunned silence, he cocks a brow. "Cat got your tongue?"

You force a scoff. "I've seen bigger." (Lie. A blatant lie.)

"Mouthy little thing," he murmurs, stepping closer. "Gonna have to fix that."

Then his smirk turns wicked as he hooks his thumbs into his boxers, sliding them down slowly. Your lips part—God, his cock is right there, thick and heavy, the tip flushed and glistening. Every vein, every twitch makes your thighs clench. You want to taste him, worship him, beg for it.

But before you can, he grips your jaw, prying your mouth open. With his free hand, he shoves his boxers between your teeth, muffling you with the fabric. You choke, eyes watering as he tuts.

"There. Much better." His thumb strokes your cheek, admiring his handiwork.

You squirm, whining around the gag, but he just chuckles. "Play bratty games, win bratty prizes."

When you glare, he only grins wider. Then he reaches into the nightstand, pulling out a condom. You shake your head frantically—no, you want him raw, want to feel every inch without anything between you.

"I'm not risking it, sweetheart," he grins, rolling it on.

Then he's back over you, folding your legs against your chest as he lines up. The teasing brush of his tip against your entrance makes you whimper, hips jerking for more.

His smirk is the last thing you see before he slams into you—knocking the air from your lungs in one brutal thrust.

Your eyes roll back as he fucks into you with a relentless, almost feral rhythm—each deep thrust stretching you perfectly, the angle making it feel like he's reaching your womb. The makeshift gag muffles your cries, reducing you to nothing but choked whimpers and breathless moans.

Grunts spill from his lips as he pounds into your dripping cunt, his body folding over yours until his nose brushes yours, his gaze locking onto you with dark intensity. Overwhelmed, you try to shut your eyes—

"Look at me," he growls, gripping your face. A whimper escapes you as you obey, drowning in the heat of his stare. The intimacy of it sends your heart racing, the connection somehow even more dizzying than the way he's wrecking you.

The bed protests beneath you, creaking in time with his thrusts as you teeter on the edge. A high, desperate sound claws its way from your throat, tears pricking your eyes as the tension coils tighter, tighter—

"Gonna cum, sweetheart?" His voice is rough and strained, as he feels your walls flutter around him.

You nod frantically, so close you can't think. Then his fingers find your clit, circling with just the right pressure—

"Go on,” he growls. “Cum for me."

You shatter with a scream, pleasure crashing through you in waves as he fucks you through it, his pace never faltering. A few more brutal thrusts, and he follows with a groan, spilling into the condom as his hips stutter against yours.

Foreheads pressed together, you both gasp for air, sweat-slick and spent. He pulls out slowly, drawing a soft whine from you, then gently lowers your legs, kneading the tension from your thighs before freeing your wrists, his thumbs soothing the reddened skin. He removes the condom and throws it away before getting back on the bed and pulling you close.

"Good?" he murmurs, brushing away your tears with a tenderness that contrasts the rough fuck he just gave you.

You grin, still breathless. "More than good. Best fuck of my life."

"Well, let me give you the second-best fuck you've ever had, then," he smirks, before smashing his lips onto yours.

Suffice it to say, walking won't be an option for a while.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @kwanniehae @ateez-atiny380 @junnhuisworld @horangipower17 @cheolsbb26 @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @brownsugarbaybee @adiknyamingyu @smiileflower

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keithyp00 · 23 days ago

Text

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

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hurtspideyparker · 8 months ago

Text

Part 3 of if Civil War didn't end in divorce and everyone lived together

Part 1 Part 2

Mission debrief:

Thor: Don't feel bad Banner, I mean is there anyone at this table who hasn't killed somebody?

Peter: *slowly raises hand*

Natasha: Don't worry you're still young

Peter: 😟

Steve: Has anyone seen my shield?

Clint: *points outside*

*Peter, Thor, and Bucky playing frisbee with it*

Steve: I guess I'm not saving those orphans today :/

Clint: Tony I said seedless watermelon, are you trying to kill me?

Tony: You're a big boy, you aren't gonna choke

Clint: No but it might... grow

Tony: Oh please don't tell me you still think watermelon seeds grow inside your stomach if you swallow them

Clint:

Pietro: Bro got a licence to kill but still has a Jack and the Beanstock level of education

2:34 am

Tony: *leaving Steve's bedroom*

Sam: *leaving Bucky's bedroom*

Tony:

Sam:

Tony: Let's never speak of this?

Sam: Yep.

Steve: Tony, you're the smartest person I know. You understand anything you set out to study, your passion is remarkable, innovation beyond anyone on the planet, and an incredible memory

Tony: Thank you thank you

Steve: So why do you STILL NOT CLOSE THE KITCHEN CABINETS

Tony: Uh

Steve: SOME OF US ARE TALL TONY. SOME OF US HAVE BRUISES ON THEIR FOREHEADS BECAUSE OF THIS NEGLIGENCE

Tony: Goodnight kid *tucks Peter into bed and kisses his forehead*

*Clint, Vision, Thor, and Dum-E waiting outside the room*

Tony: Oh come on. All of you?

*nodding*

Tony: Vision you don't even sleep. Dum-E I am not kissing you again you gave me chemical burns last time

Dum-E: *lowers head and whirs sadly*

Bucky: Don't sit so close to me

Sam: Why, cause I'm black 🤨

Bucky: No because you smell like ass sweat

Sam:

Sam: Why, cause I'm bl-

During training:

Natasha: *flips Steve and slams him onto his back*

Peter: Woah! I wanna know how to do that

Natasha: *flips Peter and slams him onto his back*

Natasha: Seems like you already know how

Tony: Okay Merida, you and me, darts for a hundred bucks. My suit vs. your freak self

Clint: I'll take that bet

*7 minutes later*

Tony: I have advanced AI targetting technology. SUPER. SUIT. How did I lose?!

Clint: It can do a lot of things Tony but at the end of the day it can't super suck this di-

Bucky: Sam's in medical so I'll do the mission debrief with you

Natasha: That was fast, I thought you'd still be coddling your boyfriend the rest of the day

Bucky: What. How do you know about us.

Natasha: I don't, it was a joke...

Bucky:

Natasha:

Bucky: Damn you really are good at interrogation

Bruce: I've taken up puzzles as a hobby. It's actually really relaxing

*Box is missing the last piece*

Bruce: *sighs, erases the 61 under the 'Days Without Hulk Incident' sign*

Natasha: Kings

Bucky: Go fish. Sevens?

Natasha: Nada. Fives?

Bucky: Shit. Here

Sam: I thought y'all were playing poker, are you for real playing Go Fish?

Natasha: Our pockets got cleaned out so we quit. The poker game is over by Steve

Peter: HAHA SUCK IT OLD MAN, AMERICA JUST WENT BANKRUPT *pulls giant pile of animal crackers to himself*

Steve: Do you want to play catch?

Wanda: What?

Steve: Um. Do you want to watch Hannah Montana?

Wanda: I don't even know what you're talking about

Steve: Maybe I could show you how to brush your teeth?

Wanda: Steve you're really scaring me

Steve: The article said to do it together! *shows phone*

Wanda: Are you getting parenting advice from wikihow? Did you even read it or were you just skimming the pictures

Steve: ...Well why'd they put toothbrushing in the photo if it wasn't a good bonding activity?

Sam: Why are your titties so bouncy man. Is it to deflect bullets?

Steve: What did you just say about my chest...

Sam: Hey I call em as I see em, and they're staring right at me.

Peter: Yo Mr. Stark wanna see a backflip?

Peter: Oh Cap come see my front handsprings

Peter: Natasha watch this aerial cartwheel!

Tony: Why did you tell him you were in the circus. Now that the idea's in his head all he does is jump around and cause noise complaints from downstairs

Clint: C'mon it's cute! He's talented

Bucky: I'm gonna tell him it doesn't count because he has superpowers and that he's a cheat

Tony: But that'll ruin his confidence

Bucky: God I hope so

3K notes · View notes

mit0bee · 1 month ago

Text

ℍ𝕌𝕊𝔹𝔸ℕ𝔻!

Calling the twst boys your husband!

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

warnings: fem!reader, no beta we die like men, yuu!reader, harassment (leonas part), pre-book 7 malleus

a/n: hi im very sick take this unfinished work from my drafts (I PROMISE ILL MAKE MORE OF THIS I JUST CANT LOOK AT A SCREEN ANYMORE 💔) plz tell me if theres any inaccuracies since i do not have the energy to read it through

also it got glitched out this morning when i tried to use my phone to finish it so now theres bullet points everywhere

It wasn't actually intentional when you called him your husband, more of a spur of the moment thing.

During a (n unwilling) adventure to Sam's, a guy had come up to you. Of course, being the mysterious transfer from another world had garnered you some popularity. One such consequence were people like him.

"Hey. You're that transfer girl, right?" The boy asked. He looked like a badly designed sleazeball from a basic anime; dyed hair, quite a few piercings, and a look on his face that just screamed incel.

"Uh. Yeah." You looked between the milk you had in your hand, the guy, and Leona, who was out of earshot, eyeing a selection of meat Sam had on display. "Why?" You could practically feel the dread in your gut. He obviously wasn't trying to be friends. Or, at least, not the good kind of friends.

"I was just wondering..." Smirking, he took a few steps to close the gap between the two of you, "Some of my friends and I were going to have a little party down in the woods behind the school. We could use some entertainment."

"Er...." Your head tilted downwards in fluster. This guy didn't seem like the type to take no for an answer. Even if you tried to pull the 'I have a boyfriend', he probably wouldn't listen, "My.... husband and I had plans." You blurted out. It was a split second decision, but there was no way this guy would go after a married woman. Right?

"Oh, husband." You shot Leona a look; one that begged for help. He turned from where he had been very focused, and noticed the sleazy guy pestering you. His ears flattened against his head, and his expression shifted from curiosity to irritation. "Come over here."

The nameless guy looked very close to pissing himself when he saw just who you were referring to. The Leona Kingscholar. But he had a wife? Since when?!

"Oh. Uh. Him?" The guy asked, almost unbelieving. There was no way someone like him would be tied down. He could barely go to class, much less commit to someone!

But, as if by fate, the lazy lion gave a smug smirk and rested his hand over your shoulder. "What's up, wife?" He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. "This guy buggin' ya?"

You smiled knowingly, "I don't know. Are you?" Your tone wasn't one to be underestimated. All three of you knew what was going down. The only difference between You and Leona, and the guy was that the guy couldn't do anything to refute your claim.

"N-No, ma'am!" The guy stiffened, which made Leona let out a huff of amusement, "I'll be on my way now!" He announced, running off with his tail between his legs.

You and Leona were left in silence for the next few moments, both of you not wanting or having anything to say. It was Leona, though, who broke the silence.

"Husband?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." You faced your lover with redder cheeks than before, "He was getting on my nerves, and it was the quickest way for him to leave me alone." You sighed, your eyes trailing from Leonas emerald ones to the wooden floor of the shop, "I know we haven't talked about it. Sorry..."

Leona rolled his eyes at your change in demeanor. You went from confident to bashful in only the span of a minute or two. "Whaddya talking about? I never said I wouldn't mind getting married, so don't apologize." He stated, keeping his arm around your shoulders.

"Wha...?" You gazed back up at him with shock, your mouth slightly ajar. You would accept him not wanting to get married, and it was a real possibility you had prepared for in the past. Now he's stating he might want to?

He didn't explain further, and opted to (surprisingly gently) lead you out of the store. "Let's go." He said, "I'll get Ruggie to finish the trip."

------------

"Sam. What is this?"

"It's a wedding present, my little imp!" Sam presented you with a large purple box. It had a glittery black ribbon tied into a perfect bow at its plateau. "Don't think I didn't see what you and the Savanaclaw housewarden were doing in my shop a few days ago!"

You took the box carefully. Knowing Sam, just about anything could be inside. It could be the best thing you could ever receive, but it also could be a load of crap you'd never use.

"Look here!" Sam lifted up two items from inside the box. One was an iridescent stone, while the other looked like a black ticket with gold accents. He held out the stone, "This one is a lucky charm! Perfect for newlyweds, right?" Then, he held out the ticket, "And this gets you a 1% discount at any Sam's Mystery Shop locations in all of Twisted Wonderland! Terms and Conditions apply."

You smiled, but felt the irritation in your body growing. You and Leona weren't actually getting married. It was just a topic of discussion now. But, the items might come in handy around Ramshackle, and you'd take all the help you could get. It wasn't like everything would be useless, right?

You decided to grit your teeth and bear it, "Thank you, Sam. Really." You let him place the two items back in the box, "We'll be sure to use all of this." You quickly turned on your heel to escape.

"Oh, and tell the kitty I said hi!" He called out as you left. Once you were gone, he placed a hand on his cheek with a sigh.

"Ah, young love."

Azul has a lot of business partners.

With all of those partners comes lots of exhausting meetings. His only escape from all of it is you.

Though, that doesn't mean your opposed to playing a prank or two on him to lift his spirits.

Azul dropped down onto his (your shared at this point) bed, and you couldn't help the snicker that you let out at this rare side of him.

"Rough day?" You asked. One of your hands dropped from your book to find purchase in his hair. He let out a relaxed groan, slowly moving his way from the side of the bed to lay on top of you.

"You wouldn't believe. Dozens of grown men and not even one can solve a simple problem." He sighed, remembering the horrid, stale meeting he had to endure, "They're leading me to believe most landers are like this."

You closed your book with a crisp clap, setting it on the safe right by his bed. Instead, you devoted your time to messing with his well-kept hair. "Not all of them. I'm an exception, right? As your wife?"

"That's true-" He paused, your words sinking on him like a heavy weight. His face exploded into a coral pink, and he inelegantly picked himself up onto all fours, looking into your eyes with confusion and maybe a little glee. "What...? Wife..? As in- Us?" One of his hands frantically pointed between the two of you.

"Unless you don't want to get married to a foolish lander." Pouting, you knew he'd take the bait. Hook, line, and sinker. "It's fine. I get it. Species racism, you know?"

Desperately, he shook his head. "No! That's not it at all!" He brought his face dangerously close to yours, "I just wasn't expecting it." As if realizing how close you were, he averted his eyes from yours, "...I was supposed to receive my grandmothers ring. After graduation."

After such an honest confession, you felt your resolve for the prank crumble into a million pieces. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, earning a surprised yelp from him. "Azul!" Is all you could manage to articulate.

"....Y-Yes, my love?" His voice was muffled from being so close to you, but you could still hear the worry in his tone. It didn't make you feel any more calm, though, and you squeezed him even harder.

"I think we need to get married right now."

"What?!"

-------------

The next morning was surprisingly uneventful. The only thing you could notice of slight difference was the weird looks you got from the twins, and the slightly softer way Azul treated you. It was only that evening that everything shifted on its axis.

You were waiting in Mostro for Azul to finish with some contracts. Not wanting to bother him, you waited in the main dining area, lone in a booth. Only lone for a while, though, as the aforementioned Leech twins came strolling up with knowing smirks.

"So..." Floyd started, "Miss Ashengrotto, huh?" He sat right next to you, "You apparently had a whole spectacle last night. Very romantic."

"Just make sure you both don't forget us as newlyweds." Jade engaged in the teasing too, but didn't sit nearly as close. "We'd be very lonely. Right, Floyd?"

"Yup. Anyway. Baby names."

"Huh?!"

"Floyd Junior has a nice ring to it."

"Or Jade Junior."

"What are you three talking about?"

"........"

"We should leave. Come on, Floyd." Jade stood up, taking Floyd by the arm and dragging him out of the booth.

"Yeah. Have fun, lovebirds."

"So..." You smiled sheepishly, "How is my fantastic husband doing?" You said, just loud enough for anyone in the immediate vicinity to whip their heads around and gawk.

"Please." Azul chuckled, "I'm good. How is my beautiful wife?"

"Ready to give you a baby." You whispered.

"Slow down!"

on one of the rare times idia actually went out of his room, it was for this limited deluxe edition of a game he had been waiting for for months.

problem was, it was an in-store only promo. if he wanted the game, he'd have to endure the stress of other people.

if only to make the trip a little less painful on his cortisol receptors, he decided to invite you to join him.

the store was packed. like the only reason the two of you got in was because you had waited there for at least five hours before it opened.

even then, it took another hour or two to actually get to the checkout with two copies of the game in hand.

it was at the checkout that the incident happened.

after being out and waiting for almost half your day, you had obviously gotten bored.

and what better cure for your boredom than to play a silly little prank on your unsuspecting boyfriend?

"You two excited for the release?" The clerk asked. He looked obviously exhausted, but kept a weary smile and his tone light. "I hear this ones better than the prequel. Bugs and cheeses have all been patched."

You nodded enthusiastically, deciding that now was the time to enact your totally thought-out plan, "Yup! My husband and I are going to have a little gaming date. Right, Id-" You turned to your boyfriend, stopping your sentence midway through. He looked like his entire brain shut off, hair lit up a bright pink and his face dusted with a blush to rival even the reddest tone. If he was a cartoon, he'd have steam coming out of his ears and the top of his skull would come up like a geyser.

"I- Um- My-" He couldn't even utter a single sentence. "My wife-" He gestured to you. Eventually, he gave up on even trying to articulate himself, slammed the required thaumark bills on the counter, and made his way out of there as quickly as he could. Unceremoniously, he shoved you (with surprising gentleness considering how clumsy he was being) into the passenger seat of his rarely used car, and quickly turned to book it into the drivers seat.

The two of you sat there in silence for a minute or two. His expression was unreadable, and you couldn't tell if it was upset, excitement, or anxiety.

He finally broke the silence with a mumble. ".... -married?"

"I couldn't hear you, hun. What'd you say?"

"I said.... -get married?"

"My love. Please speak up."

"I SAID, DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GET MARRIED?!"

"......."

"........"

"What...?"

"You know. Because I'm not very marriage material...?" His statement was more of a question, and he turned away from you in shame, "I mean, there are all of those princes at NRC. SS+ level otome MMC's."

"Idia."

"I was just thinking you'd rather them."

"Idia."

"I mean, there's, like, a million of them." He fiddled with the bottom hem of his hoodie in embarrassment. God, if he could just hide in a hole forever-

"IDIA!" You snapped, taking him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at you, "I don't want them. I want you." Putting on your best comforting smile, you leaned over the gearbox to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. "I woke up at five A.M. for this. If that doesn't make it clear that I'd want you and only you, then maybe me saying it to your face will."

If it was even possible his hair got even wilder and even pinker. It was a miracle it didn't set everything in the car on fire. "A-Are you sure...?" He half-whispered, half-squeaked.

You nodded, placing a hand on his cheek. Your other hand rested on the gearbox so you could lean closer to him. "Dead serious."

Idia's cheeks lit up pink, and all of the blue that had been slowly returning to his firey hair vanished, being replaced by the previous pink once more. "L-Let's just get back to NRC..." He managed to mumble out.

Malleus wasn't the most expressive person. When a simple upset could smite an entire family, the benefits of feeling anger or ecstasy paled in comparison to the concequences.

That wasn't to say he didn't have his moments, though.

Your plan was simple; when Malleus least expected it, you'd call him by the sweet nickname, and watch his head explode. Or, at least, show some more feeling than slightly pleased or slightly upset.

The two of you were walking the halls of NRC almost ritualistically. It had become a routine for Malleus to meet you outside of your classes and escort you to your next one. He was so dedicated that not even most urgencies could prevent him from seeing you. You had asked him a few weeks prior on why he was so devoted, but he only responded with a cryptic 'it's my duty'.

Arriving at your classroom, you leaned up and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. "Thank you, husband." You whispered. You expected him to react in a giddy manner, but quite the contrary, he only reciprocated your smile and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

"You're welcome, my wife." He smiled just a little more than he usually did. "I must get to my own class. I'll see you afterwards." And with that, he waved off a confused you.

He didn't even seem to be bothered by the nickname. What's more, is that he called you his wife! Last you checked, you weren't married! Was he just playing along? Or was he trying to retort your prank in his own way? You were supposed to be pranking him!

-----------

Your mind raced with possibilities for the entire time you were in class. It got so bad that Trein had to reprimand you in front of all of your peers. But, in your defense, how were you supposed to focus?! The only solace you got was the dismissal bell, knowing you'd be able to see your fae lover once more.

When you exited the class, Malleus was waiting in front of the door as per usual. He unconsciously and unintentionally was splitting the student body in half like a stone in a river. They avoided him as best they could, knowing full well he was here for you.

"My beloved." He strode his way up to you, the black current of people moving in reaction, "Was your class satisfactory?" He took your hand in his. The two of you had a little extra time now in your schedules due to your paired spare periods (courtesy of the oh-so generous Headmage Crowley. He was definitely not intimidated by a certain dragon fae into it. No sir, no ma'am).

"Mhm." You peered into his eyes thoughtfully, trying to read just what exactly had happened earlier. If it had been a prank on his part, surely there'd be some evidence of amusement, right? You stared like this all the way into the courtyard, where he finally noticed with a furrowed brow and slight pout.

"Something is troubling you."

Oops. You were caught, "It's nothing. Really." You tried to soothe his worries, but your attempts were in vain and only made him worry more.

"You're lying to me." He stopped in his tracks, causing you to turn to face him. He crossed his arms in an almost childlike fashion, "You shouldn't be trying to suffer alone. As your husband I have a duty to help you, do I not?"

With his final sentence, you couldn't help but sigh. You obviously wouldn't get answers from him by just staring. He was as straight faced as a stone cold killer.

"....Can I ask you a question...?" You requested hesitantly. Maybe it was just nothing. If the two of you were just in an unspoken prank war, it might be best to not bring it up.

"Yes." He answered instantaneously, almost before you got your question out. "Anything."

"Are you calling me your wife as a joke?" You blurted out the entire question at once. Luckily, the courtyard was mostly empty to protect you from your blunder, but it was nonetheless embarrassing, "I mean, I was doing it as a silly little prank. Then you did it too. You sounded so serious when you said it, too." You averted your gaze, wanting to look anywhere but at your lover. In your peripheral vision you saw him grow more confused than worried now. Rather than his brow being furrowed in concern, it was furrowed in thought.

It took a moment for him to speak. He tilted his head, as if it would help in deciphering the code you just tossed in his face, "We are betrothed, are we not? We haven't had a wedding yet, so we aren't in technical terms husband and wife. But, you have begun to call me your husband. In turn, I assumed you wanted me to refer to you as my wife."

You froze. He thought you were what? As far as you could remember, he didn't give you any indicator as to being engaged up until now!

"Hold on." You were so confused and shocked that your embarrassment ebbed away quickly. You looked him up and down. Were cameras going to pop out from behind a bench? A tree, perhaps? "I wasn't told anything about being engaged. When did this happen?"

His tone only grew more confused now, "A few weeks prior. You were accepting my courtship advances. The necklace you received was one of betrothal." He stated simply, "It was one from my personal collection, and you accepted it. Is that not a common proposal where you're from?"

"NO?! Malleus, where I'm from, people propose with a ring and ask if they will marry them!"

".....I see. This is quite the conundrum." He placed a hand on his chin, "Am I to cancel the wedding plans, then?" He looked almost sad at the prospect. You could tell immediately that this was something he had been planning since that night he gifted you that silver necklace.

You sighed again, this time bigger and heavier, "....I mean..." You didn't want to let him down, but it all felt too fast! "Maybe don't cancel them persay..." His mood drastically improved at your words. Optimism was a powerful tool, and he was using it right to his advantage.

"Maybe we can do things from my culture now?" You continued, "Once you propose in the human way, then we can start planning our wedding together." You thought this was a fair compromise. He already proposed with fae customs, but you weren't exactly ready to rush into a wedding dress. If things could be held off for at least a few more months, you'd have time to adequately settle into the reality.

Your words didn't come close to deterring Malleus. He nodded with more enthusiasm than ever. "I shall dedicate myself to the education and study of human ways. I will plan out a human proposal posthaste." He looked at you with a fire in his eyes. One you hadn't seen too often, but enough to recognize, you knew what it meant. He only got this look when he was so hellbent on succeeding that it'd take all of Twisted Wonderland to prevent him from reaching his goals.

You'd let out a monster, and you knew it. All you could do now was pray for your survival.

------------------------

A few days later, you were chatting casually with your regular quartet of Ace, Deuce, Grim in the cafeteria. But, your comfortable conversation was abruptly interrupted by a scream.

"HUMAN!!!!!!" You jumped at the sound, immediately recognizing it to be only one person.

"Sebek? Is something the matter?"

"MY LORD HAS DECIDED TO PROPOSE TO YOU ONCE MORE!!!!" He exclaimed, his volume far too high even in the large room. "YOU MUST LOOK THE PART WHEN HE APPROACHES YOU!" Without a second beat, he started dusting you off, nitpicking your appearance down to the lint on your shoulder.

Being friend with Sebek long enough had let you into his mind. You knew he was happy for you, and just expressing it in his own unique way. He had long since come to terms with your relationship, and had even come to support it (again, in his own way).

"Hold on..."

"No way..."

"Huh?!"

All three of your friends in front of you had gaping mouths, utterly shocked. They all yelled at the same time, their tones fearful and confused.

"My henchman..."

"You, of all people..."

"Prefect is...."

"GETTING MARRIED?!"

Oh lord. This'll be fun to explain.

2K notes · View notes

thepencilnerd · 1 month ago

Text

Anatomy of Want

summary: Jack Abbot never thought he'd be this undone over a resident. But you were unlike anyone he'd met—brilliant under pressure, quick on your feet, and impossible to ignore. What begins as admiration quickly becomes something deeper, something that simmers beneath every shared shift, until it threatens to boil over. warnings/notes: 18+ MDNI, age gap, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, praise kink, shameless smut, oral sex (f&m receiving), body worship, depictions of war scars, literally just an excuse to write jack abbot smut & you kissing his scars bc that man lives in my head rent free wc: 5.4k a/n: forgot i posted this on ao3 but not here :}

You joined the night shift in a flurry of quiet confidence and dazzling competence, and Jack noticed you immediately. It wasn’t just the way you handled patient load like clockwork, or how you navigated the trauma bay with a calm assurance usually reserved for seasoned attendings. It was the way you asked questions, the way you looked at problems sideways, the way you never folded, even when things got messy.

He told himself he was just impressed. That it was his responsibility, as your mentor, to push you. And he did—assigned you the trickiest cases, brought you into every complicated intubation, every crashing patient. You rose to each occasion like you'd been waiting for it, and Jack couldn't stop himself from watching.

"Nice call on that bleed in bay three," he said one night, as you stripped off your gloves, blood spattered on your gown. "You didn’t hesitate."

You shrugged, a wry smile on your lips. "Wasn't much time to, I could've acted faster."

He looked at you a beat longer than necessary. "Take the win, Dr. L/N."

That was how it went for months. Shifts passed in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. He trusted you. Relied on you. Admired you, yes, but more than that. There were moments—lingering looks across trauma bays, soft laughs shared over half-spilled coffee at 3 a.m., casual brushes of your hands when passing charts that lingered a beat too long.

Once, when you struggled with a stubborn intubation, he’d leaned in close, murmuring, "You've got this," low enough that it was meant just for you. His hand steadied your elbow, brief but grounding. You’d nailed the tube placement. He’d smiled the whole rest of the shift.

After the harder nights, he started climbing to the roof again. The first time he found you there—legs dangling off the ledge, coffee in hand, still in scrubs—he thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you'd said without looking at him, voice soft with exhaustion.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

You didn’t say much after that. Neither did he. Just silence, and the hum of the city below, and a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Some nights, you’d pass a bag of vending machine pretzels back and forth in companionable quiet. Other nights, you'd trade war stories—the worst consults, the craziest saves—your voices low, private, confessions to the stars.

It was easy. Natural. Dangerous.

Jack tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just friendship. Just exhaustion.

But then there were the nights he caught himself watching you laugh at something small, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

The tension built slowly, like pressure behind a dam.

Then came the morning you were signing out charts at the nurse’s station, still in your scrubs and rubbing at a bruise forming on your shoulder. Samira Mohan breezed in, bright-eyed, coffee in hand.

"Don’t forget," she said, pulling up beside you. "8pm tonight. David from anesthesia."

"Shit." You'd totally blanked. "I almost forgot, I'm sorry."

"You’re gonna be great," she assured. "He’s nice. And hot. Like... surgery hot."

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you. "What do I even wear? It’s been so long. I bought that one thing..."

Samira's eyes lit up. "Oh, the black lace set?"

"Samira!" Your hands flew up to cover her mouth, cheeks pink and lips pressed tight. "Keep your voice down!" The words came out tight.

"It’s classy!" she laughed, prying your hands off her mouth. "I stand by it. Black is always a good call."

Neither of you noticed Jack at the far end of the nurses' station, flipping through charts but not actually reading them.

He stood there longer than he needed to. Long enough to hear about the date. Long enough to hear about the lingerie. Long enough for his mind to start betraying him—already picturing you in it, delicate black lace against your skin, curves he'd only admired from a respectful distance until now. He wasn't sure whether he'd be more desperate to tear it off you with his hands or his teeth.

And something in him shifted. Just a little. But enough to curl his fingers tighter around the chart in his hands, to clench his jaw until it ached. You sounded hesitant, unsure, nervous in a way that didn’t track with the woman who could crack a diagnosis under pressure without breaking a sweat.

He heard the waver in your voice when you said, "I’m just… worried," and it rang in his head like bolded text. Jack knew you too well not to read between the lines. You weren’t worried about the guy—you were worried because someone else already occupied your mind.

And damn it, he wanted nothing more than for it to be him.

He didn’t want anyone else to be close to you like that. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he’d never met someone whose mind, whose hands, whose presence made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he could let someone in again.

Samira nudged you with her elbow, oblivious to the ripple effect her words had left in their wake. "Go home, take a nap, put on something that makes you feel good, and just... have fun, okay? It's your first night off in weeks—you deserve to enjoy it."

You hesitated, biting your lip. "I don't know... it's been a while. What if it's awkward? What if I forgot how to do this?"

She grinned like the devil herself. "You don't forget. It's like muscle memory. Besides, you’re hot. And smart. And wearing black lace. You'll be fine."

You laughed weakly, dropping your voice. "It's just... first date sex? After a dry spell? I feel like I'll crash and burn."

Samira waggled her eyebrows. "Best way to crash. Trust me."

A snap echoed through the room—the sharp, unmistakable crack of plastic breaking.

You and Samira both glanced up.

Jack bent calmly, retrieved the shattered halves of a pen from the floor, and tucked them into his pocket like nothing had happened.

You blinked. Samira blinked. Then shrugged and kept talking.

"Go have fun," she repeated, nudging you again. "Tonight's about you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... have a good time."

You nodded, though your heart wasn't in it. The twist in your stomach wasn't nerves about the date.

It was the thought of someone else entirely.

You smiled weakly and nodded, though your stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with someone else entirely.

On your way out, you passed Jack by the charting station, offered him a quiet, "See you on Monday, Dr. Abbot." He gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eight o’clock rolled around faster than you expected.

You stood outside the restaurant, already regretting your decision. The lace set beneath your outfit felt less like a confidence boost and more like a secret that didn’t belong to this version of the night. Still, you squared your shoulders and walked in, searching the tables until you saw a man wave—clean cut, kind smile, textbook charming.

David was, by all accounts, exactly what Samira had described. Funny, intelligent, a bit pretentious, but typical for your average resident. He complimented your dress. Asked about your shift schedule. Talked about scuba diving in Belize, his past summer at his parent's beach house.

But your smile stopped at your cheeks. You laughed at the right moments. You answered questions politely. And every so often, your mind wandered back to a different voice—rougher, lower, more familiar.

You thought of Jack’s dry wit. The way he tucked his hands into his scrub pockets when he was thinking. The sound of his laugh, more of a chuckle, rare but always sincere. The heat in his gaze when he really looked at you, like he was trying to hear what colors tinted your thoughts.

You forced yourself back to the conversation with rapid blinks, nodding at whatever David was saying about residency rotations and placements. He was nice. He really was.

So why did you feel like you were somewhere you didn’t belong?

Maybe it was the way David's hand reached for yours across the table, smooth and tentative, and how you instinctively pulled back before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t rude—just reflex. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel familiar.

Not like Jack’s hands—callused and warm—when they’d guided your wrist during your first real incision, steadying your nerves with his quiet presence. His grip had been firm, reassuring. You could still remember the way his fingers curled gently but purposefully around yours, the scent of antiseptic and adrenaline in the air.

David’s hand was too small. Too soft. Too unsure. There was no strength in it. No certainty. No experience.

God you were going insane.

"Sorry," you exhaled, offering him a polite smile. But your attention was already drifting, your eyes drawn to a familiar silhouette across the room.

Salt and pepper curls caught the neon light just right. Jack Abbot stood at the far end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other resting on the wood tabletop, eyes cast toward the floor—until he looked up.

And found you.

Your breath caught. The background noise dulled to static. For a suspended moment, the two of you just stared. Time slowed. Jack didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

He didn’t have to.

You felt it in your gut—the electric pull of something intangible.

David started talking again, but it was white noise. The clink of a glass, the hum of conversation, all drowned out by the weight of that look, of Jack watching you like you were the only person in the room.

And suddenly, you were.

You raised your wine glass slowly, holding his gaze as you took a sip. Jack mirrored you, bringing his beer to his lips with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten. The silence stretched between you like a live wire.

Fingers tightening around the stem, you set your glass down with a little too much force, feigning a glance at your phone as if a sudden messaged had triggered a vibration. "Shit, it's an emergency," you lied, offering a rushed, apologetic smile. "Something came up at the hospital. I have to go. I'm so sorry."

David looked disappointed, but nodded, ever the gentleman. "Of course! Rain check?"

A small, apologetic smile tugged at your lips as you rose, shrugging into your coat. Pulse pounding in your ears, you threaded your way through the maze of tables, slipping out the door with a tight exhale.

Behind you, the scrape of a barstool echoed a second later—quick, deliberate.

Out in the cool night air, you rounded the corner into the alley beside the building, your breath misting as you leaned against the brick wall. The adrenaline had only just begun to settle in your bloodstream when you heard the trailing of familiar footsteps.

Jack Abbot appeared a moment later, turning the corner with his hands outstretched, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there until his eyes found yours.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low. He shifted closer to you, arms now crossed.

You nodded. "Yeah. I just... needed air."

A pause. Eyes dipped, then lifted again, something unspoken skating between you.

You cleared your throat. "How was your evening?"

Jack blinked at the pivot, letting it settle between you. "Uneventful."

"What were you doing at that bar?" you asked, an arch to your brow that softened the tension.

He allowed himself a grin, shoulders relaxing just slightly. "It’s my usual spot. Popular with the old folks."

"Samira did say it had a vintage charm to it when she picked it out," you replied with a smirk.

Jack scoffed at the poke at his age, making both of you laugh.

"Alright then," he countered, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. "What were you doing there?"

You hesitated, then exhaled a slow breath. "Ruining my chances of settling down."

His expression flickered.

"What?" You gave a half-laugh, smile twisted with self-deprecation. "Isn't that the whole point of dating as a doctor? Just a long game of figuring out how emotionally unavailable I still am and forever will be?"

Abbot sighed, long and quiet, like it came from somewhere deeper than just the moment.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him, curiosity tugging at your features. "Were you… waiting on someone?"

That gave him pause.

Jack stilled. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. His gaze didn’t meet yours at first. He looked past you, to the mouth of the alley, like the answer might be written in the shadows or the neon lights beyond. Like if he stalled long enough, you might forget you asked.

"Not exactly," he started, voice rougher than usual.

You lifted a brow.

He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I didn’t come here for that. But when I saw you…" He trailed off, eyes finally locking onto yours. "Guess I started waiting."

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled in your chest—slow and warm and heavy. Something about the way he said it made it feel less like a confession and more like an inevitability.

He’d been waiting. Watching. Wanting. The same way you’d been tiptoeing around the truth since you'd stepped foot into that ER—since the very first time your fingers brushed as he passed you a chart, since the first time your eyes met across the trauma bay, since that first quiet moment together on the roof.

With the dim alley light casting soft gold between you, something gave. Tension melted into gravity, and gravity into pull, pull into a quiet explosion. You stepped forward just as he did, meeting in the middle, neither of you saying a word. The kiss hit like floodgates bursting—urgent, aching, years of held-back desire finally snapping loose.

His mouth was warm, tasting of beer and something deeply Jack. His cologne clung to the collar of his coat, smoky and crisp, and you inhaled it like oxygen. Hands found your waist, large and steady, trailing down to your hips and cupping your curves like he'd memorized them long before ever touching. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, needing more.

It felt like one of those messy makeouts from college—reckless, hungry, impossibly heady. But this wasn't some clumsy hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every moment spent not saying the thing that burned between you.

You were both sober enough to know what this was—what it meant. When Jack pulled away, just slightly, his breath brushing your lips, his voice dropped into something gravel-soft. "You're not drunk?"

You shook your head, words catching in your throat. "One glass of wine. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

That was all he needed.

You surged forward, capturing his mouth again with a need that bordered on desperate. Jack backed into the wall with a soft grunt, pulling you in like the space between you had always belonged to him. His hands roamed—one sliding up to cup your jaw, the other finding your lower back, anchoring you like he was terrified you'd disappear.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours, tasting of mint and longing and everything unspoken between you. You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver at the contact. He devoured you like a man starved, and when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, lips swollen and voice rough, he rasped, "Let me take you home."

You nodded, breathless, pulse thundering in your throat. The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the tension between you humming like electricity under your skin. Jack simply held your hand the entire way. The air crackled, your hand brushing his once, twice, before he finally laced your fingers together.

Arriving at your front door, your hands trembled slightly as you unlocked it. The weight of what was about to happen anchored itself deep in your stomach. You stepped inside, the warm light of your living room spilling over the hardwood floors. Jack hovered in the doorway, hesitant, until you reached for his hand again.

"Come in," you said softly.

He followed.

You led him to the couch, asking quietly if he wanted anything to drink. Jack shook his head, stepping closer until your bodies were barely apart.

"I don’t need anything," he murmured. "Except you."

You inhaled sharply, but before you could speak, his lips were on yours again—slower this time, reverent, like he was memorizing every contour of your mouth. His hands cupped your face as he pulled you closer, until you felt the full heat of him against you.

You reached for the hem of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, then your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly. Jack took over, shrugging out of it with ease. Beneath, his skin was warm and firm beneath your wandering hands, the light dusting of chest hair catching the soft glow of your floor lamp.

Jack’s hands slid under the hem of your top, brushing up your sides, warm palms skating over bare skin. When he pulled it over your head and saw the black lace lingerie beneath—filigree against your skin, delicate and dark—his breath caught in his throat.

"That kid," he spat, "wouldn’t know how to take care you."

You managed a breathless laugh, the tension and heat between you turning reckless. "And what exactly does taking care of me imply, Dr. Abbot?" you teased, voice low and daring.

Jack's eyes darkened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly where they gripped your waist. "Everything you need," he rasped. "And more."

You smiled, bold with adrenaline, tipping your chin up toward him. "And you think you can handle me?"

He leaned in, mouth grazing your ear, voice wrecked and certain. "Sweetheart," Jack said, "I'm counting on it."

He unclasped your bra with one hand, letting it fall away before sliding his palms across your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes. "You’re perfect."

You arched into him with a quiet gasp, his touch both soothing and incendiary. He kissed your neck, down your collarbone, until he was lowering you gently onto the couch.

"Let me take care of you," he said, voice hoarse with restraint.

Your only answer was a nod, a whispered, "Please."

Jack kneeled between your thighs, kissing his way down your stomach, murmuring soft nothings against your skin. He slipped your underwear down slowly, eyes locked with yours. He paused only briefly, kissing the inside of your thigh before taking two fingers and teasing them along your entrance.

You gasped, hips bucking as he gently eased a finger inside, curling it expertly. "So wet for me," he murmured, awed. "God, you’re dripping."

And then he was lowering his mouth to you, tongue parting you gently. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched and your fingers dove into his hair, holding tight.

Jack groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "I could live here," he muttered. "Die happy between your thighs."

You whimpered, tugging harder at his hair. "Jack—please—"

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, guided by your every gasp and shudder. The sound of him—soft groans muffled against your slick, the wet sounds of his mouth working you over—had your skin tingling. The taste of you seemed to drive him wild, his chin slick with your arousal as he murmured, "Fucking incredible," into your core.

His fingers curled just right, finding that perfect spot with unerring precision. Your moans spilled out freely, hands clutching at his hair, holding him there. He groaned again, a sound of pure pleasure. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me."

When it broke—when you shattered with a breathless, keening cry—Jack held you through it, grounding you with his strong hands bracketing your hips. His lips never left you, drawing out every tremble, every ripple of your climax until it became too much. Your thighs twitched, pleasure tipping toward the edge of pain, and with trembling fingers, you tapped gently at his shoulder. A silent plea for mercy.

He stilled instantly, pulling back with his mouth slick and eyes dark, but gentle.

You could only scoff, breath shaky and a smile of bliss coloring your face. Jack leaned forward to press a kiss to your thigh, tender and unhurried. "You’re unbelievable," he whispered, voice rough with awe and restraint.

He pulled back slowly, face glistening, licking his fingers clean before sucking them into his mouth, savoring every bit of your taste. Then he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed. Like he'd just touched heaven.

As he kissed up your body, his breath fanned across your damp skin—each kiss a pause, a confession. His facial hair scraped lightly in contrast to the softness of his lips, leaving trails of heat along your ribs, then your collarbone. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, nuzzling the hollow beneath your jaw before pressing a kiss to it, like he couldn't get enough of the way you tasted, the way you felt, the way you breathed beneath him.

"Can I undress you?" you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you like the morning sky, warmth, admiration, and affection—but there's hesitation there too.

He swallows, jaw flexing slightly, before nodding. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Just... heads up."

You pause, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. "Jack?"

His voice is rough. "You’ll see scars. From before. It’s not a big deal, just... some of them are pretty bad." He tries to laugh it off, but his eyes flicker away and his shoulders tense. Your heart cracks open at the vulnerability he rarely lets anyone see.

"Hey," you murmur, tilting his face back toward yours. "Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you carry—I want to see all of you. Every piece."

Jack's throat bobbed with a swallow, eyes glassy as he searched your face for doubt—and found none. His fingers brushed lightly along your jaw.

You undressed him slowly, fingers trembling as you tugged his belt open, then popped the button of his slacks. His cock strained against the fabric, an eager outline that made your mouth water. When you pushed his pants down, the sight made you pause—he was perfect. Not too much, not too little—cut, well-groomed, thick and just the right length. A light trail of hair led up to a stomach carved with muscle, the kind earned by years of hard work, not vanity.

You wrapped your fingers around him, gave him a few slow pumps, marveling at the weight of him in your hand. When you ducked your head and pressed a kiss to the flushed tip, he hissed softly, hand threading into your hair. You licked him experimentally, kitten licks at first, savoring the velvet softness of his skin, the way he twitched at every flick of your tongue.

You took him into your mouth, slowly, a few shallow bobs that had him groaning low in his throat. His other hand gripped the back of the couch behind you as his hips twitched forward, but just when you began to settle into a rhythm, he gently but firmly pulled you back.

Jack crushed his mouth to yours, desperate and breathless, his hands cradling your face. "Not like that," he murmured, voice trembling against your lips. "I’m not coming anywhere but inside you. I want to feel you, every inch, every heartbeat." He drew back just enough to look at you, something raw and uncertain flickering in his eyes.

"If you're sure," he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek, "I want to take care of you. Let you shut everything else out—just feel me."

You nodded, breath catching. "I need you."

His breath shuddered out, the last thread of restraint snapping in his chest. With worship and heat in his eyes, Jack kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the very shape of your mouth. Reaching over to the end table, you pulled out a condom wrapper and tore it open, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

With a breathless murmur of his name, you rolled it onto his length—slowly, deliberately—giving him a few teasing strokes first. His cock twitched in your hand, heavy and perfect, and your thumb brushed over the slick tip, spreading the pre-cum like a promise. Jack's breath caught, eyes dark as he watched you, jaw clenched with restraint, like you’d just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.

He guided you down gently, his body pressing into yours, firm and certain, a grounding weight that promised not just desire, but devotion.

You moved first, hips sliding up and down in slow, deliberate strokes, and Jack almost exploded at how good you felt. Every part of him molded to you, surrounding you like safety and fire all at once. His hands cradled your face like something sacred, and the press of his chest against yours ignited sparks beneath your skin. You couldn't remember sex ever feeling like this—like your very soul was unraveling. It was almost a religious experience, divine and consuming, the way he fit with you, moved with you. It felt like surrender.

"Fuck." It punched out of Jack Abbot like a confession, like he’d been holding it in for months. You felt like pure velvet around him—tight, warm, impossibly soft, dragging him to the edge with every glide of your hips. His head tipped back for a moment, jaw clenched, trying to hold on. The sounds spilling from your lips—soft gasps, high whimpers, breathy moans—were branded into his memory already. God, he thought, if he could bottle them, he’d keep them forever. Hoard them. Pray to them for forgiveness.

Your hands were grasping onto whatever they could—his shoulders, the cushions, the curve of his neck—anything to anchor yourself. When your nails dug into his back, Jack groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating against your skin like a warning and a reward. He definitely had a thing for rough, and that knowledge thrilled you.

You leaned in, breathless, and whispered praises against his ear—how good he felt, how perfect he was, how he filled you like no one else ever had.

"Please," you begged, voice shaking.

Jack groaned, the sound catching in his throat. "You’re everything I've ever dreamed of," he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "You feel like heaven."

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed through clenched teeth, clearly loving it. "You take me so well," he murmured, lips brushing your temple, his hand smoothing along your spine. "So fucking good—perfect, you’re made for me."

"Jack—God, please—don’t stop," you whimpered, arching into him. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat at your words, his grip on your waist tightening like a man barely holding on.

"Never," he whispered. "Gonna keep you like this. You're mine."

Each word wrapped around you like silk, the praise as intoxicating as the rhythm of his hips. You drank him in like water in a desert, letting it fill every hollow part of you until you were burning with it—consumed, adored, alive.

Jack shifted, pulling you with him, guiding you until your hands were braced against the couch and your body arched for him. The air thickened as he pressed behind you, one hand splaying over your lower back, the other skimming down to grip your hip firmly.

He slid back inside slowly, a groan torn from his throat at the new angle. "Fuck, look at you—" he breathed, eyes roaming over the arch of your spine, the way your skin glowed beneath the dim lights.

Your breath caught at the intensity. He moved with purpose now, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the dim light. His grip bruised in the best way, grounding you, guiding you, adoring you with every thrust.

Every movement lit you up, sending shocks through your body until you were keening, meeting him stroke for stroke. Jack leaned over you, one hand splaying across your lower back while the other slipped beneath to rub tight, teasing circles over your clit. The added pressure was too much, the timing of his thrusts too perfect. You were a whining mess, trembling and begging for release, the pleasure cresting like a tidal wave.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "Let go for me. Give it to me."

You clawed at the cushions, barely able to hold yourself upright, your body burning at every point of contact. And when his teeth sank gently into your shoulder, scraping over sensitive skin and biting down with a growled praise, everything inside you shattered.

You came with a strangled cry, ears ringing, vision going white around the edges, the force of your orgasm crashing over you like fire and light. Jack held you steady, worshipful even now, as you pulsed around him—his voice in your ear, a low whisper of your name like a prayer he’d never stop saying. He pressed kisses down your shoulder blades, pausing to give you a break, his breath shaky with restraint.

Then, without a word, he gathered you into his arms, shifting you with care. He carried you up effortlessly, propping your legs over the edge of the couch so you were just hanging off, perfectly open for him. Nestled into the crook of your neck, Jack rocked into you with purpose, his thrusts slow but relentless, chasing his own release. Your hands wrapped protectively around his head, fingers stroking through his hair, grounding him.

"Are you going to fill me up?" you edged, voice breathless, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Have me dripping for days so everyone knows who I belong to?"

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he gasped.

That was it.

Jack shuddered, a low, desperate groan escaping him as he pressed himself deeper into you. He trembled, a broken moan tearing from his throat. His fingers clutched your thighs as he buried himself to the hilt, the sound of your voice—the permission, the trust—pushing him over the edge. His release surged through him, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, heart hammering as he held you close, breathless and undone. He collapsed gently against you, all tension melting as he pressed a kiss into your neck, lost in the aftershocks of something that felt like more than just pleasure.

A long moment passed before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the edges of his eyes glistening with overwhelmed want, cheeks flushed with effort and awe.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he murmured, cracking with disbelief. His gaze searched yours—earnest, sincere, undone.

He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, as if he couldn't stop reassuring himself you were real. "You okay?" he asked softly, still breathing hard. "Was that too much?"

You smiled through the afterglow, brushing your fingertips over his jaw. "I've never felt anything like that. It was perfect."

Jack exhaled a shuddering breath of relief, then smiled too—soft and disbelieving, like he’d just found something sacred.

Later, after the two of you had cleaned up and slipped beneath the covers, the world slowed to a hush. Jack lay beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other lazily tracing shapes across your skin. Hearts, spirals, question marks—he wasn’t thinking, just moving, touching, grounding himself in your presence.

The silence between you was full—not empty—with comfort and understanding, the kind only found in someone who sees every scar and stays anyway.

Your body ached in the sweetest way, muscles languid and sated. You felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths against your back, the heat of his body a constant balm. You turned slightly to glance at him, catching the way his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to meet yours.

"Stay with me?" you whispered, though it wasn’t really a question.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple. "Always."

Every quiet morning after that was a sort of miracle—waking tangled in his warmth, with the sun filtering through the curtains and the scent of coffee already brewing. Even the hardest days felt lighter, the sharp edges dulled by his steady presence, by the simple truth that he was yours, and you were his.

And in that stillness, that shared understanding, you knew: this was only the beginning.

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