whitewolfluvr

[whitewolfluvr]

Come back, I have to tell you the plot of a fic I’ll never write and get you excited about it so we can all be disappointed with me later

[whitewolfluvr]

WOOOOOO NEW POST

26: FORGIVENESS COMES EASY, TRUST DOES NOT

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Summary: An unexpected visitor brings painful truths and old wounds to the surface. With tensions still raw and guilt weighing heavily, you must decide if there's a way forward— both with Aditi and with Bucky.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief and depression, guilt, past deception, implied past mental health struggles, reconciliation, soft moments with Bucky, food mentions, minor angst with hopeful undertones.

Word Count: 3636

The knock on your door was unexpected and startling. For a few moments all you could do was stare like a deer in headlights.

There it was again… 

It wasn’t the knock you’d grown accustomed to from Bucky and you wondered who it might be.

You peeked through the hole and immediately reached for the handle, pulling it open. There was Hanna, standing with her hands in the pockets of her jacket. It was all you could manage to hold back tears.

“Hanna,” you breathed.

For a while, she didn’t speak, staring at you. Her eyes scanned your face before they moved up and down, assessing you. She was silent for so long, you started doubting her appearance. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

For a second you couldn’t move, but then you relaxed into her embrace, clinging to her as though you hadn’t seen her for four years instead of four weeks.

“I missed you,” Hanna whispered.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice muffled by her hair. “Me too.”

You stayed wrapped in her arms until she finally pulled away.

Her face darkened as she looked at you. “We need to talk.”

The knot in the pit of your stomach tightened. “Yeah, I know,” you sighed, suspecting that you were about to get reamed out for your actions.

Hanna ran a hand through her hair, giving you a worried look. “It’s Aditi,” she said quietly.

You hadn’t been expecting that. But you immediately knew what was going on and it filled you with dread. “How bad is it?”

Hanna’s jaw tightened. “Worse than I’ve seen in years.”

“Hanna…” You let out a shaky exhale.

“She won’t talk about it,” Hanna continued, voice thick with frustration and fear. “But I can see it. She’s slipping back into that place she was in during college. And you remember what that was like.”

A cold chill ran through you. Of course you remembered. College had been a tough time for the three of you, having all chosen different places to study. It had been hard to be apart, but hardest on Aditi, spiraling to a dark place that made you shudder to think back on.

“She’s shutting down,” Hanna whispered. “She’s angry at you. She feels betrayed. But she misses you… so much. And with everything else— Samir being taken away— she’s breaking under the pressure.”

Guilt crashed down on you, crushing you, suffocating you. You shook your head and whispered, “I never wanted this.”

Hanna’s expression softened. “I know.”

“What can I do?”

“Talk to her. Try?”

“Do you think she’d even want to see me?” you asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Hanna said pitifully, shrugging her shoulders. “But I know she needs you. Even if she doesn’t realize she does.”

You nodded. “I’ll come, of course I’ll come.” A flash of sadness enveloped you, Hanna had probably only considered reconciliation with you because of her concern for her wife, but you would take any vine they offered.

Hanna studied you carefully, then sighed. “Good.”

Silence stretched between you before she added, “You know… for something that started as a lie, you and Bucky sure looked real.”

You stiffened. “Hanna—”

“Was it?” she asked, cutting off your protest.

Your mouth went dry, making it hard to swallow the lump in your throat. “No,” you admitted, quietly. “It wasn’t.”

“Damn,” she huffed, letting out a dry laugh.

“Yeah,” you agreed sadly.

Her gaze softened. “Do you love him?”

The question caught you off guard, as did the knowing look in her eyes. “I don’t know if it matters.”

Hanna sighed. “Maybe not.” She hesitated before adding, “But for what it’s worth… I think he loves you.”

The words struck something deep inside you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything.

“So,” Hanna took a small step backward. “I should probably go… get back to…”

But before she could go any further, you reached for her, throwing your arms around her neck in another much needed hug. Only this time she held you just as tightly.

“I need you to take care of yourself better, okay?” Hanna looked at you and the gaunt look on your face.

You nodded, feeling ashamed that she had noticed. As Hanna let go of your arm, she tapped your chin, getting you to look at her. “Hey, you know I didn’t come here just because of Aditi, right? I really did come for you.”

You nodded again, this time not succeeding in holding back the tears that slipped down your face. Hanna wiped them away gently before holding you one last time.

The next morning, you decided to take Hanna’s words to heart. The air was humid and sweat dripped down your skin as you ran through the park. The rhythmic clap of your sneakers against the pavement was like a meditative process for you, focusing on the beat helped quiet your thoughts, letting your body take over. By the time you reached the end of your route, hunger was gnawing in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down at your watch and it was definitely time for Sunday brunch— ideally at your favorite blue and silver chromium diner. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at your reflection in the glass as you pictured an avocado toast with eggs waiting for you, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee.

With a swift tug, you pulled open the door and stepped inside, only to be met with a waft of noise from the crowd of people inside. You groaned, the café was packed. It seemed like every table was full, every seat taken.

You stood, drowning in a feeling of disappointment and hunger as you scanned the room in the hopes that by some miracle that someone would be leaving. But no such luck until…

“Hey, over here.”

A familiar voice drew your attention.

You turned and there he was. Bucky. He was sitting alone in a booth by the window with a mug of coffee between his hands, his fingers idly tracing the rim. His piercing blue eyes met yours, soft and inviting.

And for a moment, you stayed frozen, trying to decide what to do.

He nodded at the empty seat across from him. “You can sit here.”

You could say no, simply walk away. There were only two options to choose from and somehow the decision was made by the ache in your stomach, not from hunger, but something deeper. So you took a step forward, just as he slid towards the edge of the booth and rose to his feet.

You frowned, glancing down at the steaming beverage still on the table.

“You haven’t finished your coffee.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve probably had too much anyway.”

A pang of disappointment shot through you, but you smiled at him anyway. “Is there such a thing as too much coffee?” You slid into the booth. “You should finish it, seems like a waste of perfectly good caffeine.”

If he was surprised by your invitation he didn’t show it, dropping back down opposite you. And just like that, something shifted between you. A tentative truce of sorts. You picked up the menu, hiding behind it, taking an occasional peek over the top. Across the table, Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of his mug. Every once in a while, you made eye contact, but it wasn’t uncomfortable… just quiet. Not the charged silence that had existed between you in the elevator, when you’d last seen him. No, this was different.

The waitress came over to take your order and took the menu with her, leaving you no place left to hide.

“Did you see it?” he asked, finally setting down his mug.

“See what?” you blinked in confusion.

“The ducklings.”

You frowned. “Ducklings?”

The conversation stopped for a moment as the waitress returned with a fresh coffee pot and poured you some and topped up Bucky’s mug.

As soon as you could see Bucky again, you watched him nod his head toward the window, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the park where you’d taken your run that morning. “At the pond? Under that bridge on one side. Remember you pointed out a small nest in the reeds… that time we went running before—” He bit his lip softly dropping his gaze momentarily and he finished in a whisper. “Before the wedding.”

You exhaled softly, the memory of that moment rising to the surface of your mind. It had been one of those rare days when everything seemed perfect and effortless, a time where you’d almost forgotten that your whole relationship had been built on a lie. You had been so excited to see the light green Mallard eggs in a nest. You had gotten so frustrated trying to get Bucky to see where you were pointing that it had taken you a long time to realize that he had just been teasing you. He had made it up with a kiss and a promise to come back and check to see if they had hatched.

And he had remembered.

“They finally hatched?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “Saw ‘em yesterday. Figured you might’ve, too?”

A smile curled on your lips, an unexpected warmth budding in your chest. You had run by the pond but you hadn’t even bothered looking for the ducklings. But Bucky had. You imagined him standing at the edge of the water, watching the tiny birds make their first splash. Something that usually happened around four weeks after they hatched which fit with the timeline since you’d seen them. You pictured the tiny ducklings trying to paddle clumsily after their parents, and it made your smile widen.

“They’re all small and fuzzy,” Bucky added with a sheepish grin on his face. “Kinda cute.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Never thought I’d hear the big bad White Wolf call something cute.”

“Guess you learn something new every day.” His lips twitched, trying to suppress the smirk that pulled at his lips.

You stared down at your coffee, stirring it idly, letting the silence settle around you again. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It was just… comfortable. And God, you’d missed this. Not the tears. Not the anger. Just this. Being able to sit across from him, listening to him talk, watching the way his eyes softened when he wasn’t on guard.

That’s when it hit you— with a startling clarity— you weren’t angry anymore. You actually had forgiven him.

But trust— that was something else entirely. Forgiveness usually came easy to you, it was often passive, sometimes settling in without your permission when your anger faded away. But trust? That was harder to come by, something that needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. And you weren’t sure you were ready for that yet.

Across the table, Bucky shifted slightly, watching you with a careful curiosity, as if trying to decipher your change in demeanor.

“Next time I’ll be sure to make a stop there.” You smiled, lifting your coffee to your lips.

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Next time.”

Your food arrived and you moaned as the smell of your avocado toast and eggs wafted up into your nostrils, your stomach rumbling in anticipation. Picking up your cutlery, you attacked the eggs to start with. The noise of the café around you was still loud, but it didn’t bother you in your quiet little corner, separated from the rest of the world.

You noticed Bucky watching you and you pushed your plate toward him, offering him a bite. But he shook his head, just happy to sit silently and watch you devour the meal.

“I’m going to see Aditi tomorrow,” you said finally, breaking the lull between you.

Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t say anything right away. Waiting.

“Hanna came to see me yesterday,” you continued, fingers tightening around your mug as you raised it to take a sip. “She’s worried.”

Bucky nodded slightly, listening.

“She— Aditi— she had a hard time in college,” you explained, glancing away as you relived the bad memories in your mind. “When she first left for pre-med, she really struggled. She had to move across the country, away from her parents… Hanna, away from all of us. And at first, it seemed like she was handling it, but…” You sighed. “It got bad.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way he sat, a quiet patience that made you keep going.

“She wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating right. She’d spend days holed up in her room, pushing herself too hard with studying, isolating herself because she didn’t have the energy to socialize. And when she did reach out, it was… like she was drowning, but she didn’t want to admit it.”

Bucky nodded again, slow and thoughtful.

“She started therapy, went on meds. But even then, it didn’t really get better until she transferred schools. She needed to be closer to the people who loved her, and once she had that, she was okay again. Her dad was her rock. Anyway, she finished medical school, went on to do amazing things. She built this incredible life,” you swallowed. “But now, she’s slipping back into that place, and I—” You broke off, shaking your head.

Bucky watched you for a long moment. Then, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it, he said, “Being alone can do that to you.”

His words made your breath catch. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. But he didn’t need to. You understood.

You sat in silence for a while longer as you finished your food. Bucky reached for a sugar packet tapping it lightly against the table in an absent, steady rhythm. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but something about it felt deliberate. Soothing.

You sighed softly, putting down your fork and pushing your empty plate to one side, focusing on the beat of his finger, letting it calm your anxiety. And maybe tomorrow, when you finally saw Aditi, you’d be able to help her in the same way.

Hanna pulled you into a tight hug the moment you stepped inside. “Come in,” she murmured. She was smiling but looked exhausted and worried.

You let yourself be held for longer than you might have done on any other day. You needed it. So did Hanna.

The moment you crossed the threshold of the Sharma residence, you could feel the weight of grief and resentment surrounding you. Aditi’s mother passed you by without so much as a word, her silence and lack of acknowledgement of your smile felt worse than any scolding you could have received. You swallowed back your tears, the guilt in your chest feeling heavier than it had moments ago.

Would Aditi react in the same way?

You braced yourself for it as Hanna led you upstairs.

The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar. You remembered your teenage years and the countless hours the three of you spent in her deluxe suite. Aditi’s wealth had never sullied her generosity of spirit. Things hadn’t changed dramatically, the king sized bed that the three of you used to sleep on was now shared by the two women. The only difference now was that the air felt still, the room cast into darkness by the half drawn curtains. Aditi lay in bed, curled up beneath a mess of blankets.

She looked so small. And oh so tired. You crept into the room, almost afraid to intrude. Cautiously you approached the bed, sitting on the edge, you gently called your friend’s name. “Aditi?”

You got no answer. She didn’t move, other than the rise and fall of her slow breathing. You slipped off your shoes and climbed into the bed and slipped under the covers and wrapped your arm around her. She didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a warm welcome, but it wasn't a push, it wasn’t a door slammed in your face and it broke your composure.

Hot tears spilled out of your eyes before you could stop them, your grip tightening as you held on like you could somehow will Aditi back to herself.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You didn’t even know where to start. It all came tumbling out, every thought, every feeling, everything you’d so desperately wanted to say over the last few weeks.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I swear. I would never intentionally hurt you. It’s just— I see you and Hanna together, and you’re so happy and I know you want the same thing for me. I didn’t want you to worry about me once you got married. You always have, even when you didn’t need to. You guys drop everything to take care of me when I’ve been on a shitty date or broke up with whatever idiot I was in a relationship with. And I felt like— like I was broken, because I can’t find someone to be with. I didn’t want you to hold you back from your lives together.”

A sob ripped through you.

“I just wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to go into your marriage without worrying about me being a mess, so I— I asked Bucky to pretend to be my date. Just to make it easier. To make it look like I was fine.”

Your breath hitched.

“But then… I fell for him. Like really fell for him, and I thought— I thought he felt the same way. I didn’t think he would ever do something like this to you. To all of us.”

Finally, silence settled between you.

And then, slowly and a little hesitantly, Aditi’s arms wrapped around you. You froze, surprised by the action, but finally all your walls came down and you clung to her, crying even harder. Slowly, you felt her arms tighten around you in an awkward embrace and you bit back your tears, barely breathing in the fear that you would scare her away.

“You’re an idiot,” Aditi muttered, voice rough and weak from disuse. “But you’re my idiot.”

A wet, broken laugh tumbled out of your throat. Relief flooding through you. From the doorway, Hanna was watching with wet eyes. 

After letting the two of you have a few more moments, she said quietly, “Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll make some tea.”

You nodded, but you didn’t move. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

You turned back to Aditi, watching her carefully, taking in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she had barely moved from her spot in bed. Gently, you reached up, brushing tangled hair from your best friend’s face.

“Can I stay for a while?” you asked in a small voice.

Aditi didn’t answer right away. But then slowly she gave you a small nod.

Something your grandmother had often said came to mind. The steps you take don't need to be big, they just need to take you in the right direction.

It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.

When you returned home late that night, you dropped your bag by your desk with the intention of unpacking it another time. As you straightened up, you noticed that one of the drawers was ajar. Sticking out of it was a slip of paper. A letter. Bucky’s letter. You opened the drawer and pulled it out. Taking off your shoes, you padded to your bedroom and sat down with the letter. With a deep breath you unfolded it and started reading.

Dear Y/N,

I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I’m going to write it anyway. I want to explain. I know I hurt you. I know how this looks. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to hear this.

I never meant to lie to you. I never meant to hurt you. And I swear I never planned for any of this to happen.

When we made our deal, everything seemed so easy. Pretend to be your date. Get Sam to stop setting me up. The only price was to go to a couple of weddings.

Simple, right?

But nothing about you has ever been simple. You snuck up on me. I didn’t know it was happening. Didn’t realize I was letting my guard down until it was already gone.

And by the time I figured it out, it was too late. I wasn’t pretending anymore. That night at Sarah’s wedding, when I told you it wasn’t fake… I meant it. I meant all of it.

I know you feel used. I know you think I made up some lie to investigate your friends. But I need you to believe this— you were NEVER a job or mission to me.

You were the first real thing I’ve had in longer than I can remember. I don’t let people in. You know that. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to tell you the truth.

I was scared. Of what would happen if I let you in. Scared that you’d see who I really was. And maybe that’s why I screwed this up so badly. You made me feel like I could have more than just the mission.

And losing you… it’s killing me. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need to tell you the truth. I should have told you everything. It should have been different. And for that I’m truly sorry. For everything.

Just… know that it was real for me. You were  are real.

And I love you.

Bucky

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[whitewolfluvr]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 1

Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 3238

You had been in contact with Steve Rogers for a while now, and your dreams finally came true. You were now, officially, an Avenger.

You moved into the compound just a couple days ago, and you had just been following Steve around every day, learning how things worked around here. You were taken on (several) tours of the tower, but you were still lost every time you walked around. You sat in on meetings and started doing your own solo workouts that Steve gave you in the afternoons.

Everyone was really nice and helpful, and you had officially met everyone. Except one person.

Bucky had been on a solo mission for the past week, and he was supposed to be coming back the next day, probably in the afternoon. The others had warned you about him – his staring, his brooding, how grumpy he was – so you were a little nervous to meet him. But you didn’t have to worry about that until tomorrow.

Because you didn’t have to get up early to train with the others, you stayed up late, watching a movie. You had chosen a horror movie tonight, so you were sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, knees pulled up to your chest, hands just below your eyes, ready to cover them at any moment.

Suddenly, you heard the elevator door ding, causing you to jump.

You quickly paused the movie, listening closely since you couldn’t see the elevator door from the couch. It was just off the kitchen, and you heard heavy footsteps walking down the hall in the opposite direction of the kitchen, towards the…well you actually didn’t remember what was down that way.

You quickly got up and crept into the kitchen. You slowly walked in, eyes trained on the doorway to the hall they had just walked down. You glanced at the clock on the oven, realizing it was almost 1:30 am.

You looked back at the hallway, slowly reaching to grab a knife off the stand on the counter. You slowly made your way to the doorway, holding the knife out in front of you…only to realize it wasn’t a knife.

You had grabbed a spatula.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, arms dropping to your sides. You turned back around to switch the spatula out with a knife, when you heard the footsteps again, approaching the kitchen.

You quickly turned back around and quietly ran to the doorway. A spatula would have to do.

The second they took a step into the kitchen, you jumped out in front of them, spatula inches away from their face.

A metal arm grabbed your wrist, and you realized who it was. “Bucky?”

He moved your hand out of his face so he could see yours. “And you must be y/n,” he said, letting go of your wrist.

You dropped your arm, taking a step back. “Sorry, I thought you were breaking in.”

“And a spatula was your weapon of choice?”

You sighed, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “I meant to grab a knife,” you mumbled, walking back into the kitchen.

You walked back to the counter, returning the spatula where you found it, as he followed behind you. When you turned around, the security light in the kitchen cast a faint glow over his features.

He was a lot more handsome in person.

His dark hair was a little longer than you expected, still slightly damp from the cold night air, and it curled gently at the ends near his jaw. His features were sharp but softened by the tiredness in his eyes – eyes that were a piercing blue, almost too intense to hold eye contact with for too long. He had a faint stubble along his jaw, his jawline sharp. And, of course, there was the arm – the metal catching the low light as he leaned casually against the counter, like grabbing strangers wielding spatulas in the dark was totally normal.

But as you were taking him in, you didn’t notice he was doing the same to you.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the way your long hair spilled over your shoulders, slightly tousled from where it had been tucked into your blanket. The blanket was still wrapped around you, though it had fallen open in the front, revealing an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder and a pair of shorts that barely peeked out beneath the hem. His gaze dropped briefly to your legs – long, toned, and bare – before catching sight of your feet, completely barefoot against the cool tile floor.

You didn’t say anything, too distracted by the way he was looking at you – brows slightly raised, almost curious, like he hadn’t expected you to look quite like this.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I expected,” he said, his voice a little rough, eyes finally meeting yours again.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t scare me next time,” you said, crossing your arms. “Or maybe I shouldn’t keep watching horror movies alone.”

He just chuckled as he looked down, shaking his head.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to be back until tomorrow?” you asked, leaning against the counter behind you.

“I finished earlier than I thought, decided to drive straight back instead of stopping somewhere.”

You just nodded in response, looking away awkwardly, not sure what to say now.

“Why are you up so late?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’ve been doing my own workouts that Steve gives me in the afternoon, so I can sleep in since I don’t have to train with them in the morning.”

Bucky nodded slowly, then tilted his head. “So instead of sleeping, you decided to scare the hell out of yourself with a horror movie?”

You gave him a look. “It’s called self-care.”

He smirked, arms crossing over his chest. “Interesting definition.”

“I like the adrenaline rush,” you defended, though your voice betrayed the slight tremble from earlier. “And I was doing just fine until you showed up like some kind of horror movie final boss.”

That made him laugh – actually laugh – and you were a little stunned by how much softer he looked when he did. Like there was no way he used to be the Winter Soldier.

“You really thought someone was breaking in?” he asked, clearly still amused.

You gave him a dry look. “At 1:30 in the morning? With heavy footsteps? Yeah, I panicked.”

“And went for a spatula.”

“Okay, we’re not gonna keep bringing that up. I thought I grabbed a knife.”

He just grinned, leaning one hip against the counter. “Can’t promise that.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not as scary as everyone made you sound, you know.”

“Oh, just you wait,” he said, giving you a dramatic deadpan look. “I haven’t even glared at you yet.”

You snorted. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“Depends. Are you gonna throw any more kitchen utensils at me?”

“Only if you sneak up on me again.”

There was a beat of silence as the banter settled, and you both just looked at each other. His expression was thoughtful, eyes roaming over your face again, more curious than anything.

“You’re different than I expected,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He shrugged, pushing off the counter and heading toward the fridge. “You’re not intimidated.”

“I waved a spatula at your face. That’s practically a dominance display.”

Bucky chuckled again, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. “Alright, new rule. No more horror movies alone. At least not without a real weapon nearby.”

You leaned your head back against the cabinets, giving him a playful smile. “So what, are you volunteering to be my horror movie buddy?”

He twisted the cap off the water and took a sip, eyeing you over the top of the bottle. “Only if there’s popcorn.”

You grinned, but before you could reply, he yawned – big and unfiltered, catching him off guard enough that he blinked a few times afterward and rubbed at his eyes.

“Long drive?” you asked, voice softening a little.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been up for…way too many hours.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back safe,” you said, gently pushing off the counter. “And sorry about the spatula. For real.”

“No permanent damage,” he said with a small smile, and that same curious look passed through his eyes again. “Goodnight, y/n.”

You returned the smile, a little warmer this time. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He lingered for a second like he might say something else, but instead, he gave you a quiet nod and walked off down the hallway, water bottle in hand, metal arm catching the light one last time before disappearing around the corner.

You exhaled slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. Then you glanced down at the spatula still sitting on the counter and shook your head.

“Welcome to the team,” you muttered to yourself, turning back toward the couch.

--

The next morning when you woke up, your stomach was growling.

You went to the bathroom and quickly ran a brush through your hair before washing your face, but you didn’t bother getting dressed before you walked to the kitchen.

As you padded into the kitchen, still in the sweatshirt and shorts from last night, all the other Avengers were in there, either eating, making breakfast, or just talking – including Bucky.

Nat was the first to notice you. “Morning, y/n.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. A few others smiled or nodded good morning as you made your way to the fridge, trying to decide what you wanted to eat.

Bucky stood in front of the open fridge, grabbing eggs from the carton.

“Morning, Bucky,” you said, sticking your head under his arm to look in the fridge.

Everyone else just watched silently, waiting to see what Bucky would do. They had no idea you had already met, and they knew he hated being talked to or approached in the morning, so they were a little worried.

“Morning, y/n. Want me to make you eggs too?”

You just hummed, still crouching under his arm, surveying the fruit options in the fridge. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you replied, ducking under his arm and taking a step back.

He grabbed a few more eggs as you turned around, noticing everyone staring at you two, some with their mouths hanging open.

“What?” you said, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

Sam was the first to break. “Wait, he offered to make you breakfast?”

You blinked, looking between them. “Yeah…?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Bucky. “Since when do you cook for anyone?”

Bucky just shrugged, cracking the eggs into a pan like it was no big deal. “She threatened me with a spatula last night. It felt only fair.”

There was a beat of silence – and then a collective explosion of laughter.

“You – wait, what?” Sam leaned forward, nearly choking on his coffee. “She pulled a spatula on you?”

You felt your face go red instantly. “I thought someone was breaking in! It was dark, I panicked!”

Tony set his mug down with a dramatic shake of his head. “And this is who we’re trusting to help save the world?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It was either a spatula or a loaf of bread, Stark. I made a call.”

Nat laughed into her coffee, clearly enjoying this way too much. “So let me get this straight – you startled her, she tried to Spatula America you, and instead of being grumpy and scary like usual, you made her breakfast?”

Bucky smirked but kept his eyes on the pan. “She had good form. Almost smacked me in the face with it.”

Clint leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Wow. And here I thought you didn’t like anyone who made eye contact before noon.”

Bruce, sitting with a smoothie, tilted his head thoughtfully. “You seem…oddly chill right now.”

Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe I like being threatened by kitchen utensils.”

That got a second round of laughter, even from Steve – who was now studying Bucky like he was trying to solve an equation.

You were still standing there, completely thrown by how casually he was acting. He wasn’t snapping, or glaring, or giving anyone his signature “don’t talk to me” vibe. He was just…cooking eggs. For you.

Tony leaned toward Nat and whispered – not quietly enough – “ten bucks says they’re secretly dating already.”

You shot him a look. “I can hear you.”

He raised both hands. “I’m just saying! This is the calmest I’ve ever seen Barnes and the first time I’ve seen you voluntarily in the kitchen before noon. Something is definitely going on.”

Bucky just shook his head, flipping the eggs effortlessly. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

You looked at him, one brow raised. “Because of the spatula incident?”

He didn’t look up, but there was a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still trying to process the fact that you had been the one to somehow get through Bucky Barnes' grumpy morning shield.

You wandered over to the kitchen island and sank down onto one of the barstools, pulling your legs up to sit cross-legged on the seat, your oversized sweatshirt sliding down one shoulder. Nat slid onto the stool next to you, still grinning, while Sam leaned his elbows on the counter across from you, like he was watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

“So,” Nat said casually, “how exactly did we get to ‘good morning’ and ‘I’ll make you eggs’ from ‘grumpy murder stare’ Barnes?”

You groaned softly. “Guys, it’s not that deep. We just…met last night. Accidentally. Kind of.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “With a spatula.”

“Okay, yes, with a spatula,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “It was dark. I was scared. Let it go.”

“You waved a pancake flipper at a trained assassin and now he’s making you breakfast,” Sam said, straight-faced. “This is a rom-com and I did not get a script.”

As you laughed and bickered with them, you didn’t notice Bucky finishing up at the stove behind you. He didn’t say anything – just quietly plated the eggs, grabbed a fork, and set the plate down in front of you on the island, right in the middle of your sentence.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh – thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, then returned to the stove to make his own plate.

The room went dead silent for a split second before—

“Ohhh my god,” Sam groaned dramatically, flopping onto the counter. “He cooked for her and served it to her? He’s down bad.”

Clint pointed a spoon toward Bucky. “We’re witnessing history. This is like…the Bucky Barnes Soft Launch.”

Tony mimed typing on a phone. “Hold on, I’m live-tweeting this. ‘Winter Soldier melts down from weaponized spatula and domestic bonding.’”

You gave them all a look and muttered, “He literally just made me eggs.”

Nat leaned in close, grinning. “He served you eggs. There’s a difference.”

“I’m right here,” Bucky called without looking up, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dished up his own food.

“And yet,” Tony said, grinning as he sipped his coffee, “you’re not denying it.”

You shot Bucky a look, and he just shrugged, bringing his plate to the other end of the island and sitting down like none of this chaos concerned him at all. But when you looked again, his gaze flicked up to meet yours, and he gave you the tiniest wink.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warm. Yep. You were definitely in a rom-com.

You dug into the eggs—honestly, they were really good—and the conversation drifted to something else entirely. Nat was telling a story about a disastrous undercover mission that involved a lot of goats, and you were halfway through laughing at Sam’s horrified expression when you realized your plate was gone.

You blinked down at the empty space in front of you, then looked up to see Bucky at the sink, rinsing your plate and his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sam noticed at the same time you did. He froze mid-sip of his orange juice, slowly lowering the glass with wide eyes. “Oh my god.”

Nat turned around in her seat, catching sight of Bucky calmly scrubbing dishes. “No. No way.”

“He’s doing her dishes,” Sam said, turning to Nat like he needed a witness. “He’s washing her plate. Voluntarily.”

You blinked. “I – he didn’t have to do that–”

“Are you two already married or just emotionally bonded for life?” Tony called from the other side of the room, tossing a grape into his mouth.

Wanda, walking into the kitchen with a bagel, stopped dead in her tracks. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes just cleared her plate and started washing it,” Sam said like he was reporting breaking news.

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “...did she save his life or something?”

“I threatened him with a spatula,” you mumbled into your coffee.

Bucky, still facing the sink, didn’t even turn around. “You’re never gonna live that down.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Nat said cheerfully.

You gave Bucky a look. “You didn’t have to clean up for me, you know.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “I know.”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, dropping his head to the counter. “He knows.”

Tony pointed between the two of you like he was tracking a conspiracy. “So we’ve got: late night meeting, cooking, casual touch proximity, washing her dishes–”

“Next thing you know, he’s folding her laundry and building her a bookshelf,” Clint added.

“Okay, I draw the line at laundry,” Bucky said, finally turning around with a half-smile.

“You didn’t deny the bookshelf, though,” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

That got a low laugh out of him. “Depends. Do you have books?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, realizing you did. Like, a lot.

Sam made a strangled noise. “Oh no. Oh no no no. This man is gone. G-O-N-E, gone.”

You couldn’t help it – you laughed, hard, burying your face in your hands.

And through it all, Bucky just leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, watching you with a quiet kind of amusement, like he didn’t even mind being the center of the chaos. In fact…he looked like he kind of liked it.

As the others continued joking and speculating about your supposed domestic takeover, you leaned your chin on your hand, watching Bucky from across the kitchen.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly – maybe the fact that you didn’t tiptoe around him like everyone else, or maybe it was just timing – but somehow, you'd slipped past a few of the walls everyone warned you about.

He caught you looking and gave you a small, knowing smile, like he could read your thoughts. You looked away quickly, but couldn’t fight the quiet little grin tugging at your lips.

You weren’t sure how you’d managed to crack through Bucky Barnes’ armor with a spatula and a pair of sleep shorts, but...maybe you wanted to find out what else you could break through.

Maybe this was just the beginning.

--

Part 2 | Masterlist

[whitewolfluvr]

FALLING

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 2.5k // Warnings: Mentions of death and grief

[Set during TFATWS]

Part Two // Masterlist

Growing up in small-town Louisiana, you didn't have many options to leave. Sam joined the military. Sarah got married and stayed. You chased your dreams after graduating from college and moved to DC. You regularly returned to visit, but after the blip when Sarah’s husband died, you knew she needed you.

Which is how you found yourself moving back to your small town to support your best friend as she raised her sons. The plan was to find your own place and only stay with Sarah and the boys temporarily, but as time passed, she insisted you stay. You were basically family, after all.

Despite living in the same city as Sam, during the years in DC, the two of you didn’t see each other that often. Especially after he met Steve Rogers. Every once in a while, one of you would send a text, or decide to meet for drinks to exchange stories and catch up.

You were like another sister to Sam, a trusted person to process through the highs and lows of being an Avenger. Sam was the brother you never had. More deeply than anyone, you knew why Sam chose to follow Steve into the fire (despite his belief that the former Winter Soldier was a liability) and you trusted that he was doing what he believed was right. In your last few months of overlap in DC, Sam often shared his frustrations about Bucky, the super soldier ex-assassin who got under Sam’s skin more than anyone else.

After moving home, you saw Sam even less. Knowing the toll it took on Sarah to not have family close was one of the reasons you chose to come back. You and Sarah both knew that Sam couldn’t come back - he had a responsibility.

But Sam’s sporadic visits were Sarah’s lifeline. He was the father figure in the lives of A.J. and Cass. In Sarah’s eyes, whether she realized it or not, he was the glue that held their family together. Sarah was unbelievably proud of him… and unfathomably afraid to lose him.

On the day that Karli Morgenthau called Sarah, you saw clearly the terror in Sarah’s eyes. Sam had always been Sarah’s constant through her grief - the loss of their parents and her husband - and she had just gotten Sam back after the blip.

You were always the one there to pick up the pieces.

You were both relieved when Sam came home a few days later to help fix up the boat. You were relieved for a few days of respite.

Until James Buchanan Barnes showed up. A man you had heard many stories about from Sam, but never actually met. You didn’t have the highest opinion of the former brainwashed assassin because of Sam, but that changed quickly beginning on that day at the dock.

You emerged from the boat, huffing about yet something else that was not working the way it should. You nearly fell overboard when you spotted a man with a metal arm talking to Sam. At the sound of your commotion, both men turned around. Sam raised a brow, while the Winter Soldier's unreadable expression shifted into a smirk.

“I’m Bucky,” He grinned. You tried to step off the boat onto the dock, before losing your balance again in the space in-between. An arm suddenly wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully onto the dock. A metal arm. Breathless and beet red, you managed a sheepish smile, “Y/N.”

“I actually think we should start calling you clumsy. Woman, do you have any sense of balance?” Sam chastised teasingly before turning to answer his ringing phone. You snorted and flushed more as you realized Bucky’s arm was still tightly gripping your waist. You looked up at him curiously, suddenly noticing how tall he was in person and how blue his eyes were.

“I’m Y/N,” You breathed, forgetting words as you looked into his eyes. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled back into a smirk as he looked down at you,

“Pretty sure you already said that, doll.” He lightly squeezed your waist before finally letting go. You chuckled, trying to cover up your embarrassment and deflect the attention from your blunder.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Sam,” You held out your hand in an effort to shake his, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Funny, he never mentioned you.” His right hand reached out to yours, shaking it as you laughed,

“Well, there isn’t much to tell.” His eyes looked deeply into yours, searching. Sam had warned you about Bucky’s staring problem. But no one had mentioned how it felt to be on the receiving end—like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. It was like he could see your soul. His blue eyes were piercing, holding you in place. Warmth lingered where his hand gripped yours. Your heart slammed against your ribs as realization hit—you were still holding onto him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you pulled away, clearing your throat as you flicked your gaze toward Sam, who was still on the phone. The eye contact with Bucky felt too intimate. And your body was still burning from his touch. He took a deep breath and your eyes snapped to his immediately before a smirk made its way back to his lips,

“Somehow I doubt that.”

The trance you were in shattered when Sam reappeared after his call ended, leaving you alone to think as he and Bucky decided to tackle the water pump.

Questions swirled in your mind. But mainly: What was the Winter Soldier doing in Louisiana helping Sam with the boat? And why did he make you feel like that?

—

After you and Sarah had realized Sam had invited Bucky to stay the night, you found yourself standing over the stove, stirring a pot of grits. You looked out the back window as Sarah, A.J., and Cass played in the yard, smiling softly at your sweet nephews (not by blood, but you were certainly their aunt).

You heard the slam of a car door before the screen door swung open with a loud creak.

“Damn, I gotta get some grease on those hinges,” Sam exclaimed, wiping his shoes on the mat and stepping into the kitchen. Bucky hesitantly followed. You rolled your eyes and Sam before smiling as Bucky’s eyes met yours.

“Y’all are right on time for dinner,” You turned off the stove and pushed the window sill above the sink open, “Dinner!”

Sam was already getting plates out of the cabinet,

“Smells amazing. Please tell me you made what I think you did.”

The screen door swung open again with a creak and footsteps padded on the floor.

“Boys, go wash up for supper,” Sarah commanded.

“Race ya!” A.J. called before the two young boys ran down the hall toward their shared bathroom.

Sarah walked into the kitchen before rolling up her sleeves to wash her hands in the sink. Sam bumped her hip with his before grinning at her and sticking his hands under the water. She laughed and dried off her hands, making her way to finish setting the table. You poured the grits into a bowl and stuck a serving spoon in them, before glancing back at Bucky, who was still awkwardly standing in the doorway.

“Better wash up, Bucky,” You teased. The edge of his lips curled up and he made his way into the kitchen, waiting for Sam to finish.

“You’re in for a treat, man, Y/N’s shrimp and grits are the best,” Sam turned from the sink, allowing Bucky to begin washing his hands, “She usually only makes them for special occasions." Sam grinned—and flicked water straight at your face.

“Sam!” You shrieked, startled, losing your grip on the bowl of grits. Before the bowl could spill and coat the kitchen floor, in one fast motion, Bucky grabbed the bowl with one arm, and the other steadied you. You breathed a sigh of relief at not ruining dinner before glaring at Sam who was laughing hysterically with A.J. and Cass. Even Sarah had a smile on her face. Bucky, of course, wore his seemingly signature smirk,

“Couldn’t let your special occasion grits go to waste.” Your face flushed as he grinned, letting go of your arm and handing the bowl of grits to Sarah, who put them on the table.

“Alright, enough of that. Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Sarah laughed, giving you a curious look. Your brain short-circuited for a second as you realized that Bucky had saved you from falling again, before you quickly grabbed the plate of shrimp, setting it on the table next to the salad.

Everyone had already taken their seats, and you slid into the open chair, across from Bucky. The normal dinner table conversation and laughter ensued, with the added quiet presence of Bucky. Every time you looked over at him, you would find him staring back at you.

—

Later that evening, after the dishes had been put away, Sam and Sarah went to put the boys in bed. A.J. insisted on his normal bedtime story from Sarah and an extra one from Sam.

You made your way outside to sit on the dock, only to find it was already occupied. You tried not to be irritated at the interruption of your nightly ritual as you walked down the creaking wood planks. You knew the super soldier could hear you coming. You had spent enough time both hearing about Steve and the few times he had joined you and Sam in the bar in the DC days to remember how sensitive super soldier hearing was.

Unlike at dinner, Bucky didn't even look at you as you plopped down next to him. The silence was thick with tension. You were starting to regret even coming down the dock and interrupting him. The sounds of the bayou surrounded you. The whipper willow, crickets, the sound of the water moving in the wind. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. It was almost like Bucky wasn't even next to you - he was so quiet.

Before you could stop yourself, you blurted, "You took my spot." Your eyes flew open at the sound of your own voice betraying you. Bucky stiffened beside you.

"Didn't realize I was stealing your spot," He murmured, "I just needed a little quiet." You felt guilty for your outburst, turning towards him as you understood that he was seeking the same solace as you,

"I get it. Not much quiet around here."

"Especially with Sam around," He muttered. You couldn't help but snort, quickly covering your mouth as you continued to laugh. The corner of his mouth pulled up as he looked at you.

Bucky’s small smirk faded as he stared out at the water, the moonlight illuminating his face. His fingers absent-mindedly drummed against the wood planks. You followed his gaze, letting the quiet settle again.

For a moment, you debated whether to leave him to his thoughts, but instead, you stretched out your legs and leaned back on your hands. “So,” you said, voice soft, “are you actually here to help with the boat, or just supervising?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “I think Sam just wanted another pair of hands to suffer with him.”

You smirked, “Misery loves company.”

“Exactly,” He glanced at you, eyes catching the soft moonlight. “You always come out here at night?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s the only time everything’s… still.” You exhaled slowly, staring out at the water, “The quiet used to feel lonely. But now I think I need it.”

Bucky’s fingers stilled against the wood. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I know the feeling.”

You turned to look at him, sensing something beneath his words. His expression was unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow told you there was more on his mind.

“Do you ever feel like…” You hesitated, but when his eyes met yours, something about the way he was watching—listening—made you continue. “Like no matter how much time passes, there’s a version of yourself that you don’t know how to let go of?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, one knee bending up as he rested his forearm against it. “Every day,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, rough around the edges.

You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat. “I thought getting out of here, making something of myself, would fix everything. Like if I just kept moving forward, I wouldn’t have to think about the past. But… it follows you.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice was steady. “It does.” A pause. Then, softer, “But it doesn’t get to define you.”

You blinked, absorbing that. Of all people, he was the one saying that?

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh at your expression. “What?”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… from everything Sam has told me about you, I just wasn't expecting that.”

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, well, Sam’s an ass.”

You laughed, and something in his expression shifted—like he wasn’t used to making people laugh, but he liked it.

Silence stretched between you again, but this time it felt easier. Comfortable.

Bucky leaned back on his elbows, mirroring your position. “So, tell me,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “What does Sam say about me?”

You smirked. “Oh, you know. That you have a ‘staring problem.’”

Bucky sighed. “Unbelievable.”

“And that you’re grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re kind of grumpy.”

Bucky turned his head to look at you, raising a brow. You tried to hold back a grin, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

His stare lingered, unreadable at first, but then—something else flickered in his expression. Something softer.

You suddenly felt too warm, despite the cool night air. Looking away, you cleared your throat. “I mean, you are out here brooding on a dock late at night. Seems like grumpy behavior to me.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “You got me there.”

The conversation drifted between teasing and comfortable silence for a long while. At some point, you pulled your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Then, after a beat of quiet, Bucky spoke again. “I had a friend who used to say something like that.”

You glanced over. “Like what?”

“About the past.” He exhaled, gaze distant. “He told me I should stop looking at myself like I’m still the same guy I used to be.”

You hesitated, sensing the weight behind his words. “Sounds like a good friend.”

Bucky nodded, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He was.”

Your chest ached at the way he said was.

You shifted slightly, brushing your shoulder against his just enough to let him know you heard him. You didn’t say anything, though. The silence was enough.

Bucky didn’t pull away.

------

Author's note: Okay please let me know what you think! I'm definitely feeling rusty after literal YEARS away from writing. But I have been a mad woman on my laptop for the last 24 hours and this is what came out of it. Part two, anyone? Would appreciate any feedback :)

Part Two // Masterlist

[whitewolfluvr]

FALLING — Part Two

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Y/N) [Set during TFATWS]

Word Count: 1.5k // Warnings: Flashbacks, anxiety, mostly fluff

Part Three // Masterlist

The smell of fresh coffee pulled you from sleep, but it was the sound of a hushed giggle that fully woke you.

You peeled open your eyes to find Sarah standing over you, arms crossed, an infuriatingly smug expression on her face. You groaned, rolling onto your stomach and smothering your face into your pillow.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sarah tapped her foot against the hardwood floor.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, voice dripping with amusement, “Maybe because you were out there talking to Bucky all night?”

Your stomach flipped — you knew you’d never hear the end of this.

“I wasn’t out there all night,” you muttered into the pillow. Sarah scoffed.

“Oh, really? I woke up at one-thirty and peeked out the window, and guess what? Still out there.” You groaned dramatically, burying your face.

“Creeper.” Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, her smirk only growing.

“So, are we gonna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Sarah arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. You pushed yourself upright, rubbing your face before muttering, “We were just...talking.”

“Talking,” Sarah repeated, dragging out the word like it physically pained her, “You sat out on the dock, in the moonlight, for hours, having a deep, emotional heart-to-heart with a grumpy man who was an assassin and has some sort of stare syndrome—”

“Stare syndrome?” You interrupted.

“—and you expect me not to ask questions?” You tossed a pillow at her, which she dodged effortlessly, laughing.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Her tone shifted, “You know you're allowed to be happy, right?”

“I am happy,” You corrected, “I love my life here with you and the boys. I don’t regret coming back home.” She sighed,

“I know you say you don't, and I love you for that. But you and I both know you didn't come home just because of me."

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

The memory hit you like a punch in the gut—the stale air of a government office, the cold weight of a gun pressed between your shoulder blades, the way your name sounded as if it were an accusation.

Sarah’s voice yanked you back,

"The sooner you leave the past behind, the sooner you can move on."

You buried your head in your hands, and groaned, trying to forget everything that had led you home.

“I hate you."

“No, you don’t,” she said, smugly. “You hate that I’m right.” Before you could argue, the faint sound of clinking metal came from the backyard. Sarah stood with a satisfied smirk,

“C’mon, Stare Syndrome is awake." You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat at the thought of Bucky. What was wrong with you?

—

The clink, whir, and solid thud of metal striking wood filled the morning air.

From the back porch, you and Sarah watched as Sam and Bucky stood a few yards apart, throwing the shield between them and a few trees.

Bucky caught it effortlessly, barely shifting under the force of the vibranium. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent it spiraling back towards the tree, where it bounced off and returned to Sam, who caught it—though not as effortlessly. Sarah shook her head,

“That man acts like it’s nothing.” You crossed your arms,

“Super soldier physics.”

“Super soldier physics or not,” She nudged you, her tone more serious now, “I think this is good for them.”

You followed her gaze to the two men—throwing, catching, adjusting their stances, sharing unspoken understanding with each toss.

Yeah. It was good for them. After a few more throws, Sam called out something to Bucky who rolled his eyes and laughed before grabbing the shield from Sam's hands and throwing it faster. Sarah nudged you again.

“Well, would you look at that,” she said, smirking. “They’re bonding.”

“Miracle of the century,” you muttered. Sarah chuckled, leaning in with a smirk,

“I’m still thinking the miracle of the century is the two of you talking on the dock last night.” You shot her a glare and elbowed her,

“Drop it, Sarah.”

“Oh, I will. Right after you tell me why Bucky Barnes opened up to you.”

You exhaled through your nose, keeping your gaze on the yard. Bucky caught the shield like it was second nature, his expression unreadable. The weight of last night still pressed against your ribs—the way his voice had softened, the way his guarded walls had cracked just enough to let you see inside. You felt vulnerable with him. But in a good way.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, “Maybe he just needed to talk to someone who gets it.”

Sarah hummed, her silence stretching between you. Finally, she said, “And do you?”

Your throat tightened. Did you?

Before you could answer, Sam’s voice carried across the yard, breaking the moment.

"Alright, Barnes, that’s enough showing off!"

Bucky rolled his eyes but smirked as he tossed the shield back. Sarah leaned in, voice low. “You can lie to me all you want, but you can’t lie to yourself.”

You scoffed, masking the unease in your gut. “That so?”

“Mhm," She hummed, “And you definitely can’t lie to him.”

Your eyes flicked back to Bucky—just as he glanced toward the porch, his gaze landing on you. The moment stretched, heavy and unreadable, before he turned away.

Your pulse skipped. You swallowed hard and turned away abruptly. The step down from the porch caught you off guard, and your ankle rolled under you.

You barely had time to register the fall before hands caught you.

One warm. One cold.

A shiver ran up your spine as Bucky steadied you, his vibranium fingers firm around your waist.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

Then his voice came, low and amused, “Déjà vu.”

You exhaled sharply. “Maybe I just like testing your reflexes.”

Bucky raised a brow, releasing you gently, “Lucky for you, they’re still sharp.”

Your pulse was a traitor. Sarah's knowing look burned into the side of your head.

You pretended not to see it.

After a couple more rounds of shield practice, Bucky grabbed his bag from the porch, slinging it over his shoulder.

Sam sighed, folding his arms. “You sure you don’t wanna stick around?” Bucky shook his head.

"Gotta head back to New York and tie up some loose ends."

Your stomach twisted.

Loose ends.

It was a phrase you knew too well. And for a second, another memory clawed its way back into your mind—a dimly lit parking garage, the sound of your own heart beating loudly in your ears, the sharp click of a safety being switched off behind you. Stiffening, you forced your expression to stay neutral as you snapped back to reality.

Sarah gave Bucky a knowing look but just nodded. “Safe travels, Barnes.” Bucky softened, nodding back. Then his eyes settled on you. You suddenly had no idea what to say.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he said.

“Guess so,” you replied, forcing a smile— trying to reassure yourself that everything about this was perfectly normal. There was no reason for you to feel any way about him leaving. You hadn't even known him for 24 hours. He held your gaze for a moment longer before giving you a small nod. Your chest tightened. Then, with one last look at Sam, he walked toward the car.

As soon as the engine rumbled to life, Sam clapped his hands together.

“Alright,” he exhaled, “Now I just gotta figure out how the hell I’m supposed to live up to this.”

You and Sarah exchanged glances.

“Easy,” Sarah said, crossing her arms, “You just gotta work harder.”

Sam scoffed, “Right. No pressure.” But as he watched the car disappear down the road, his face turned serious again. He had a choice to make.

And deep down, you already knew what he was going to choose to do.

—

The sound of the TV made your heart pound. Sarah had the remote clutched in her hands, eyes locked on the screen as the news replayed footage of the fight in New York against the Flag Smashers.

Your stomach twisted when you saw Sam, fully suited up, carrying the shield like he was born for it.

“Damn,” Sarah breathed. “Look at him.” You barely heard Sarah’s words. Your eyes were locked on the screen, but your mind was somewhere else. The air smelled like smoke. Sirens in the distance. Someone was calling your name—shouting it. You blinked hard. The TV came back into focus. Sam standing tall, the shield in his hands.

Sarah’s voice finally reached you, “You okay?”

You took a deep breath and forced a nod. But your heart was still racing.

The footage cuts to Sam’s speech to the senator, his voice steady but full of fire.

“The only power I have is that I believe we can do better.”

You swallowed hard. Sam was Captain America. Sarah sat back slowly, exhaling through her nose.

“You know what?” You glanced at her. “I think he’s gonna be alright.” Your lips twitched.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

But your chest still felt tight. Because your mind wasn't just on Sam.

It was on Bucky.

And you wondered, even if you can't outrun your past, could you ever accept the person you are because of it?

———————

Author's Note: Well, I never intended for this to become more than 2 parts... but it's looking like that's what will happen. Let me know what you think and if you'd like to be added to the tag list. I've enjoyed writing again so much!!! It's been so cathartic! Thanks to those who have read and given feedback. It means the world!

Tagging those who reblogged part 1: @kurogxrix @urfavfakeblonde @kiwi-peaches-blog @winterslove1917 @lovelifealways22 @just-dreaming-marvel-2 @buckybarnesfic <3

Let me know if you want to be on the taglist for part 3! :)

Part Three // Masterlist

[whitewolfluvr]

lockjaw | j.t four

masterlist | help me fund my top-surgery?

paring: hybrid puppy!jayce talis x f!reader

summary: after a recent breakup you find yourself adopting a hybrid to keep you company, but he's more feral than you can handle

series warnings: 18+, hybrid jayce (ears and tail), slight a/b/o traits (could argue alpha jayce), eventual smut, protective jayce, size difference

words: 4.4k

chapter warnings: blood, violence, and angst (trauma), not a lot for this one but its got nuggets if you can find them

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five |

want a handwritten letter from a character? / join the discord

Droplets of scarlet hit the wet pavement under his hands in trickles. The rain tried it’s best to wash away the blood seeping out of the abrasions on his knuckles but it was failing. 

He lifted his hand to wipe away the metallic-tasing liquid that filled his mouth from the split in his lip, and pushed himself back on his knees. 

“Get up, puppy!” the man who’d hit him shouted the pet name with the intent to cause offence. He spat a ball of saliva at him, clearly meaning for it to land on his person, but his inebriated state affected his aim as well as his decision making skills.

Jayce tilted his head diagonally but kept his eyeline to the floor; lips parted as an attempt to inhale the fresh rain-chilled air and calm his growing frustration. It would’ve been refreshing if not for the lingering flavour of iron.

The man, with his companions in tow, continued their approach, “Are you deaf, mutt?” he kicked up a puddle, splashing his already dirty t-shirt with filth, “What’s the point in those ridiculous ears if they don’t work?”.

Jayce shook his head, letting little beads of water fly from his hair, and got to his feet. He noticed how the three pairs of steps faltered for a moment when he’d fully straightened his spine, before they advanced. 

He didn’t want this. All he was trying to do was find somewhere safe and dry to rest for the night and avoid the storm.

“Freak!” one of the men yelled as he lunged forward, a metal pole moved with him like an extra limb, swinging through the air. 

Jayce leaned backwards to avoid it, and the end of the metal skimmed his cheekbone, but didn’t make contact. He used the man’s momentum to push him into the wall of the alley. His head collided with the brick and he slumped to the ground with a groan.

Hold back, don’t hurt them.

Upon seeing their friend get so easily manoeuvred, the other two charged like angry bulls. One tackled his middle section and the other jumped and grabbed him by the roots of his hair.

“You fucking animal!” the one on his torso cursed as he repeatedly punched him in the stomach, while the other shifted his grip to be on his sensitive ears, pulling them until he was hunched over.

He could’ve fought them off, he was physically stronger, but when he saw the crimson streak running down the man’s face - the one who he’d pushed - he knew he shouldn’t.

Hold back, don’t hurt them!

He closed his eyes and inhaled with every strike, it would be over soon. They dragged him to the ground and pushed his face into the dirty puddle that had stained his clothes, the murky water attaching itself to his skin and hair like a fungus.

“Monster!” they spat as they got their last jabs in and left him on the ground to collect their friend, satisfied that he was no longer moving.

Maybe he was a monster, but what else was he supposed to be?

A loud thud shook you awake, your body was on red alert as you jolted from your bed. The room was steeped in darkness, the illuminating glow of the street light leaking through the crack in your curtains was your only source of light.

Blindly you reached for your phone and clicked the button to light up the screen, the eye that was more awake than the other focused on the time; 4:22am.

You rubbed your face and put your phone back on the side, it was too early to be awake yet, so you started to lay back down with an attempt to go back to sleep. However, before your head could fully touch the pillow you heard footsteps from the living room.

For a moment it startled you, the sensation of living alone still second nature, but you settled once you realised it must have been Jayce.

Adrenaline still flowed through you, so there was no chance that you’d be getting back to sleep any time soon. Throwing your blanket off of your body, you stretched and wandered to the living room.

The small reading lamp gave the room a slight orange tint, not enough to hurt your tired eyes but enough to radiate the room with a soft glow. 

“Hey,” you called out to him gently, your voice cracking from the first use of the day. He stopped his pacing when he heard you, and turned to your direction - his hair was ruffled with strands sticking up in places, even the fur on his ears was unkempt.

You glanced down at the couch where the brown fluffy blanket was scrunched up to one side and the pillows slightly torn, their white polyester innards across the couch and some fallen to the ground.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked cautiously, trying to ignore how deep the gashes in the fabric were.

He averted your gaze and slowly moved towards the window to observe the street below, his jaw was clenched from gritted teeth hiding behind pursed lips, and his amber eyes were hard and unmoving.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something had rattled him. It was unsurprising considering he was in a strange place with new smells and sounds; a lot of the forums said sleepless nights were common for the first few days.

“Do you want some tea or coffee?” you stretched again with a groan and started toward the kitchen but waited for his response before fully exiting the room. The ear closest to you twitched and you saw him briefly look at you out of the corner of his eye.

His body language shifted to indicate he wanted to follow, but something was holding him back. “Well, I’m going to make a coffee, you’re welcome to join me if you want,” you left the door open and decided not to push him any further.

You got two mugs out of the cupboard and set them down on the counter, rubbing your eyes with your free hand - the glare of the kitchen light stung - when you heard footsteps getting closer to you.

Glancing over your shoulder and towards the doorway, you watched Jayce enter slowly. He was cold and somewhat unreadable but you could see the uncertainty in his eyes, so you pulled out one of the stools from the island and tapped it for him to sit.

“Come, keep me company while I wait for this to boil,” you gestured to the kettle, “And…” you extended the word and held it until you found what you were looking for. “I got you these-” you placed a wooden box in front of him and lifted the lid, “-just choose one and let me know, okay?”.

The box contained different packets of tea, each divided into their own section and labelled, you’d bought it specifically for him. 

“I don’t know if I remembered all the ones you had back at the sa-” you paused to correct yourself, “-the other place, but I got a few that I thought you might like,” you rambled as you filled the coffee machine with a pod and put your mug under the nozzle, pressing the button for it to start.

He inspected the box; picking up a packet, reading it, sniffing the outside and putting it back into the box. After the sixth sniff test you were starting to worry if you’d remembered incorrectly.

He inhaled one light-blue coloured one and scrunched his face up with disgust - he doesn’t like chamomile, okay, noted.

“Did you know that-” he lifted his attention from the box to the back of your head while you watched the coffee pump out into your mug and spoke, “-No one knows where chamomile tea originally came from?”.

You twisted the mug on it’s podium so the hand was on the right and let the brown liquid slowly fill it, “Well,” you interrupted yourself, “That’s technically a lie,” you chuckled.

“The first documented use of it is in Ancient Egypt for religious ceremonies, you know, the whole embalming the body so it’s preserved for when they meet the gods type of deal,”.

At one point when you were speaking you’d turned to lean against the counter, but your eye line was still watching your mug. He didn’t know why, but you knew it was because the coffee machine would sometimes cut out while pouring and you didn’t want chunks of granules in your drink.

He observed the side of your face, watching your jaw move as you continued, “It was the Romans who started to actually drink it, and then unsurprisingly, so did the Greeks-”.

The machine stopped pouring and gently beeped to notify you that it was done, so you lifted the cup from its platform and continued making your drink.

“-And they largely documented it as being medicinal- Oh!” you exclaimed as you remembered another fun fact, “Did you also know that the word chamomile comes from the Greek word ‘khamaimēlon’, I’m definitely pronouncing that wrong, but it means ‘earth apple’, isn’t that funny?” you stopped rambling when you turned to him to collect whichever tea sachet he’d picked but realised he was staring at you with a blank expression.

You pulled down the sleeves on your shirt to cover your knuckles when you finally acknowledged his gaze. He noted the gesture and wondered why you did it so much.

“Did you choose one?” you timidly asked, trying to act as if you hadn’t just spewed all your thoughts out at once. Noticing that he had a packet in his hand, pinched between two fingers, you extended your palm to him.

However, instead of giving it to you, he stood from his seated position and ripped open the paper with his teeth, wrapping his hand around the empty mug and placing it in front of him.

“I don’t mind doing it for you,” you stepped closer to him, expecting him to move out of the way so you could take over. As if you were both south poles of a magnet and your proximity repelled him; the closer you got to him the further he leaned away - taking the mug with him, and paper still clenched between his canines.

You recoiled your hand and stepped away, a soft “Okay,” was all you could manage before you returned to your cup and gave him space.

He was more isolated than yesterday. His shoulder muscles tensed when you moved too quickly or closely to him, so perhaps it was best to keep your distance until he approached you.

He trickled the boiling water into the mug and bounced the teabag, submerging it under the water and letting it rise again with delicate precision until he was happy with the colour it had changed to.

“When it’s a more reasonable hour-,” the two of you had made your way back to the living room, “-I can show you around town, what’s nearby and stuff, if you want?” you tucked your legs under yourself as you got comfortable on the couch.

The semi-destoryed pillow puffed out more white innards when you leaned back on it, “We should probably get you some new pillows too, but I don’t know if they do indestructible ones,” you chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.

The whole time you spoke Jayce stood by the large window, staring down at the barren streets below. He held the mug with both hands, the only visible part being the handle hooked over two of his fingers, maybe you should look for some larger cups for him too?

“Or we can stay inside, I’m not working again until Monday, so I’m all yours for two days!”, he glanced at you out of the corner of your eye and you suddenly felt very small again, “Well,” you cleared your throat, “I have chores I need to do, but you get what I mean,”.

A car revved its engine outside and his attention darted back to the intrusive sound, the hairs on his arms standing to attention, leaving goosebumps across his skin. 

The grip he had on the mug was intense, causing his knuckles to start to lose their colour, “Come sit down,” you suggested, trying to hold some authority in your voice but largely failing.

He regarded you again but didn’t move from his post, instead sipping his drink and keeping his eyes on the street.

He reminded you of a sentinel, ever watching and ever on guard duty.

You turned the TV on and quickly muted until you were able to put on some relaxing meditation music which finally made him turn away from the window and towards the TV.

The muscles in his nose scrunched lightly as the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened, his eyeline switching between you and the TV, “It’s cheesy, I know, but it genuinely does help,”.

There was a moment of stillness, neither of you moved, just the sound of the music filled the air but the atmosphere was anything but calm.

You pointed towards the bag you’d handed to him yesterday which had been placed next to the TV, “Did you take a look inside?”, he shook his head softly and eyed the bag, “Oh! Go get it!” you shuffled with excitement, picking up your coffee cup and cradling it in your hands.

He hesitated but eventually put his cup down atop one of the coasters on the table and retrieved the bag, “Sit, sit, sit!” you tapped the couch next to you like a child about to open presents on Christmas day, but he opted for the armchair adjacent to you.

Maybe you shouldn’t have told him to sit? It slipped out so naturally, but perhaps it came across that you were treating him like an actual dog? You shook your head, trying to ignore your thoughts and instead focus on him.

He put his hand into the bag and slid the first box out, Clue. He turned the box over with confusion and inspected the back, his eyes sliding from side to side - at least that answered a question about whether he could read.

“Have you played Clue before?” you asked. He gently placed the box on the coffee table and shook his head again whilst revealing more board games; Catan, Monopoly, Battleship, and of course, a chess set.

Every box he studied with acute interest, taking in every picture and word on the print like it was the first time he’d seen it. He glanced up to you from the last one, his amber eyes slightly softer and calmer than before, and the corner of his mouth upturned into a subtle smile.

“We can play now if you want?” you placed your coffee to the side and started to clear the table, he shuffled forward to the edge of the armchair cushion and helped you, “You choose, I'm happy to play whatever,” you encouraged him.

He immediately picked up Clue, seeing as it was the one that you'd asked about and seemed the most excited for. When you smiled, he knew he'd picked correctly.

He ran the nail of his pinky along the seam where the lid met the rest of the box, and sliced through the thin plastic wrapping, pulling it off whilst you moved the last few things off of the table. 

Jayce placed the box on the surface and slowly lifted the lid until it popped off, but let you set up the board and shuffle the cards.

You explained how the game worked whilst he picked up each of the small coloured cones and their respective character cards, deciding which one he wanted to play as.

He eventually decided on Colonel Mustard, and chose Professor Plum for you. 

It took him a few rounds to fully understand the mechanics of the game; roll the dice, enter a room and make a guess. He’d write his three words down on a notepad you’d found for him, and the first thing you noticed was how neat his handwriting was.

It was bigger than yours and slightly slanted as if it were in italics, but almost like something you’d expect to find on a fancy sign.

You won the first few games, "Unfair advantage," you'd commented to reassure him, but as you'd expected, he started to pick up your tactics quickly.

“Rope, Library, and Reverent Green?” you recited what he’d written as his next guess and inspected your hand, none of those cards were between your fingers, “I think you’ve got it,” you smiled at him and picked up the envelope in the middle of the board to hand it to him.

He slipped one of his fingers into the sleeve, the paper bending to the outline of his digit and he pulled the three cards out to see if he was right.

He grinned as he turned each of the cards over, revealing one by one.

Reverend Green. He turned the second card over on the board, Rope. He narrowed his eyes at the last card smiling, his canines poking out from under his top lip; as he pinched the card between his middle and index finger to slowly turn it towards you, Library.

He’d won, again. “Damn,” you looked at the spread of cards, the regal yet smug expression on the Reverend's face, sandwiched between the darker tones of the Rope and Library, “Not a bad way to go,” you muttered to yourself with a giggle. 

Your tone wasn’t lost on him. He side eyed you with a raised brow, his expression unreadable but somewhat judgemental. “Sorry, I’m tired,” you said as you fought the rising heat in your cheeks, and rubbed your face with your hand.

The coffee in your cup had long since emptied, as was Jayce’s tea, but he picked up the cards and started to shuffle them again.

You glanced up to the clock on the wall, 6:53am. The two of you had been playing for over two hours, but Jayce didn’t seem the least bit tired.

He organised the cards, reset the pieces and slipped the three winning cards back into the envelope and started to mix the rest together.

His hands moved quickly, like a man who’d spent his whole life shuffling these cards, but your vision was starting to defocus like a faulty camera. Progressively throughout the night you’d slumped further and further into the side of the couch until you were laying down with your arm propping your head up to see the board.

Jayce handed you your pile of cards and rolled the dice, taking his turn first as the winner of almost all of the previous games, but your one eye that remained open couldn’t make out what number he’d rolled.

The last thing you remember was the clicking of his plastic yellow piece tapping gently against the board, signalling every step his character took. He must’ve rolled a five because you heard five taps, or was it four? It was hard to keep count.

When you awoke for the second time that Saturday, although eclipsed by the dark grey curtains that covered the windows, the sun shone brightly alongside the light trickling of rain. 

You stretched your limbs, hearing a few pops and cracks as your joints woke up slower than your brain; and the brown blanket that you’d left at the end of the couch for Jayce slid off of your torso as you sat up.

A groan left your lips as your spine fully extended and the muscles in your arms and legs relaxed from the tension. You peered towards the armchair but found it surprisingly empty, the large figure that had occupied it mere hours prior nowhere to be found. Even the cushion that normally sat there was missing.

With sleepiness still haunting your vision, you stood from the couch and went to pick up the mugs left on the coffee table. The right hand connected with your cup, which was strangely full with luke-warm coffee, and the left hand found nothing.

As if on autopilot, you shuffled towards the kitchen to empty your mug, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand when you almost tripped on a leg.

Luckily, some part of your occipital lobe was awake enough to notice the limb before you stepped on him.

Jayce was sat on the floor and using the side of the couch as a backrest; one leg bent so he could rest his arm on it and the other - the one you’d nearly stumbled over - had fallen carelessly to the ground and extended in front of him. Becoming the perfect hazard for your clumsy feet.

His head was tilted back and sideways against the arm of the couch, and his eyelids closed with his lashes delicately resting against his skin. His chest rising and falling with every inhale and exhale of deep breath. 

He appeared so peaceful when he was like this, a picture of contrast to his agitated 4am demeanour, but you were confused as to why he was on the floor. Was it because you’d accidentally taken the couch?

You tiptoed over his leg, successfully passing him without disturbance and continuing your journey to the kitchen, when there was a knock at the door. 

The sudden unexpected noise made you jump out of your skin; you were surprised that you didn’t spill the contents of the mug onto the light grey carpet. Thankfully, it stayed inside it’s ceramic container. Coffee stains were a pain to get out of the cheap yarn that the landlords had chosen as flooring.

When you opened the front door you were greeted by the friendly face of your neighbour, “Morning!” you whispered to him as an attempt to maintain whatever tranquillity Jayce had found in your apartment.

“Afternoon?” he laughed back, “Wait, what time is it?” you whipped your head around as if it was even possible to see the living room clock from where you were standing. Instead of ticking hands, you were met with piercing golden eyes staring back at you from the ground. The door was in the direct line of his sight. 

It was hard to break away from his gaze as he got to his feet, “It’s almost 1pm,” your neighbour confirmed, bringing your attention back to the man at the door, “Anyway, I was getting my mail and thought I’d grab yours too,” he extended a handful of envelopes to you.

“Oh, that’s kind, thank you!” you took the letters and smiled at him as if he didn’t do this on a weekly basis, “Not a problem, how have you been?” He put his hands in his pockets and made no gesture to indicate that he was leaving any time soon.

You turned your head back inside the apartment at the sound of a creaking floorboard to see that Jayce was walking towards you and the door whilst stretching his arms above his head.

“I, uh-” you stuttered as you stepped closer to the doorframe and pulled the door with you, trying to hide as much of the interior from him as you could.

“-I can’t really talk right now, sorry, I have company,” you tried to give him the hint to leave. After an already rough first night, you didn’t know how Jayce would react to another stranger within his proximity, and you hadn’t exactly cleared Jayce moving in with your landlord.

“Oh?” your neighbour quirked an eyebrow and smiled at you in a suggestive manner. Whilst you wanted to correct him and explain that it wasn’t like that, you could hear the footsteps behind you getting closer.

You chuckled to him and shrugged your shoulders, “Yeah, can’t keep him waiting,” you played into whatever narrative he had running through his head if it meant he would leave. 

He gave you a toothy smirk and looked you up and down, “Well, at least you’ve moved on,” his comment wasn’t supposed to come across as an insult but the implications stabbed you in the gut.

“Thank you for the mail!” you gave him the falsest smile you could muster after being so brutally and bluntly reminded of your loneliness, “We’ll go get brunch soon and you can tell me all about it,” he whispered to you with a wink before you finally managed to shut the door.

You inhaled deeply and leaned against the back of the door, happy to not be forced into a social situation you didn’t want. 

Jayce had stopped his approach when the door had closed, his nose crinkled up in distaste and his eyes boring into the door as if he could still see your neighbour through it. By that reaction alone, you knew you’d made the right call of not introducing them.

“Mail,” you waved the letters in a circular motion and put them on the table by the door. “I’m sorry I slept in so late,” you apologised, despite being the one that woke up first.

“I propose-” you started as you walked into the kitchen, finally completing your mission of emptying your mug and putting it in the sink to be washed up later, “-We go get you some better pillows, and I can show you what’s nearby, and we can get some lunch while we’re out,” you raised your voice slightly so he could still hear you in the other room.

“What do you think?” you popped your head around the doorframe and found him standing in the hallway as he was before. He opened his mouth widely to yawn; even though he covered his mouth with his hand, you could still see the sharp canines that lined his gums.

He rattled his head as if he was trying to shake away any remaining sleepiness in his body, but eventually nodded in answer to your question.

“Great!” you beamed, almost skipping with joy past him and towards the bathroom, “I’m going to have a quick shower, I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can use it, then we’ll head out,” you tapped the door frame as if you were a judge and your hand was the gavel making the final decision.

You had exactly the lunch spot in mind to take him.

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[whitewolfluvr]

AKA Jayce Talis panting & groaning for 45 seconds.

you’re welcome, jeople & Viktor.

[whitewolfluvr]

Hello I saw that you were taking requests? I was hoping you could do a JayVik request where they have a musical love interest? Idk someone creative in the arts field introduced by Mel or something. I just figured it would be interesting as I myself am a professional singer. Anyways sorry if this isn't something you write! Love your work!

OMG OMG HELLO TO MY FIRST REQ I'LL GET MY ASS ON THIS SHORTLY. unfortunately due to the load that Sealed with a kiss is bringing on me I won't be able to make it long but there's a few things I can do.

1. I could do a long oneshot

2. I could wait until sealed with a kiss is finished before making a long fic on this or

3. I could do a few decent sized chapters like 7 chapters with like 2k words for each ch

Lmk what you'd prefer:) <33

[whitewolfluvr]

ch 2 Sealed with a kiss (jakvik x reader)

I know i said id do like 5k words but the struggle is so real oml. i hope u enjoy this ch and ill work on spitting out more words for the next chapter i promise :>

 “Wakey wakey sleepy head,” yelled the incessant noise of Sky directly into your ear.

“Ugh, leave me alone, Sky. It’s my rest day, and I don’t plan on waking up till noon,” you replied.

“Dude, it’s 3 PM. Get up,” she said.

“IT’S WHAT?! WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME UP SOONER?” you screamed as you jumped up. You had planned on getting some work done on your assignment around now because, at this rate, you’d never get it finished and submitted in time.

You only had one more month to work on it before it had to be sent in, and since you’re a massive procrastinator, you had barely done anything in the past five months while everyone else was busting their asses to get the work finished.

“Considering what you said to me a minute ago, I don’t think you even deserved to wake up now, stink face,” Sky replied.

Sky Young was your best friend. Your bread to your butter. Your cheese to your stick, or however that saying goes. Anyways, you get the idea—you guys were almost inseparable. You’d grown up in the undercity together even though her family was much richer than yours, and you’d moved to the city of Piltover together too since she got accepted at the same time as you did.

When you’d first come, she’d helped out with the expenses and everything, but you paid her back as soon as you got your job at the café, for which she was thankful because people in Zaun, no matter how rich, still struggled in Piltover due to the insane taxes for Zaunites and the fact their currency was less strong than Piltover’s.

She also was your rock when you’d found out about your father’s death, and if it weren’t for her, you really don’t know where you’d be today. Your remembrance of the day you found out was a bit blurred due to the shock of receiving the news. All you know is you woke up one morning, checked the mail, and saw a letter from your father’s boss informing you he’d fallen under some rubble at work and passed away.

As you got up and got ready to study, you remembered you had one more month and so got changed and asked Sky to join you for a day at the academy for sightseeing instead of studying. It’s fine since you had a month anyway, and there was a little scientific event set by the biochem majors today that you really badly wanted to go see.

“Uhhh, I thought you had studying to do today,” Sky said with a raised brow, looking at you in a knowing way.

You stood there looking like an idiot for around a minute before replying very tactfully.

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh huh. Get your stationery and laptop. We can go see the event, then go to the library to study together. You need to get this assignment going,” she said.

Reluctantly, you agreed and grabbed your bag along with your textbooks, laptop, and a few other little things to go.

The biochemistry event at Piltover University was a bustling affair. The grand hall was filled with displays showcasing innovations and experiments, the air alive with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of applause. You and Sky wandered through the exhibits, your eyes lighting up at the intricate machinery and complex equations scrawled on presentation boards.

“This is amazing,” you said, pausing to admire a holographic projection of molecular structures. “Makes me wish I had chosen biochem instead of engineering.”

Sky smirked, nudging you. “You’d regret it the moment you saw the workload. Stick to your devices and let these nerds handle the chemicals.”

You laughed, but your attention was soon drawn to a corner of the room where a small crowd had gathered. Curious, you made your way over, Sky trailing behind. At the center of the commotion stood two familiar figures—tall and broad-shouldered, with an easy smile, and lean with a sharp, analytical gaze. Viktor and Jayce.

Your breath hitched as memories of their brief visit to the café flashed in your mind. They were presenting something—a sleek device that pulsed with a faint blue light, its purpose explained in animated gestures by Jayce while Viktor observed the crowd, his gaze suddenly locking on you the moment he noticed you.

“Isn’t that...?” Sky began, but you quickly shushed her, not wanting to draw attention.

“Yes,” you whispered, pulling her to a less conspicuous spot. “They came to the café last week. I made their coffee.”

Sky gave you a look, half-amused, half-curious. “And you’re acting like they’re celebrities because...?”

“I don’t know,” you whined, your eyes involuntarily drifting back to the duo. Jayce was in his element, charming the audience with his enthusiasm, while Viktor’s focus remained unwavering, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd as if seeking something—or someone.

When his gaze landed on you again, a jolt of recognition passed between you. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the presentation. Jayce, meanwhile, finished his explanation with a flourish, earning a round of applause.

“That was something,” Sky said, nudging you again. “You should go talk to them.”

“What? No!” you hissed, horrified at the suggestion. “They wouldn’t even remember me.”

Sky shrugged, her grin mischievous. “Your loss. But don’t come crying to me when you regret it later.”

Ignoring her, you turned your attention back to the exhibits, though your thoughts remained tangled in the brief, charged moment of eye contact. You tried to shake it off, focusing instead on a demonstration involving automated prosthetics. The technology was fascinating, and you couldn’t help but compare it to your own fledgling designs.

“See? Inspiration everywhere,” Sky said, pulling you towards another booth. “Now, let’s soak it all in so you can finish that damn assignment.”

Despite her teasing, you found yourself immersed in the event, the initial awkwardness fading as you absorbed the wealth of ideas and innovation around you. The faces of Viktor and Jayce lingered in the back of your mind, but you pushed them aside, determined to make the most of the day—and to finally tackle your project with renewed focus.

The afternoon flew by as you and Sky explored the event, each booth offering a glimpse into the cutting-edge advancements Piltover was known for. From augmented reality interfaces to bioengineered plants capable of purifying the air, it was a testament to human ingenuity and ambition.

At one booth, a young scientist demonstrated a prototype for a device that could synthesize food molecules, effectively creating meals out of raw elemental compounds. “Imagine,” he said, “no more hunger. No more wasted resources. Just pure efficiency.”

Sky raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like something straight out of a dystopian novel.”

You chuckled, but the comment stayed with you. Piltover’s progress often came at a cost, and the line between innovation and exploitation was razor-thin.

As the event wound down, you and Sky found yourselves back near the presentation area where Viktor and Jayce had been. They were packing up their equipment, their conversation animated yet hushed. You couldn’t hear the words, but their synergy was palpable, each movement and gesture perfectly in sync.

“They make a good team,” Sky observed. “Wonder if they’re as insufferable as they look.”

You snorted. “Jayce, maybe. Viktor? He seems... different.”

“Different how?”

You hesitated, struggling to articulate the impression he left. “I don’t know. Just... quieter. Like he’s always thinking about something important.”

Sky gave you a sidelong glance, her smirk returning. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, swatting at her. But the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you, and Sky’s laughter echoed as you walked away.

By the time you both finished wondering around the event that evening  you lost track of the time and it had already become 8pm. Although neither of you minded and your mind was still buzzing with ideas from the event. You spread your notes and sketches across the library table and determined to channel your inspiration into tangible progress. Sky, ever the supportive friend, plopped down beside you with her own work, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional question or comment.

Yet, as you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back to Viktor and Jayce. Their confidence, their camaraderie, the way they seemed to embody the very essence of Piltover’s ideals. And, of course, the way Viktor’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long.

“Focus,” you muttered to yourself, forcing your attention back to your assignment. There would be time for distractions later. For now, you had work to do.

[whitewolfluvr]

ch1 Sealed with a kiss (jayvik x reader)

Summary:

After months at the Late Latte Cafe, your routine had become predictable—making coffee, jotting orders, and chatting with customers. You never imagined two of those customers were the brightest minds at the academy—or that they’d become your friends. Jayce’s booming laugh and easy charm made him impossible to miss, while Viktor’s quiet wit and sharp focus drew you in more subtly. Simple interactions grew into saved tables, shared jokes, and conversations you looked forward to more than you’d admit. Soon, it wasn’t just friendship. Every glance, touch, and late-night talk felt charged, like something unspoken was waiting to surface. And part of you didn’t want it to stop.

The undercity was always shrouded in a haze of gray, a suffocating mix of smog and shadows that seemed to cling to every surface. The streets were a labyrinth of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings, their foundations long eroded by neglect and desperation. This was where you grew up, where survival wasn’t guaranteed, and every step was taken with caution.

You remembered waking up to the hum of machinery, the clanging of metal echoing through the thin walls of what you called your apartment. It wasn’t much but it was home and that was all you needed. The air always smelled of oil, rust and another more distinct smell, one that you couldn’t put a name to but a scent you’d grown used to nonetheless. Now that you thought about it, it was most likely the smell of the smog. The one bane of your existence and the thing that set you back as soon as you came out the womb much like many other Zaunites.

The only Zaunites that weren’t set back as much by the smog were the rich ones and Janna knows you weren’t one of those. Your pathetic ragged clothes and constant dirt on your face were clear distinctions of your socioeconomic status and you were certainly not rich at all.

Your father worked in the factories, his hands constantly stained with grease and exhaustion. He always came home late, carrying the weight of the day on his slumped shoulders, but he’d still manage to put on a tired smile when he saw you.

“How’s my little Zaunite scholar?” he’d ask, his voice tinged with pride. He was a very proud Zaunite and although you never understood why you knew his pride in Zaun wasn’t entirely unaccounted for. Zaun did accomplish many things and through the danger of living here the people still survived and even sometimes thrived.

You’d show him the notes you’d scribbled on scraps of paper, equations and ideas you barely understood but wanted to learn. He’d ruffle your hair, tell you that you were destined for more than this place, that you’d make it out one day. His belief in you was unwavering, even when you doubted yourself.

The undercity was harsh, but it taught you resilience. You learned how to navigate its dangers, how to keep your head down while quietly dreaming of a life beyond the grime and shadows. The undercity wasn’t just a place; it was a state of mind, a constant reminder of where you came from and how far you wanted to go.

You’d learned early on to read people, to gauge intent in a glance or a gesture. It was a skill that had kept you safe, but also one that made you hyper-aware of the divide between those who thrived in the undercity and those who merely survived. For you, survival had always been about keeping your head down, staying out of trouble, and planning for a future that felt impossibly far away.

When the opportunity came to attend the academy in Piltover, it felt like a lifeline. Your father had worked tirelessly to make it happen, sacrificing more than you’d ever know to give you a chance at something better. The day you left, he’d hugged you tightly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re going to make me proud, kid,” he’d said, and those words were the last he’d ever said to you before he passed away in your first year at the Academy.

Now, as you stood behind the counter at the Late Latte Cafe, the memories of the undercity felt like a distant echo, though they were never far from your mind. The warm, golden light streaming through the windows and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee were a stark contrast to the world you’d left behind. Here, the hum of espresso machines and the murmur of conversation were your new soundtrack, a soothing rhythm that brought a sense of normalcy to your days.

The door chimed softly, pulling you from your thoughts. A pair of customers walked in, their presence commanding attention even before they reached the counter. As you looked at them you felt a sense of DeJa’Vu as though you’d seen them someplace, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, his confident stride and easy smile making him hard to ignore. The other was leaner, his movements measured and deliberate, a sharpness in his gaze that seemed to take in everything at once.

“What can I get for you?” you asked, your voice steady despite the slight flutter of nerves their presence brought.

The taller one spoke first, his tone warm and friendly. “Two Americanos please. Busy day ahead.”

The other simply nodded, his attention briefly flickering to the menu before settling back on you. There was something about the way he looked at you, as if he were trying to read through you, into your soul.

You prepared their order quickly, handing them the cups with a practiced smile. “Good luck with your day,” you said, and they both offered brief thanks before heading to a table by the window.

It was a fleeting interaction, one that lasted only moments, but it lingered in your mind long after they’d sat down. Something about them felt different, though you couldn’t quite place why. Shaking off the thought, you turned your attention back to the counter, wiping it down as the morning rush began to pick up.

Later, as you sat in the quiet of your shared apartment, the day’s events replayed in your mind. You should have been focusing on your biology project for university, the one that had been looming over you for weeks. Instead, your thoughts kept drifting back to the two customers, their presence as vivid in your memory as it had been in the cafe.

The undercity had taught you to read people, to notice the small details that others might miss. And something about those two told you they weren’t just ordinary patrons. You pushed the thought aside, opening your laptop and forcing yourself to concentrate on the work in front of you. There were deadlines to meet, goals to achieve, and you weren’t about to let anything distract you from the future you’d worked so hard to build.

Still, as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the images of their faces flashed in your mind—the warmth in one’s smile, the intensity in the other’s gaze. You shook your head, trying to focus. You couldn’t afford distractions, not now. But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if that brief encounter was the start of something more significant. For now, though, all you could do was wait and see.

guys pls dont shit on this its my first jayvik fic and i promise chapters will get longer they wont stay short omg TwT

[whitewolfluvr]

JAYCE IN COLLAR GGGRRRRRRRRR BARK BARK WOOF WOOF

art based on a scene from a super hot fanfic

[whitewolfluvr]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Viktor (League of Legends)/Reader, Jayce (League of Legends)/Reader, Jayce/Viktor (League of Legends), Jayce/Viktor (League of Legends)/Reader Characters: Viktor (League of Legends), Jayce (League of Legends), Mel Medarda, Heimerdinger (League of Legends), Sky (Arcane: League of Legends) Additional Tags: Slow Burn, sorta - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kinda, am I tagging this right, I’ll add more tags as the story progresses, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, overcoming addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use Summary:

Ah, the Land of Progress. What a load of bullshit.

In which you are a recovering addict, Viktor is your best friend, and you are trying to navigate a world that is entirely separate from the one you’ve always known.

—

CHAPTER FOUR!! THE JAYCE CHAPTER IS OUT!! Go read :3

Tags : @urmommt

[whitewolfluvr]

His face card is so lethal you could inject it into my veins

[whitewolfluvr]

Y’all I don’t ship JayVik cause I want Viktor 🙂‍↕️

[whitewolfluvr]

Jaw dropped

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetical torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, a whole picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[whitewolfluvr]

The Disney prince to the father of my children pipeline needs to be studied.

[whitewolfluvr]

I’m ovulating so damn bad !!! I’m horny as fuck for Viktor rn. I need him to put me through the mattress or a black hole in space to reach The Final Glorious Orgasm or whatever he said.