Call me Jungle | 30s | Writing canon, Reader, and OC fics
Recovering Relapsed worldbuilder | Writing between swimming, lifting, and swinging out
I currently write for Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Jake Jensen, and Ari Levinson. I'll likely add more as I explore this new space.
Most of the fics will be Reader fics and will likely feature POC female reader.
Currently running a small monthly challenge over at @star-and-shield-monthly, come join in on the fun :)
Mostly runs on queue.
I appreciate any encouragement along the way in form of comments and asks. :)
🔞 - 18 + only.
Steve Rogers
The day before (Steve Rogers x Reader) 🔞
Time is precious now.
“When?” you ask after a long pause.
“Pickup is tomorrow morning.”
“Then let’s spend the time we have together.”
From Constantinople to Chang'an (Steve Rogers)
(Silk Roads AU | Poetry)
A translated excerpt from a Persian epic poem from the 11th century speaks of origins of a hero beloved from Constantinople to Chang'an.
Steve + Kissing to shut them up
Jake Jensen
Bonding over Bevvies (Ongoing Series) (Jake Jensen x Reader)
A collection of loosely connected stories following Jake and Cranks
New Horizons (Jake Jensen x Reader)
Jake must decide if he can navigate a different kind of relationship.
Jake + Surprised by a Kiss
Sam Wilson
Birdstrike (Sam Wilson x Reader)
You and Sam have a flirtatiously bantered over the past few months and you want to know if there's something real.
Vigilant Rebirth (Sam Wilson & Pepper Potts)
Pepper Potts shows up unexpectedly after the business with the Flagsmashers with a proposition.
Sam + Morning Kiss
Sam + Mistletoe Kiss
Sam + New Year's Kiss
Bucky Barnes
Sweet Tides (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Series | Complete
You strike up an unlikely friendship with a strange man who ruined your farmer's market stand. As you spend more time together, you find yourself drawn to him.
Curtis Everett
Clean Slates (Curtis Everett x Reader)
Series | Complete
Valentine’s day is coming up. You are tired of ignoring its existence each year. You want something soft, something romantic and you are determined to experience it even if you have to give it to yourself. Curtis is staring down a Valentine’s alone for the first time in years. A meddling friend puts you in each other’s path. Fortunes align and a new kind of love blooms between you and Curtis.
Curtis Everett + Accidental Kiss
Other Characters
Hal Cater + Kiss to distract
Opulent Delights (Stucky x Reader) 🔞
"The vestiges of your wet dream clings to you. Heat pools between your thighs even recalling the dream. Hands everywhere, groping and gripping your soft flesh escalating to a fever pitch, every fiber of your being flooded with pleasure as Bucky and Steve murmur the filthiest things in your ear."
Star and Shield Monthly Badge Collection
Sexy September Scribbles
Cap Sam Wilson Bingo 2025
Sugarfoot Rag (Stucky) for January Jumble Scribbles
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: eight amazing drabbles are rated General Audiences and can be found below the cut. One sexy explicit drabble has been posted on its own over here. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
YOUR JOB is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Thanks for reading!
Drabble #1 - Hope
Rating: General Audiences
The battle ended without fanfare. No portal in the sky, no impossible odds, no incursions. The multiverse was safe.
Weeks later Bucky was at an animal shelter, standing in front of a white kitten in the cage.
Retirement wasn’t what he’d expected. He imagined boredom, restlessness. His days became wonderfully ordinary: coffee, aimless walks, reading, sitting with Alpine on the balcony, watching the sunset.
He started imagining a different future: go back to school, reelection.
Perhaps, settle down, start a family.
It felt unbelievable. The universe had stopped asking from him or taking from him.
Bucky was allowed to live.
🚫
Drabble #2 - Shots Fired
Rating: General Audiences
"This is stupid!" Sam yelled, waving his gun in the air.
"The games the game." Bucky chuffed with a smirk.
"You're the one who suggested this." Yelena chuckled alongside Bucky.
"Yeah a nice normal game of Lazer tag. Not Lazer tag with the world's best assassin!" Sam continued.
"Look man," Joaquin huffed as he joined Sam's side, "Maybe we just call it quits, we've gone 5 rounds, we keep losing."
"No we go again." Sam replied sternly, pointing at Bucky with narrowed eyes, "You, left hand only."
"Fine by me." Bucky grinned before jogging back into the darkened zone laughing.
🚫
Drabble #3 – Do This All Day?
Rating: General Audiences
Sam laughed once humorless. “Trust? Don’t start with me on trust, Buck. I had to hear about your new team from the evening news.”
“That’s not what happened.” Bucky groaned
“No? ’Cause it sure as hell felt like it.” Sam's tone cold.
Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight. “They have information. Information that can help.”
Sam opened his mouth, anger ready.
Another voice beat him to it.
“You two gonna do this all day?”
Everything in Bucky locked up. He turned too fast, breath catching painfully.
Steve stood there, steady and impossible.
For one stunned second, Bucky only stared. Disbelieving.
“Steve?”
🚫
Drabble #4 - Doomsday, Declined
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky is trying, with effort, to understand a tax-credit rider. It’s not going well, but it is going privately, which seems important.
You’re halfway through explaining depreciation when his phone rings.
YELENA BELOVA
Decline.
Again.
Decline.
YELENA: Stop being dramatic. Is only maybe end of world.
Swipe.
SAM: don’t be like this.
His jaw shifts.
Swipe.
DEADPOOL: Winter grandpa, Kevin says assemble.
Swipe.
You lower the bill.
“James.”
“No.”
“Could be important.”
“It’s always important.” Bucky’s phone flips facedown. “I’ve appeared in every MCU phase. The other guy who managed that turned into a tree. Let me legislate in peace.”
🚫
Drabble #5 - Apocalypse Meow
Rating: General Audiences
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, preparing to face the end of the world was familiar. Everything after that was not.
“That was anticlimactic,” Steve said.
“They can’t all be Thanos,” Bucky agreed.
“Hardly worth coming out of retirement. This happen a lot since I left?”
“Fury’s cat’s saved the day before, but it’s a first for Alpine.” After a beat, Bucky added defensively, “She’s still a kitten.”
Kitten or not, her purrs almost drowned out Doom’s booming admiration while he pet her rather than lay waste to the world.
“Come on, Steve. Fight’s back on if I can’t rescue my cat!”
🚫
Drabble #6 - Them
Rating: General Audiences
The ozone on his tongue was sharp and growing sharper by the second.
Something was wrong.
More than the battle chaos amidst the ruins of the Stark Expo grounds.
Bucky turned slowly, surveying his surroundings.
Then he saw them.
Each wore his face but not his history. One in a crisp, white uniform from some alternate century, a stillness to him like a wolf that knew every trick in the book and didn’t need to snarl. The other a grizzled wreck: gray at the temples, sleep deprivation tattooed under his eyes. Both sported the arm—his arm, that ugly, magnificent thing.
🚫
Drabble #7 – Tumblr to the Rescue
Rating: General Audiences
He was dying. Fine. He'd done it before.
Then the portal opened. Blue. Tumbling. Chaos shaped like small circular portraits of strangers, cats, anime characters, and— unsettlingly— him. Long hair. Short hair. One arm. Two. Smiling, something he didn't remember doing.
One handed him a juice box.
Bucky stared at it. Stared at himself, multiplied, in eras he couldn't fully account for.
"This," announced an icon of a small white blue-eyed cat, "will not happen in Doomsday."
He had no idea what that meant.
Something about the cat felt familiar. He couldn't place it.
He drank the juice box anyway.
🚫
Drabble #8 – Fix It
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky sheathed his knife when you walked in.
“Bucky,” you began softly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna make the writers fix it.”
“Fix what exactly?”
“Everything,” he answered through his teeth. “Like Natasha dying.”
“Bucky…”
“And Steve’s ending.”
“Bucky.”
“And Sam and I being on the outs again.”
“Bucky!”
He paused to look at you.
“You can’t fix it,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be aware that you’re in a movie, and I shouldn’t even be here.”
He blinked, confused. “Then… what do I do?”
You smiled. “Leave it to the fanfiction writers. They’ll know what to do.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the Explicit Drabble if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: one sexy explicit drabble is posted under the cut here, and eight amazing General Audience drabbles are located on the post at this link. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
Your task is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Ready for some sexy probably-won't-happen-in-Doomsday goodness? Here you go!!!
Drabble 9 - End of the World
Rating: Explicit
The world was ending. Again. Bucky didn’t care.
He’d booked the lakeside cabin to spend this weekend with you six months ago. The apocalypse could wait.
His phone kept buzzing.
Bucky dipped his head, tongue dragging slow and filthy through your soaked folds, sucking your clit until your back arched.
“Doomsday can wait until Monday. I’m busy," he murmured against your cunt, pushing two thick metal fingers inside you. You shattered with a cry.
Bucky lapped up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were sobbing. His belt clinked open.
“Good girl, now turn over, we’ve got all weekend.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the General Audience Drabbles if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Summary: After Bucky comes home late to the Tower, you finally confront him about the suspicion that has been eating you alive.
Wordcount: 5k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: angst with no comfort, hurt no comfort, cheating, infidelity, breakup, emotional confrontation, toxic relationship vibes, messy love, this doesn't have a happy ending
A/N: I don't really know where I'm going with this one. It's based on "Why do you love me" from Garbage. Cassie (@blobfishlol) is begging me to make a second part with Steve...
Masterlist
The Tower never truly slept.
It breathed.
Steel bones hummed through the walls, elevators whispered up and down the spine of the building, distant machinery throbbed beneath polished floors, and somewhere, always, a window reflected the sleepless glitter of Manhattan. Even at three in the morning, with half the team scattered across the city and the other half pretending they had lives outside the compound, Avengers Tower remained alive around you – too bright, too loud, too full of history to ever feel empty.
But that night, it felt hollow.
You stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced against the marble counter, the other wrapped around a mug gone cold long ago. The city shone beyond the glass in a thousand blurred smears of gold and white. Rain needled softly against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, the sound system played low jazz that no one had bothered to turn off after dinner.
You had not slept.
You had not eaten.
You had spent the last two hours telling yourself that you were dramatic, paranoid, cruel even, for letting the suspicion rot inside you like this. You had spent the last week doing much the same. Maybe longer. Maybe ever since you first noticed the silence where there should have been honesty, the way Bucky had looked past you when certain names came up, the way he touched your shoulder absentmindedly as if affection were now a habit and not a choice.
And still, maddeningly, you loved him.
That was the worst part.
Not the fear. Not even the doubt.
The love.
It made fools of people. It made you swallow things that should have been spat back out. It made you stand in a kitchen at three in the morning defending a man who had taught you exactly what his silences meant.
The elevator chimed.
You did not turn around.
You heard the muted tread of boots first, then the heavier pause that always marked the moment Bucky noticed you before deciding what version of himself to wear. The careful one. The weary one. The soft one built only for you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
His voice came rough with exhaustion. Familiar. Beautiful. Infuriating.
You stared into the dark surface of your coffee. “No.”
A beat passed.
He moved farther into the kitchen, quiet as a storm held back by clenched teeth. “You should’ve called me.”
The words almost made you laugh.
You set the mug down with delicate care, because if you gripped it any harder, it might have shattered. “Would that have helped?”
He hesitated.
That tiny pause – nothing, really, hardly anything – cut deeper than shouting ever could.
When you finally turned, he stood near the island with rain dampening the shoulders of his jacket, hair pushed back from his face, mouth drawn thin in that guarded expression he wore when he sensed danger but had not yet identified the source. His metal arm caught the kitchen light in cold silver lines. Bruised shadows lay beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Human. Ruined in all the ways that had once made your heart ache with tenderness.
He also looked guilty.
The realization struck not like lightning, sudden and bright, but like something old and ugly rising through mud. Something that had always been there. Something you had smelled long before you allowed yourself to name it.
You folded your arms over your chest. “Where were you?”
“Mission debrief ran late.”
You nodded once.
The lie came so smoothly it made your stomach turn.
Not because it was convincing. Because it was practiced.
You looked at him for a very long moment, and he held your gaze just long enough to pretend he could bear it. Then his eyes shifted – only slightly, only for a second – but enough.
Enough.
“You’re sick of all the rules,” you said quietly. “Is that it?”
A line appeared between his brows. “What?”
“All the explanations. All the consequences. All the basic expectations that come with being with someone.” Your voice remained calm, and somehow that calm frightened him more than anger would have. You saw it in the way his shoulders squared. “You’re tired of those?”
“Doll–”
“Don’t.”
He fell silent.
You had never hated the endearment before. Tonight it landed like an insult.
Rain slid in restless trails down the glass. The jazz in the hallway cut off mid-note. Somewhere in the Tower, a pipe knocked softly in the wall.
Bucky stepped closer, cautious now. “Talk to me.”
You gave him a thin smile that contained no warmth whatsoever. “That would require you to start first.”
His jaw flexed.
For a second, he looked almost offended, and that – more than anything – made something bitter uncurl fully in your chest.
You had spent months making room for his grief, his nightmares, his anger, his silence, his impossible history. You had never once asked him to be easy. You had never asked him to be pretty, or polished, or healed. God knew you were none of those things yourself. You were not soft enough for fairy tales. Not patient enough for sainthood. Not some delicate little thing made to wait by the window and smile when he finally remembered to come home.
You had done ugly things in your life. You had made mistakes. You had survived by becoming harder than the world wanted from you. You were not one of those bright, effortless women from magazines or movies – the kind who seemed born to be adored without ever having to demand truth.
But you had never lied to him like this.
“You want me to talk?” you asked. “Fine.”
His expression changed. Wariness darkened it.
You moved away from the counter and toward him, not to seek comfort but because the distance suddenly felt unbearable. “I think you’re sleeping with someone else.”
He went still.
Not confused.
Not shocked.
Still.
It lasted less than a breath, but it was enough to hollow out the room around you.
And there it was.
Proof did not always come dressed in photographs or lipstick stains or strangers’ perfume. Sometimes proof was simply the shape a person’s face made when the truth arrived before they had prepared a lie.
You let out a low, unsteady laugh. “Wow.”
His mouth opened. Closed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“No?” You tilted your head. “Then look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”
He did not.
The silence that followed was monstrous.
It filled the kitchen. It spilled over the counters and climbed the windows and sank its claws into your ribs. You felt suddenly cold all the way through, as if the rain had gotten inside your skin.
Bucky took another step toward you. “It’s not–”
“No.” Your voice cracked like a whip. “No, you don’t get to start with that.”
His hands flexed at his sides. “Listen to me.”
“I have listened to you.” The words came sharper now, years of restraint peeling back at last. “I have listened to every half-truth, every excuse, every ‘it’s complicated,’ every ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ every time you made me feel insane for noticing you were somewhere else even when you were standing right next to me.”
He looked stricken, but you could not stop.
Maybe you had held back too much for too long. Maybe all that swallowed hurt had finally climbed into your throat, choking and furious, demanding shape.
“I knew something was wrong,” you said. “I knew it. I could feel it every time you touched me like you were apologizing for something I hadn’t found out yet.”
Bucky’s face hardened with pain. “I never meant to hurt you.”
The laugh that tore out of you this time sounded ugly. “That’s convenient.”
He flinched.
Good.
For once, let him be the one cut open by the sound of your voice.
You turned away, pressing your palm to your mouth for a second, gathering yourself. The city gleamed beyond the windows like a wound that refused to close. In the reflection, you could see him behind you – broad-shouldered, silent, miserable. The tragic soldier. The broken hero. The man everyone forgave because sorrow wore his face so well.
When you spoke again, your voice came lower. “Who was she?”
His answer took too long.
That was answer enough.
You shut your eyes.
Not because you were surprised. Because some small, disgusting part of you had still been hoping for magic – for a loophole, a misunderstanding, anything but this. Some last foolish hope that maybe love, however damaged, still meant safety.
When you opened your eyes again, you looked at him through the reflection instead of directly. “Was it someone in the Tower?”
He said nothing.
Your blood ran cold.
“Oh my God.” You turned fully toward him. “It was.”
“Please,” he said, and now his voice was fraying too. “Please don’t do this like that.”
“Like what?” You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you. “Like I’m the one humiliating you?”
He dragged a hand over his face. The metal fingers of his left hand curled, uncurled. “It didn’t start the way you think.”
There it was: the oldest cowardice in the world. Not denial. Not accountability. Explanation.
Something inside you snapped into a strange, perfect clarity.
“It did start exactly the way I think,” you said. “You were lonely, or angry, or drunk, or self-destructive, or scared, or whatever story helps you sleep. And you chose someone else because for one moment it was easier than choosing me honestly.”
His eyes flashed. “You think this was easy for me?”
The words hung between you.
For a second, you could only stare.
Then you laughed again, and there were tears in it now, bright and furious and close to falling. “There you are.”
Bucky looked as if he wanted to reach for you, but he knew better now.
“You really are unbelievable,” you said. “You stand there after betraying me and ask if I think it was easy for you?”
He swallowed hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it is what you said.”
He did not argue.
You wiped roughly at one cheek and found it wet. You had not even felt the tears start. “Do you know what the sickest part is?” you asked. “I kept asking myself why you loved me.”
His face broke a little at that.
You went on anyway.
“Because none of this makes sense if you did.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I kept thinking maybe I was too much. Too angry. Too difficult. Not sweet enough, not pretty enough, not forgiving enough. Maybe if I were easier to love, you wouldn’t have needed…” You gestured helplessly, disgusted with yourself for even saying it aloud. “Someone else.”
His expression changed from pain to horror. “No.”
You looked at him flatly. “Don’t.”
“No,” he repeated, stepping toward you despite the danger. “You don’t get to put this on yourself.”
A terrible smile touched your mouth. “Now you care about fairness?”
“This wasn’t because of you.”
“Wasn’t it?” You folded your arms tighter, holding yourself together by force. “Because I’m running out of alternative explanations.”
“It was because I’m screwed up,” he said harshly, as if the confession might save something. “Because I ruin things. Because I didn’t know how to – ”
“How to what? Be faithful?” The edge in your voice could have cut glass. “That’s not some advanced emotional skill, Bucky.”
He recoiled as if struck.
Still, he did not deny it.
The rain intensified, ticking harder against the windows. Lightning flashed somewhere far beyond the skyline, turning the city momentarily silver. The kitchen lights felt too white, the room too clean for something this ugly.
You remembered the first time he had kissed you in this very Tower. It had been after midnight too, after a mission gone sideways, when everyone else had been asleep and the both of you had stood here with bruised knuckles and bad coffee and the quiet understanding that two ruined people had found something gentle in one another. He had kissed you like a man asking permission to exist. You had loved him for that tenderness, for the restraint, for the fragile awe of it.
Now, standing in the same place, you wondered how much of memory was fiction dressed up as devotion.
“Was it once?” you asked.
He stared at the floor.
Your heart hammered so violently you thought you might actually be sick.
“Bucky.”
His voice came almost inaudible. “More than once.”
The room lurched.
You grabbed the back of a chair, fingers locking around it until the wood bit into your palm. He moved instinctively, but one look from you stopped him dead.
More than once.
Not a mistake, then.
A choice. Repeated. Reinforced. Returned to.
You had thought the worst thing would be the image of it, the physical betrayal, the details your mind had already begun to invent against your will. But the truly unforgivable part was repetition. It meant time. It meant opportunity. It meant he had woken up after the first time, looked at the life you shared, and decided to cross the line again anyway.
Something in your face must have changed, because Bucky whispered your name like a prayer spoken too late.
You straightened slowly.
“No,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “No, that’s it.”
His head jerked up. “Don’t.”
You almost smiled at the absurdity. “You don’t get to tell me not to leave after cheating on me.”
“I’m not telling you what to do.” Desperation cracked through at last. “I’m asking you to let me explain.”
“You already did.” You let go of the chair. “It happened more than once. That’s the explanation.”
He took another step, then another, like a man approaching a ledge. “I love you.”
The words struck you with such force that for a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.
Then the anger came back twice as strong.
“Why?” you asked.
He froze.
The question landed between you with all the weight of a blade laid flat across skin.
You took one shaking breath. “Why do you love me?”
His mouth parted. No sound came.
You laughed through tears, and it sounded broken. “No, really. Tell me. Because I’d love to hear how those two things fit together in your head.” Your hand pressed against your chest. “Tell me how you loved me while lying to my face. Tell me how you loved me while touching someone else. Tell me how that works, because it’s driving me out of my mind.”
He looked destroyed.
You did not care.
Maybe a part of you would care tomorrow, or in a week, or in the lonely aftermath when grief softened anger into something more dangerous. But not tonight. Tonight you wanted the truth to hurt him the way it had hurt you.
“I wasn’t enough for you,” you said.
“You are everything.”
The answer came too quickly, too fervently.
That was what made it obscene.
Your eyes burned. “Then why did you do it?”
Bucky looked like a man standing before an open grave. He searched your face as though the right words might still exist there, waiting for him to recover them. But there were no right words. Not now.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, and the honesty of it was somehow worse than another lie. “I wish I did. I wish I had something that would make sense, something I could give you that would fix even a fraction of this. But I don’t.” His breathing roughened. “I hated myself every second.”
You stared at him. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Because it did not. His guilt did not erase the betrayal. His suffering did not cancel yours. You were tired – suddenly, bone-deep tired – of men who mistook self-loathing for atonement.
You moved around him toward the doorway.
He caught your wrist.
Not hard. Never hard. But enough.
You looked down at his hand, then up at his face.
He released you instantly, horror flashing across his features. “Sorry.”
Something about that nearly broke you for good. He could remember to be gentle now. Now.
You stepped back out of reach. “Don’t touch me.”
He lowered both hands like surrender.
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
Then, because cruelty was all you had left to keep from collapsing, you said quietly, “Was she prettier than me?”
His entire face changed, pain and disbelief colliding. “Don’t.”
“There’s that word again.”
“She had nothing to do with–”
“But she did.” Your voice sharpened. “She had everything to do with this. So answer me.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Because you know there’s no answer that doesn’t kill me.”
“There is no comparison,” he said, anguish rising. “There never was.”
You smiled without humor. “That’s such a lovely lie for a man who’s run out of useful ones.”
He flinched harder this time.
Good, some ugly part of you thought again, and you hated that part even while feeding it.
You turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen.
He followed.
Of course he did.
Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, sharp against the muted luxury of the Tower. Art lined the walls. Stark’s absurd taste in modern sculpture crouched in lit alcoves. Everything looked polished, curated, expensive – utterly detached from the ruin dragging itself through the corridor at four in the morning.
“You need to stop,” Bucky said behind you.
You did not break stride. “No. You need to stop following me.”
“I’m not letting you walk away like this.”
That made you spin on him so fast he nearly collided with you.
“Like this?” you said, voice rising for the first time. “Like this?” Your hands spread, furious and trembling. “How else do people walk away from being cheated on, Bucky? Gracefully? With a thank-you note?”
He looked as if the floor had vanished beneath him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t care what you meant.”
The words cracked through the empty hall. Somewhere nearby, a sensor light brightened in response.
You laughed once under your breath and dragged a hand through your hair. “God, I am so tired.”
He softened at once, reflexive, instinctive. “Come sit down.”
The tenderness in his tone nearly made you scream.
“Don’t you dare use that voice with me.”
He stopped cold.
“You don’t get to comfort me from the thing you did,” you said. “Do you understand that? You don’t get to be the knife and the bandage.”
His eyes glistened then, and he looked away.
For a second, seeing him on the verge of tears gave you no satisfaction at all. Only exhaustion.
You resumed walking, this time toward your room.
The Tower seemed to notice. Doors slid open automatically as you approached, lights lifting in your path one by one. Bucky stayed behind you, no longer trying to come close, but refusing to disappear.
When you reached your door, you stopped with your hand on the panel.
He halted several feet away.
“Say something,” he said hoarsely.
You kept your back to him. “I have said plenty.”
“Then say the thing that matters.”
Slowly, you turned.
He stood at the far end of the small pool of light outside your room, half in shadow, half illuminated. He had never looked more like a ghost than he did then – something dragged out of war and time and guilt, held together by brute will and failing in real time.
For one wild, self-destructive second, you wanted to cross the distance and let him hold you while your heart broke. That was how deep the habit of loving him ran. Even now, some traitorous part of you wanted refuge in the very person who had set your life on fire.
You hated him for that.
You hated yourself more.
When you spoke, your voice came very quiet.
“I kept getting back up,” you said. “Every time things got hard with you. Every time the nightmares were bad. Every time you pulled away. Every time you made me feel like loving you meant standing in the shadows and waiting for scraps of honesty.” Your mouth trembled; you held it firm by force. “I got back up and did it again because I thought you were worth it.”
He closed his eyes briefly, pain washing over his face.
“But this?” you continued. “This is the part where I stop.”
His eyes opened fast. “Please.”
“No.”
The word was not loud. It did not need to be.
It landed with finality neither of you could mistake.
He swallowed, throat moving hard. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
A sad, disbelieving smile touched your lips. “You really still think this is about timing.”
He stared at you.
You looked at him one last time, and because truth had already ruined everything, you gave him all of it.
“I love you,” you said. “That’s what makes this so pathetic. I love you enough that part of me will probably still want to forgive you tomorrow. Or next week. Or when I hear you moving around the Tower and I remember what it felt like to belong to somebody.” Your eyes burned again. “So I’m not giving myself that chance.”
Something in him visibly shattered.
You opened your door.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered.
You met his gaze across the threshold. “You already did.”
And then you went inside and shut him out.
Morning came cruelly.
No sleep softened the edges of the night. No revelation arrived to rearrange the facts into anything less grotesque. Dawn simply seeped into the Tower in pale winter bands, making everything look cleaner than it deserved.
You packed in silence.
Not much. Just enough.
A duffel bag lay open across your bed. Shirts, jeans, chargers, toiletries, a knife you kept hidden in the nightstand though you never needed it here, a photograph you almost left behind out of spite until you realized Bucky was in it and tore it cleanly in half before dropping only your side into the bag.
Your hands were steady. That frightened you more than tears would have.
Outside your room, the Tower had begun its usual morning rhythm. Voices in the kitchen. Music from the gym. The muted roll of wheels as someone carted equipment down the corridor. Life, indifferent and obscene, carrying on.
There had been a time when the Tower had felt like belonging. A patched-together mess of damaged people who chose, somehow, to become a home. But homes were fragile things. Sometimes all it took was one lie told too many times to reveal the fault line running underneath.
A soft knock came at the door.
You did not answer.
The knock came again, then Sam’s voice, careful and low. “Hey.”
You closed the zipper on your bag. “It’s open.”
Sam stepped in, took one look at the room, and went very still.
He was observant enough not to ask stupid questions.
His gaze flicked from the packed bag to your face, then to the torn half of the photograph lying in the wastebasket. Something sober and sad settled over him.
“You leaving?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“Want me to punch him?” he asked after a moment.
Despite everything, a small huff of laughter escaped you. “Tempting.”
Sam leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folding. “Nat already offered to help hide the body, and she doesn’t even know the details yet.”
That got a real laugh out of you – brief, broken, but real.
Then it vanished.
Sam’s expression gentled. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I know.”
“But?”
You stared at the strap of your bag. “But if I start talking, I might stay.”
Understanding crossed his face with quiet devastation.
He pushed off the wall and crossed to you slowly, giving you plenty of room, and held out a keycard. “Safehouse in Brooklyn. Stark uses it for witnesses and people who need quiet. Nobody’ll bother you there unless you want them to.”
You took the card. Your fingers brushed his briefly. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, none of this says a damn thing about you.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away before gratitude could become crying. “I know,” you lied.
Sam did not call you on it.
After he left, you stood alone for another minute, breathing through the ache. Then you picked up your bag and walked out.
The corridor seemed longer in daylight.
You nearly made it to the elevator before Bucky stepped into view at the far end of the hall.
He looked like hell.
He had changed clothes, but not slept. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, his expression stripped bare in a way you had rarely seen. No defenses. No calm. No practiced control.
Just wreckage.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then he saw the bag.
Every bit of color left his face.
“You’re really leaving.”
You pressed the elevator button. “Yes.”
The doors did not open fast enough.
He came closer, stopping well outside your reach this time. There was fear in him now, raw and human and overdue. “Please don’t go.”
You looked at the elevator display instead of him. “I’m not staying.”
“We can fix this.”
The bitterness that rose in you was almost gentle now. Almost pitying. “No, we can’t.”
“I can do better.”
“You should’ve done better before.”
He inhaled sharply as if the words had landed somewhere vital. “I know.”
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
You turned toward them, but his voice stopped you.
“I do love you.”
Your eyes closed briefly.
When you faced him again, there was nothing dramatic left in you. No fury. No shouting. Just the cold, terrible clarity of a wound exposed to air.
“That’s why this is so sad,” you said.
He stared at you, not understanding.
You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “Because maybe you do. In your way. In whatever broken, selfish, hungry way you call love.” Your gaze held his. “And it still wasn’t enough to make you faithful.”
He looked as though you had physically struck him.
Good, some part of you thought faintly. Another part simply felt tired.
You stepped into the elevator.
He did not follow.
For once, he knew better.
As the doors began to close, he said your name – not loudly, not desperately, just with the helpless ruin of a man finally realizing consequences were not abstract things but doors shutting in real time.
You met his eyes through the narrowing gap.
There had been a thousand versions of goodbye available to you once.
A kiss to his cheek before a mission. A murmured be safe. A hand squeezed in passing. A smile across the kitchen. A promise to come back.
This goodbye had no tenderness in it.
Only truth.
“Whatever you thought this was,” you said softly, “it isn’t love if it destroys me.”
Then the doors closed.
Brooklyn smelled like wet concrete and old brick.
The safehouse was small, anonymous, and blessedly silent. One bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow galley kitchen, a couch by the window, a fire escape rusting outside. No towering glass walls. No billion-dollar views. No ghosts in every corridor.
You dropped your bag by the couch and stood in the middle of the apartment listening to the silence.
No footsteps.
No machinery humming in the walls.
No Bucky.
The absence of him was immediate and enormous. It lived in the shape of every room, in the instinct that kept expecting a second heartbeat nearby, in the reflex that wanted to reach for your phone despite everything.
You did not call him.
You did not read the messages that began arriving within the hour.
At noon, twenty-three unread texts sat on your screen.
By two, there were thirty-one.
By evening, missed calls.
You silenced the phone and turned it face down.
Then you sat on the floor with your back against the couch and finally let yourself break.
It came in waves – rage first, then humiliation, then grief so fierce it stole all sound from you. You cried until your ribs hurt. Until your head pounded. Until the apartment dimmed around you and the city outside the window blurred into evening.
Somewhere between one sob and the next, a thought came, sharp and unbearable:
He still had the most beautiful face.
And that made it worse.
Because betrayal would have been easier, maybe, if ugliness had announced it first. If cruelty had looked cruel. If liars wore their sins plainly. But Bucky Barnes still looked like every aching thing you had ever wanted to save. He still looked like longing made flesh. And now that beauty simply made you sad.
By midnight, the tears had ebbed into a numb ache.
You rose, washed your face, and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
Your eyes were swollen. Your hair was a mess. Your skin looked blotchy, exhausted. You did not resemble the kind of heroine who got cinematic heartbreak and emerged luminous from it.
You looked wrecked.
Real.
And for the first time all day, that did not feel like failure.
You rested both hands on the sink and met your own gaze.
You were not a doll.
Not a fantasy.
Not some compliant little creature built to orbit a man’s moods and call it devotion.
You were angry, difficult, proud, wounded, imperfect. You had survived uglier things than this. You had made mistakes and been broken and gotten back up more times than anyone ever praised you for.
You could do it again.
The thought did not heal you.
It did not make the hurt noble or meaningful.
But it stood there quietly, stubborn as a pulse.
You could do it again.
Not love him again.
Not save him again.
Just rise.
Little by little.
Breath by breath.
Day by day.
Outside, sirens wailed somewhere distant and faded. Rain began again, light against the fire escape. The city kept moving, indifferent and immense.
You looked at yourself a moment longer, then switched off the bathroom light and went back into the small dark apartment that was, for tonight at least, yours alone.
In the silence, your phone buzzed once more against the table.
You did not touch it.
And for the first time since the night before, the choice felt like power.
Summary - The grumpiest grump becomes more grumpy when you try pet names with him.
Prompt - “Lovey Dovey, Lovey One”
Warnings - nothing but fluff
Word count - 233
A/N - My eleventh entry for the June Jukebox Scribbles.
A/N 2 - Society made the banner
“Oh Lover Boy.” Your teasing tone carried down the hall to where your boyfriend stood in the kitchen. When he stiffened you knew he heard but didn’t acknowledge you. "Lovey Dovey, Lovey One.” Still he didn’t give any verbal response but you could see the tension in his jaw. Biting your lip you came up behind him and waited for him to turn around before draping your arms around his waist. “Hi Chicken Butt.”
Horror and outrage twisted Curtis’ stoic face and you giggled harder the longer his expression remained the same.
“I’m sorry. That was mean.” His expression softened. “Honey Butt.” Curtis jumped when you squeezed his delectable derrière. Ears and cheeks burning his embarrassment clashed with his gruff appearance.
“Is this really necessary?”
At his grumbled question your cheekiness was replaced with concern. “I’m sorry. Really I mean it. Those were the worst ones I found and I just wanted to see your reaction.” When his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement you smiled at him. “If it makes you uncomfortable to have a pet name that’s fine.”
You made to walk away but Curtis caught your hand and pulled you back into his arms. Cerulean eyes burning with so many emotions and words that he didn’t often verbalise.
“Mine.” A genuine smile graced his lips as he kissed you softly before explaining. “I’m the only one who can call you mine.”
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: one sexy explicit drabble is posted under the cut here, and eight amazing General Audience drabbles are located on the post at this link. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
Your task is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Ready for some sexy probably-won't-happen-in-Doomsday goodness? Here you go!!!
Drabble 9 - End of the World
Rating: Explicit
The world was ending. Again. Bucky didn’t care.
He’d booked the lakeside cabin to spend this weekend with you six months ago. The apocalypse could wait.
His phone kept buzzing.
Bucky dipped his head, tongue dragging slow and filthy through your soaked folds, sucking your clit until your back arched.
“Doomsday can wait until Monday. I’m busy," he murmured against your cunt, pushing two thick metal fingers inside you. You shattered with a cry.
Bucky lapped up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were sobbing. His belt clinked open.
“Good girl, now turn over, we’ve got all weekend.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the General Audience Drabbles if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: eight amazing drabbles are rated General Audiences and can be found below the cut. One sexy explicit drabble has been posted on its own over here. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
YOUR JOB is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Thanks for reading!
Drabble #1 - Hope
Rating: General Audiences
The battle ended without fanfare. No portal in the sky, no impossible odds, no incursions. The multiverse was safe.
Weeks later Bucky was at an animal shelter, standing in front of a white kitten in the cage.
Retirement wasn’t what he’d expected. He imagined boredom, restlessness. His days became wonderfully ordinary: coffee, aimless walks, reading, sitting with Alpine on the balcony, watching the sunset.
He started imagining a different future: go back to school, reelection.
Perhaps, settle down, start a family.
It felt unbelievable. The universe had stopped asking from him or taking from him.
Bucky was allowed to live.
🚫
Drabble #2 - Shots Fired
Rating: General Audiences
"This is stupid!" Sam yelled, waving his gun in the air.
"The games the game." Bucky chuffed with a smirk.
"You're the one who suggested this." Yelena chuckled alongside Bucky.
"Yeah a nice normal game of Lazer tag. Not Lazer tag with the world's best assassin!" Sam continued.
"Look man," Joaquin huffed as he joined Sam's side, "Maybe we just call it quits, we've gone 5 rounds, we keep losing."
"No we go again." Sam replied sternly, pointing at Bucky with narrowed eyes, "You, left hand only."
"Fine by me." Bucky grinned before jogging back into the darkened zone laughing.
🚫
Drabble #3 – Do This All Day?
Rating: General Audiences
Sam laughed once humorless. “Trust? Don’t start with me on trust, Buck. I had to hear about your new team from the evening news.”
“That’s not what happened.” Bucky groaned
“No? ’Cause it sure as hell felt like it.” Sam's tone cold.
Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight. “They have information. Information that can help.”
Sam opened his mouth, anger ready.
Another voice beat him to it.
“You two gonna do this all day?”
Everything in Bucky locked up. He turned too fast, breath catching painfully.
Steve stood there, steady and impossible.
For one stunned second, Bucky only stared. Disbelieving.
“Steve?”
🚫
Drabble #4 - Doomsday, Declined
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky is trying, with effort, to understand a tax-credit rider. It’s not going well, but it is going privately, which seems important.
You’re halfway through explaining depreciation when his phone rings.
YELENA BELOVA
Decline.
Again.
Decline.
YELENA: Stop being dramatic. Is only maybe end of world.
Swipe.
SAM: don’t be like this.
His jaw shifts.
Swipe.
DEADPOOL: Winter grandpa, Kevin says assemble.
Swipe.
You lower the bill.
“James.”
“No.”
“Could be important.”
“It’s always important.” Bucky’s phone flips facedown. “I’ve appeared in every MCU phase. The other guy who managed that turned into a tree. Let me legislate in peace.”
🚫
Drabble #5 - Apocalypse Meow
Rating: General Audiences
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, preparing to face the end of the world was familiar. Everything after that was not.
“That was anticlimactic,” Steve said.
“They can’t all be Thanos,” Bucky agreed.
“Hardly worth coming out of retirement. This happen a lot since I left?”
“Fury’s cat’s saved the day before, but it’s a first for Alpine.” After a beat, Bucky added defensively, “She’s still a kitten.”
Kitten or not, her purrs almost drowned out Doom’s booming admiration while he pet her rather than lay waste to the world.
“Come on, Steve. Fight’s back on if I can’t rescue my cat!”
🚫
Drabble #6 - Them
Rating: General Audiences
The ozone on his tongue was sharp and growing sharper by the second.
Something was wrong.
More than the battle chaos amidst the ruins of the Stark Expo grounds.
Bucky turned slowly, surveying his surroundings.
Then he saw them.
Each wore his face but not his history. One in a crisp, white uniform from some alternate century, a stillness to him like a wolf that knew every trick in the book and didn’t need to snarl. The other a grizzled wreck: gray at the temples, sleep deprivation tattooed under his eyes. Both sported the arm—his arm, that ugly, magnificent thing.
🚫
Drabble #7 – Tumblr to the Rescue
Rating: General Audiences
He was dying. Fine. He'd done it before.
Then the portal opened. Blue. Tumbling. Chaos shaped like small circular portraits of strangers, cats, anime characters, and— unsettlingly— him. Long hair. Short hair. One arm. Two. Smiling, something he didn't remember doing.
One handed him a juice box.
Bucky stared at it. Stared at himself, multiplied, in eras he couldn't fully account for.
"This," announced an icon of a small white blue-eyed cat, "will not happen in Doomsday."
He had no idea what that meant.
Something about the cat felt familiar. He couldn't place it.
He drank the juice box anyway.
🚫
Drabble #8 – Fix It
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky sheathed his knife when you walked in.
“Bucky,” you began softly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna make the writers fix it.”
“Fix what exactly?”
“Everything,” he answered through his teeth. “Like Natasha dying.”
“Bucky…”
“And Steve’s ending.”
“Bucky.”
“And Sam and I being on the outs again.”
“Bucky!”
He paused to look at you.
“You can’t fix it,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be aware that you’re in a movie, and I shouldn’t even be here.”
He blinked, confused. “Then… what do I do?”
You smiled. “Leave it to the fanfiction writers. They’ll know what to do.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the Explicit Drabble if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort
Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 8800
Summary:
Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.
There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.
And so is fate.
Series masterlist
Warnings: 18+ just in case, brief mention of an attempted sexual assault (interrupted or fought off), alcoholism in a parent, shitty parenting (father), mixing of two faiths and several mentions of religion/praying, very brief mention of suicidal thoughts, minor injuries (bruises, scrapings), kidnapping and arson, losing one's home, misogyny (hello), but also Steve being the King we all deserve in all senses of the word and first hints of fluff
A/N: divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; technically, this was supposed to be a submission to @stargazingfangirl18 's Hoelidays event, but as usual (prompts under the fic), it got out of hand an it took me forever. Ah well. Happy reading!💕
Your feet were cold.
Shoes barely hanging on your feet as they shuffled over the stone floor, you could feel the cold seeping into your skin and weary bones; and yet, it was the chill blooming inside your ribcage that you could not hope to chase away. You doubted there was a shawl warm enough to do so; let alone this sad worn thing you cherished for it had once belonged to your mother.
You shivered. You seemed to always shiver these days. The loneliness that coursed through your veins was like the water of the mountain stream; still fresh and unforgivingly icy.
Two long years since you mother had passed.
Two long years since your father had found the solace from his grief at the bottom of a bottle.
Two long years since your own solace had been none but thready dreams of ungraspable warmth. Dreams of future unknown but steady and sure. That, and memories.
You smiled as your mind conjured the kind features of your mother, your hands tender as you placed the wreath on the fireplace to honour her, her favourite flowers weaved through. She had been of wild nature, full of blooming life, foolish faith in tales of gods that might have once walked the earth. Instead of a lullaby, you had been sung tales of Lady Fortune watching over you, red threads of fate leading you as they had once led your grandmother to run off with an alchemist chasing dreams of creating a cure for humankind miraculous enough to make one walk side by side with gods; with love and hope and faith.
The women of our family have been blessed, she used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls.
You used to believe her, a silly childhood wonder; a straw to clutch at once the childish foolishness had left you. Perhaps it had been truth for your grandmother and for her; the way you remembered her and wished to do so, your mother had been warmth incarnate, even as your father had been dimming her light slowly as years had been passing. She used to be the heart of your home.
You caressed the blossoms in soft memory of her; already wilting, just like your faint smile.
It slipped altogether as you moved slightly to the right, hands turning shaky, another shiver whispering past your spine.
There was no warmth where you had lived for the past two years.
And yet. Like the good daughter, you placed the little wooden cross to honour thy father too. That was what the scripture he used to recite at dinner commanded you; that was what his voice had been shouting for two years straight when you fought to keep the chalice of mead off his lips at the tavern so you’d have enough coins to put bread on your table, so you’d be able to come to the market with goods rather than empty hands of beggars.
He had loved once, you wanted to believe, both you and your mother. His love had been harsher, roughened by the touch of a man who had worked from sunrise to sunset, his words and deeds teaching you discipline. His faith in the new God, in His commandments and His wrath had been unshakeable; a stark contrast to what his hands had become once he had lost the battle against the demon of alcohol.
He had been gone but three days; perhaps his sins had angered his God at last.
His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.
How could it not?
Keeping a household and the house despite the debts which your father had been trying his best to build, sleepless nights with one hand under the pillow clutching a knife for moments when his drunken haze would blur his sight enough to confuse his daughter sleeping on the floor for his wife willing to perform her marital duty. The scar on his neck from your nails had never fully healed; yet the cause of the permanent reminder had been erased from his mind the moment he drunk enough to barely remember his own name. But you remembered, always. The horror of what could have occurred had never left you and nor did the determination to defend yourself better next time.
His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.
His death, gods help you, brought fresh struggles.
How could it not?
For all the hardship he had created, for all he had had less wit than a toddler in his last days, he had been a man in the house. A force to be reckoned with, even as he hadn’t truly been.
In the eyes of many, he had served a shield.
From the moment of his dying breath, the one sharp knife in your house which resided under your pillow still, was to protect you from threats that would eventually come from the outside.
Some villagers came through, aiding you with arrangements. Others sympathised.
The lot of them merely saw a lamb prepared for slaughter, a stray cat with barely any claws they could simply take. A new man to take over the house at the edge of the town and the unwed woman in it. Ripe for taking. Easy.
Like fresh hell.
They could try.
They’d find just how little claws you had, small paws that were skilled in cutting flesh of animals and would not shy away from slashing animals in human form if it meant survival. Gods knew the blasphemous thoughts of doing so to your father on the harshest of days had crossed your mind. And that had been your father, a man you had been made believe to have to honour, always, even at times when his mind was but that of an animal, led by instincts.
At the very core, you were but an animal too. The whole world was.
You shook your head to chase away the darkest of your thoughts. You swallowed against the lump in your throat as you took a step back, and ignored the grumble in your stomach. Tomorrow, you’d have to go to the market as a beggar. But that would be tomorrow; and tomorrow was a new day.
A new trial of survival.
Tears welling in your eyes, your gaze returned to the tribute to you mother, rough fingertips caressing the already dying petals.
You had been taught to honour thy father, but you had always loved your mother most and remembered her fondly for all she was.
Despite that, you genuinely doubted she had been right; Lady Fortuna was not watching over you. Perhaps your mother was still, at least. You sent a little but all the more heartfelt prayer, almost feeling a caress of her gentle touch on your cheek as the tears spilled.
Loving. Warm. A promise.
And yet, the cold creeping from below your feet grew, another shudder running down your spine.
The ground shook where you were standing, causing you to stumble back, cracking of gravel reaching your ears.
The world swung, tilting off its natural axis.
And then you were falling, and falling, and falling.
You jolted awake, the insistent cracking and rough swinging of the world as you laid on your side penetrating your senses, causing you to scrunch your face and squint against the light assaulting your eyes.
They must have opened the cover of the wagon, your mind had supplied fast and unhelpful, scrambling to remember still who was the they, and what were the when and why. Memories trickled in slowly, weaved through sensations and despair creeping to the back of your neck.
A thin blanket had been thrown over your shoulder, and having slipped, it’d let the cold follow you into the dreamland. Your hands felt shaky, cramping as they had been forced to stay in the same position for too long, tied and folded under your cheek au lieu of a pillow, the rope harsh against your wrists, cutting into your skin. Your left cheek still throbbed slightly where they had hit you as a warning to put up fight no more. The one pleasant sensation against your skin was the new clothes they provided you with, a fabric of a quality you hadn’t worn in years, firm but soft and at least a little warm against the first gusts of winter.
The light was sharp behind your eyelids squeezed tight, but the insistent sounds of gravel under the wooden wheels of the wagon were muffled in your right ear as you lay on your side.
The one sense that was assaulted only gently was your sense of smell. Spices, wine, wood and earth; the smell of a merchant’s life.
They had paid him to get you to Starkerbürg, you recalled. Hired him to help you travel the distance and cross the border without trouble; to cross the border like you hadn’t been ripped away from the only home you had ever known, snatched like a satchel of coins at a busy marketplace the same way they had cut it off from people who had been struggling as it was and yet thieves still targeted them.
Or in your case, not thieves. Mercenaries.
You supposed that it made no difference to them. To men like that, who bargained their life for gold and violence, a person, let alone a woman, was merely a thing to steal and possess too. Easily weighted in little gold; an object to buy or sell to the highest bidder.
You tasted tears as you squeezed your eyes further, few salty droplets rolling down your cheeks and seeping into your hair as you nuzzled further into your hands.
You did not dare to move another inch as you heard shuffling right behind your back, forcing a sleepy hum through your lips and praying they would think you were still sleeping, simply stirring at the constant noise.
You prayed, to all the gods you knew; prayed for a few fleeting moments of peace, last moments of reprieve from the sorrows that awaited you in the future, and the horrors of the past hours that had left but hollowness in your ribcage.
Your home, burning down in ashes in front of your blurry gaze; a battle-roughened hand griping your chin to ensure you saw the modest house, barely holding together as it had been, crumble to smouldering piles of debris and dust.
And with it, your life and your freedom.
There had never been much choice in your life. With money tight, your future had been aligned by your father who wished to arrange your marriage as that of most – a business deal – despite your mother having wished for you to marry out of love. After her passing, with your father having lost interest in everything but the bottle, it might seem you had gained. It might seem you could choose your own fate; in truth, you merely could play with the poor cards you had been dealt a little more freely.
And then the two men barging into your home and overpowering you too easily had changed the rules of the game completely and took the last chance to win free will in the fight for your existence.
The weapon you tried to protect yourself with was pressed against your throat in a flash, the unforgivingly hard and cold wall digging into your back as they trapped you against it; a sneer and a grin, a hiss to be careful not to damage the goods – you. You were the goods, you realized fast, even as you understood nothing else. Your heart was pounding loud enough to nearly drown their words, the panic squeezing your ribcage too overwhelming to try and wiggle out of the unrelenting grip.
“Oh angel… don’cha fight no more. Be good…” one of them husked to your ear, a touch of his tongue to your cheek sending a crippling tremble through your body, your knees turning weak as he pressed his full weight on you. Gods, he was so huge, if he wanted to slit your throat or else, you’d be powerless, your attempt to move a mere inch entirely futile- “…and don’cha worry. Gonna get’cha some royal fucken’ lovin’.”
You cried. You begged until your voice was hoarse. You offered to beg for a little of coin tomorrow just for them, but they just laughed, as if the idea of you giving up all you owned and could earn in a day, as pitiful as it was, amused them like nothing had in years.
“Sorry, angel. Where we goin’, them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us and earn us a whol’lat more,” the other one chuckled, grabbing your wrist and hauling you towards the door, uncaring for how you stumbled and nearly fell to your knees.
The fire in the fireplace had been long dead; as you were dragged out, too terrified to make another sound, the man who had held your own knife to your throat discarded the weapon and went to start a fire. A fire that consumed your every hope.
The other one held your throat in a vice so you’d have to watch your life burn.
Just like he kept watch when he rushed you to bath yourself in the lake miles and miles away from your town, having paid to a merchant for a ride to the neighbouring kingdom of Starkerbürg.
You had already crossed the border, you recalled. You had been barely half-awake, having silently cried yourself to sleep, when a knife had suddenly been pressed to your side under the thin blanket. A husky threat to not dare and make a sound of protest, not to move too much. The merchant had told the soldiers guarding the border you were his daughter and your family was simply aiding men, tired from their journey, to get home.
It had been your chance, you supposed, to try to make a run for it. You had considered it, too, your heart hammering against your chest at the very thought.
But what good would have it done? Had you tried to bolt, you’d stand no chance against men trained to fight and kill with efficiency. Had you spoken up, it would have been but one voice against the three; one of a woman, no less. Had a miracle occurred and the soldiers had believed you somehow rather than the men trying to convince them you were a half-wit unaware of what you were speaking, there was no guarantee the soldiers would survive the fight, let alone win. Your hands were already tied; you would not have them stained with the blood of good men whose only crime would be coming to your aid and serving their king with honour.
And they would have been killed.
For you doubted mercenaries had such thing as a code of honour, even if they hoped to join the Royal Army of Starkerbürg, which was known to have one of the strictest ones there were.
It was beyond obvious that it was not the honour the two men had taken interest in; they chased another rumour. They had heard the king paid handsomely to those who served him. Serving in his army was a true privilege.
It would be no easy feat to join the Royal Army; it would not be easy to win his favour. For that, a gift was in order, they believed.
You.
Something to warm the king’s bed as he was apparently yet to take a wife.
Something to entertain and serve him however it would please him.
You dug your nails into your palm, biting your cheek to stifle the sob clawing up your throat. Crying never helped; you had learned as much from your father a long time ago and you had already attempted begging for your life before.
“Ya’ sure ‘bout this, Henry? She ain’t the prettiest flower there is…”
You stiffened as you heard the younger one – Dimitri, as you’d learned – utter half-heartedly, realising that it had probably been their voices what had roused you from the much-needed rest.
Your heart stumbled in your chest as the other one merely sneered in response.
“Yeah? Then why’d ya’ try to fuck her at the lake when ya’re supposed to just keep the damn watch? Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.”
You couldn’t supress the shiver at the memory, your stomach churning as you could still feel the touch of Dimitri’s rough hand on your breast just as you had been about to step into the cold water, huge arm pulling you back to him, fingers twisting your nipple while his other hand sneaked south to your inner thigh. The startled shriek erupting from your throat had been what saved you rather than trying to yank yourself free; in mere seconds Henry was there, ripping the man’s hands off before he could violate you further.
You did not care that you ended up plunging into the damn-near icy lake at that moment; if anything, it soothed the bile rising up your throat as the older man shouted about ‘fuckin’ half-wits’ and you ‘havin’ to be untouched and not a used whore’.
Your felt your nails piercing the skin of your palms as you clenched your fists tighter at the memory, teeth biting into your cheek so hard you tasted blood.
“Tis true she’s still snug and warm ‘nough I bet.”
Fresh goosebumps erupted on your skin as you heard Dimitri talk about you that way, even as that was hardly the first time you witnessed men reducing a woman to that. Hardly the first time you had been spoken to like that.
“Exactly. And she gotta stay ‘dat way…” Henry reminded him pointedly, earning a scoff.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, man. I got she’s a gift ‘n’ all, but… ya’ think he’ll even--- she ain’t real a wife material for a king. They love their bloodlines ‘n’ nobility ‘n’ shit.”
“Ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth either, Dim. He’s one of us,” Henry noted, spinking your interest despite it all.
You had heard as much. That the king of Starkerbürg had not been high-born – not even high-born enough to have become a knight. It was the eccentric ways of the late king Anthony that had allowed him to rise, first as a soldier, then a knight and an advisor and eventually, a king.
But you had heard all sorts of things of foreign kings and kingdoms; of fairies and magic and war machines denying all natural laws, of the kindest noblemen and virtuous mercenaries and corrupt holy fathers and servants of the gods.
The word was that the king of Starkerbürg, Steven Rogers I, had not only been low-born, but had earned the blessings of the God of war, and of the son of the Holy Spirit, a blessing having turned him from a weakling to a sword-wielding beast on a battlefield and into a wolf-like beast on a full moon. The word was that he had died of an animal bite once and came back to life with agony that had reshaped his mind and body and those who’s drink his blood would change as well.
The word was he was as kind and generous as he was dangerous, sharp wits competing those of the wisest scholars, headstrong and as powerful as the gods that had blessed him. The word was that his soul was as beautiful as his face was handsome.
It would be naïve to believe all tales.
But you had to believe that at least the one of him being a good man at heart had some true to it, since the one about his origin apparently did.
“’n’ like every one of us, he’ll like a pretty thin’ to keep his bed warm. And not just bed,” Dimitri chuckled, his words dispersing your hopeful thoughts in an instant, replaced by dread.
“Now ya’re fuckin’ gettin’ it. And when it comes to ‘dat… princess, weaver, servant or whore, ‘tis all the same if she’s a virgin.”
Burning tears spilled over your closed eyelids once more, breath catching when Henry continued.
“As for bloodlines… might not she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastar’.”
At that, you winced so hard you could not hope to disguise it, not with the whimper pushing past your lips.
A heavy hand landed on your shoulder not two seconds later, grabbing and yanking to roll you over to face them, an order to look at them not something you dared to defy even as your gaze swam in tears.
It was a curse to see Henry’s smirk so clearly as he wiped your tears carelessly, following the salty trails down your cheek and to your mouth, pulling at your wobbly bottom lip.
“Look at ‘dat… our sleepy beauty is ‘wake. Good. Gotta prep ya’ for how to talk to His Majesty…” he said, while Dimitri yanked at the rope binding your wrists together to haul you up, the twine cutting into your skin; you did not make a sound despite the pain; half-stubborn, half-terrified. If he revelled in your fear and pain, you would not give him anymore satisfaction of seeing it.
Henry’s hand never left your face, gripping your chin painfully as he leaned closer, his wine-stained breath fanning over you as his lips spread in a slow, menacing smile.
“And ya’ll be good as a lamb, ain’t ya’? ‘cause if not, we’ll slaughter ya’ like one ’n’ find another. Nothin’ special ‘bout ya’, got ‘dat?”
Somewhere deep within your ribcage, a growl worthy of a wolf was born in defiance of being a good lamb for those monsters; but it did not crawl out. Instead, the rough hand squeezing your jaw forced you to nod, before it let you go and patted your cheek.
“Gods, Henry, ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin-" Henry’s glare snapped to the younger man, who chuckled and raised his hands defensively, shaking his head. “Kiddin’, man, fuckin’ kiddin’, don’cha look at me like ‘dat… ya’re thinkin’ it too.”
Henry only hummed before turning his gaze back to you, smiling so sweetly you’d almost believe him to be kind. Having already learned what kind of a man he was, however, his feigned kindness had every alarm bell in your head go off, your heart pounding so hard against your sternum you worried it might punch its way out.
“Be bad tho… and ya’ pay with blood,” he said, his gaze darkening with an emotion that made your stomach twist. “Be good… and ya’ get to see if King Rogers’s court is real generous as they say.”
Whether King Rogers’s court was generous was yet to be revealed; whether the court was rich however, was clear the moment you set foot to the city surrounding the castle. The castle stood high above the settlement, basking in the midday sunrays – but to anyone who’d set eyes on the city, it would be apparent the court had not stomped on the people of the city to rise to glory.
Life was bustling in the streets, people flowing in all directions; invitations to give a look to this goods and that, arguments over prices, laughter and chatter of neighbours as well as strangers finding a common struggle or joy, aroma of meat and cheese and spices hovering in the air.
As the merchant stopped the wagon at its designated place for the market, Henry tossed him a satchel full of coin as soon as he climbed down, beckoning to Dimitri so you’d both join him. Obediently, having no choice but to be, you did, while both men threw a sack with the little they had over their shoulder, looking around for the fastest route to the castle.
You didn’t take but a few steps before your trio realised you might not make it, not with the strange and fully justified looks casted your way; where the men walking by your side were nothing out of ordinary in the streets, a woman wearing nothing but a warm dress with a thin shawl and a rope around her wrists was. Henry soon ushered you to a less busy alley, untying your hands with words of warning as dark as his gaze, the sensation of a blade by your hip familiar by now.
Try to run and ya’ be dead before takin’ two steps.
You only nodded as the rope fell off, the relief of finally being able to move your hands and arms nearly chasing fresh tears into your eyes.
As Dimitri dragged you back to the main street, you tried not to look at the faint bruises forming around the marks where the rope had cut into your skin deep enough to draw blood. Instead, silvery sparks suddenly hovering in the air caught your eye.
Snow.
The warmth of sunrays would not allow the snowflakes to pile up upon landing, melting as soon as they’d touch the cold but not yet freezing ground; but in the air, they sparkled like thousands of tiny fireflies.
You heard children laughing, attention shifting fully from your captors walking by your side, one on each side just in case you did try to flee. For a moment, seeing the group of boys and girls who couldn’t be older than six summers trying and catching the snowflakes warmed your heart, a ghost of a smile passing your lips.
Nothing sweeter than child-like joy; you had felt it sparkle nights ago in your heart too, when you weaved the wreath for your mother’s altar, unable to resist and weaving a crown from the heather behind your house, one of the flowers strong enough to withstand the first touches of winter. You had placed it on your head, closing your eyes, lips curling for just a few precious moments; remembering your mother’s gentle hands having done the same often, whispering how one day, you’d have a crown like that in your hair on your wedding day, becoming the queen of the man whose heart would then be yours.
You were no longer a child, for many summers; for the past few years, you had been doubting fate would be as kind to you. Now, you were certain such happiness was unattainable, nothing but a tale for children indeed.
You might have a child of your own one day; scrambling to get a piece of bread for them every single day after the king you’d serve as a bedwarmer would inevitably casted you away for you were not fit to be a queen indeed.
The snowflakes melted on your skin, gentler than the tears kept at bay. As they grew in size, you heard the children’s excitement but an echo behind you. Just like where any chance of joy for you lied. Left behind.
When the sun hid behind the clouds, the silver fireflies turned but into a grey-white dust.
Ashes.
Ashes that had been flying through the air and settling on the ground where your house had been standing, around you, landing in your hair, on your cheeks, on your new dress.
You let your eyes slip shut, your arm tugged at as you stumbled over your feet.
“Don’cha fall asleep on us now, angel. ‘Tis almost yar’ time to shine,” Henry muttered into your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice, the anticipation of victory, of gold coins clinking in his pockets as he’d exchange you like a commodity no different than a piece of meat for a place in the Royal Army.
You, on the other hand, anticipated nothing. Expected nothing.
Simpler that way.
Even seeing the townspeople not suffering at first glance, mind whispering of perhaps King Rogers being one of the kinder ones, you did allow yourself to hope for nothing.
If he showed kindness, you’d latch onto it.
If he showed much more cruelty than your captors… perhaps you’d find a moment to flee to one of the towers of the castle, more than tall enough for a fall from them to be fatal.
One had to try to play the game of life with the cards they were dealt – your father knew of this more than anyone when on his brighter days, he’d try to get rid of the burden of some of his debts by winning in a gamble. But sometimes, the only way to play the game was to end it.
Gulping at the icy shiver running down your spine at the mere idea, you looked up to the skies.
As the snowflakes grew as large as baby birds’ feathers, you wondered if this was how the angels, the creatures of the one single God, his harbingers and warriors, wept; if they lost feathers of their snow-white wings instead of tears. Perhaps they did.
You wouldn’t know, Henry might be calling you one, but you were no angel.
When you had wept, it had been silently and much less beautiful.
And by now, you had no tears left anymore.
A couple with two children no older than three and five summers clinging to their mother’s skirts had trailed out of the doors just as you had entered, your arrival to the royal hall announced by a booming voice of the guard.
No names. No title. No purpose of the visit.
All but the last people of Starkerbürg wishing to be granted some of the King Rogers’s time and attention.
You had not dared to look up as high as where his throne sat on the platform on the other end of the hall; gaze lowered, you needed nothing but to lie one foot next to the other over and over, path set by the two men still walking by your side. Yet, your heart stumbled in its race in your chest as if it could feel the presence of a man said to be nearly as mighty with a sword as a god and a lot more benevolent than one.
Gulping at the whispers rising in what must have been a nearly empty hall, your hands closed into fists, the wounded skin on your wrists protesting with the movement. You forced yourself to release the grip once you had halted in your steps, just a moment after your companions had.
Following their lead still, since you had no experience in meeting a royal, you bend in your knees, head consciously bowing lower than before.
“Rise and be welcomed to the royal court of Starkerbürg,” a strong, surprisingly warm voice welcomed you, sending a shiver all over your skin so intense you nearly forgot yourself to follow the order. You rose but a moment after Henry and Dimitri; your knees strangely weak, a sensation that should be unpleasant but was not. “What concern do you bring and what issue do you wish us to assist you with?”
Your head snapped up before you could think twice of your actions, the words, while carrying authority, chosen much kinder for a ruler than you’d expect.
Your gaze met that of the man speaking such, a pair of sky-blue eyes trapping you with no hope for you to escape.
Your breath caught in your lungs, heart stunned into stillness.
The warmth that had spread over your skin seeped deeper, rushing through your veins and gathering into a heat curling around your heart like flames that should have burned, but gently wrapped around the poor muscle instead.
By gods, the man sitting on the throne was nothing short of magnificent, even as his clothes and the golden crown sitting on his head were much less opulent than you’d thought they’d be.
A large figure with broad shoulders one could easily believe had indeed been blessed by the God of war, the sword resting in its sheath propped up by the throne by his hip, ready to be drawn if needed; sharply cut features of his face, softened by a crown of sand-light hair, eyes framed by long lashes, lips plump enough as if made to speak kind word – and one could easily believe he was thus blessed by the son of the Holy Spirit, or an angel himself to.
Hopes rose within you before you could as much as try to stomp upon them to avoid disappointment and pain. Whether King Rogers changed into a wolf-like beast on the battlefield or whether his blood could reshape human beings, you would not know and wouldn’t dare to guess; but should his soul indeed be as beautiful as his face was handsome, you might not be entirely doomed.
The shocking warmth in his gaze despite the colour of his eyes – slightly diluted by a speckle of green you should not be able to see from such distance and yet you did, you reckoned – told you that he just might be the kind and generous ruler some painted him to be too, despite the explosive power humming beneath.
Over the rush of blood through your veins, thundering in your temples, you were distantly aware one of the men by your side was speaking. Yet, in your haze, still captivated as well as captured by the cage of King Rogers’ gaze, you could not but wonder if he himself could decipher the words spoken any more than you could. All you could focus on was the expanding of your ribcage and calming your heart, warm but startled, and the depth of his eyes, revealing nothing and all at the same time.
Beautiful.
He was breathtakingly beautiful, and you could feel his presence tingle in your very being, from the depth of your ribcage to your fingertips, all-consuming in a way you had never experienced before.
You winced when he tore away his gaze from yours at last, breathing in deeply for what must have been the first time in long minutes, blinking for the first time since you had set eyes on him.
“I see,” he said, his tone impossible to decipher. His hands propped up on the armrests before he rose to his feet, reaching for the sword, clasping it to his belt with the ease of a man who was more used to carrying it than not. “So you wish to join my army and to ensure my favour, you brought me a gift?”
Your gaze fell to the floor at the way he spoke the word ‘gift’ harsher than any other, pushing it through tightened jaw; disdain, mockery and loathing.
Cold weight settled in your stomach, the foundations of hope his displays of kindness had built cracking. The shiver creeping down your spine was truly icy this time and you could not but wince slightly when you heard the rustle of cloth as he must have stepped down from the platform.
Oh he was not pleased with your presence. Not at all. And while you could not find it in your heart to believe – foolishly so, given he had been and remained a soldier – that he would hurt you, he might have no qualms about banishing you.
To nowhere.
For you no longer had a home to return to.
Even without looking up, not daring to, you could feel a quiet and all the more dangerous anger rolling off the king with every step he took closer to you and you squeezed your eyes shut with horrible anticipation, trying to get a hold of the tears that threatened to spill when recalling the ashes of what had been the house you had been born in and lived all of your life.
Everything had been ripped away from you – and for what?
For an outraged ‘You brought me a gift?’.
The vanity. The foolishness. The madness.
Not of the king, however, you could not blame him; of the two men who thought violence was answer to all.
Henry didn’t speak a word until the king stopped but a few steps from you, the rustle of cloth falling silent; much like the entirety of the hall, your own breathing too loud to your ears, intruding.
You winced at the sudden clarity and careful pronunciation in Henry’s voice, blind pride audible despite the tone the king has used.
“Yes. Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“And I assume you asked the lady whether she wanted to travel with you, judging by the bruising around her wrists and on her face?”
You slowly blinked your eyes open as you could feel the warmth of the king’s gaze on your head, his voice, on the other hand, like ice. Your heart fluttered, surprised at the acknowledgement of the harm done to you.
Gaze flickering to your wrists, you supposed it was rather hard to miss; you could only imagine what your face looked like, purposely having avoided as much as glancing into any mirrors while led through the castle before. It was entirely possible you carried one spectacular shiner; but judging by the fact that your companion shifted by your side, only now noticing the king’s outrage, it was more likely the bruise was rather subtle and they had hoped it would remain undetected.
Or at least that King Rogers would not care.
Something in you hummed in sweetly at the fact he seemed to do so; how deeply and how long it would last and what it would mean for you, was yet to be seen however.
“We barely touched her! If she ain’t been such a-” Dimitri blurted out on your left, while Henry on your right cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off with a much more levelled voice – and with enough wit to sound almost regretful.
“We gave her options, Your Majesty,” he lied.
The lie had come to him so easily your head snapped up to him, rage flaring in your very core, hands clenching into tight fists.
Sure you had been given bloody options! To die – possibly defiled since you’d be no use to them – or comply.
Some options those were!
And some help those you had never failed to lend a helping hand were too, looking the other way and pretending to not see or even be awoken when a house caught fire in the dead of the night!
From the corner of your eye, you’d swear you could see the king suck in a generous slow breath, reminded of his presence, as gentle as a caress and a warning at once; you lowered your gaze in an instant, the anger still bubbling in your veins but silently so.
He was outraged at their treatment of you, it seemed – it would be wise of you to be as respectful as possible so you soon wouldn’t fall out of his favour too.
“I see. Would you be as kind as to tell me what your options were, my lady?”
You gulped as you saw him shift towards you only, an instinct ruling you to bend in your knees once more, head bowed low in a display of respect; meanwhile, the entirety of your mind busied itself with the fact he had just addressed you as a lady.
You breathed in shakily, trying with all your might to ignore the fact he had called you his lady and the gentle yet burning sensation it had sent rushing all over your skin; for it was mostinappropriate and inconvenient to busy yourself with such thing when asked a question.
The real question, however, was whether you should speak the truth and how, without offending the king, losing his favour, and potentially saving yourself Dimitri’s and Henry’s rage if your words upset the king so much that you’d be all thrown back to the streets with the mercenaries’ chances to join the army ruined – something they would no doubt take their revenge for. On you.
“My lady,” King Rogers repeated as if he wished to drive you mad and making you wince despite his voice being but kind and coaxing, “please. Rise and speak freely.”
With no option but to obey, you did, heart thundering a storm in your chest, as you reluctantly lifted your gaze too.
Gods, he was even more stunning up close, towering over all three of you, menacing – and yet inviting as your gaze got lost in the bright blue of his irises.
“S-sir--- Your Highness-“
A hiss by your side and a twitch of a hand you could see from the corner of your eye as Henry seemed to want to grab the rope that had been binding your hands together – a leash to yank on as a punishment for speaking up and a warning.
“Your Majesty, you stup-“
“I take no offense, gentlemen, in how the lady addresses me,” the king snapped, his glare sharp as razors when it moved to Henry for but a moment. “However, I am quite offended by the fact you would not let her speak – and speak truthfully, I am sure... My lady?”
A ghost of the plush lips caressed the shell of your ear as he spoke the godsdamned words, so soft they might as well be a whisper.
The warmest of shivers rushed down your spine, heat coiling in your belly as an image of his body caging yours against the wall with his fingers tenderly laid over your throat as his lips brushed over your jaw was conjured in your mind without warning or without right, causing you to dig your nails into your palms to bring yourself to reality.
To the much colder reality where the only body that had trapped you, truly and without any intention to let you escape the cage should you wish to, was that of the very man who had tied your hands tight enough to make you bleed, and the very man who gripped your throat roughly just to make you watch your life burn.
You swallowed against the lump regrowing in your throat at the memories, a telltale burn of tears in the base of your nose at the image of your family home crumbling to ashes, the heat of the flames on your skin having contrasting heavily with the cold of the blade.
“I… I was indeed given options, Your Majesty,” you spoke, truthfully indeed, weighing your next words as you felt both mercenaries release some of the tension from their shoulders.
But you cared little for them; not beyond fearing what they would do to you should you make the wrong move.
On the other hand, the man who stood in front of you, he stirred sensations and feelings beyond what was appropriate or even possible, considering you had just only just met him.
It was more than gratitude for him acknowledging your situation, driving your next actions; more than respect one should have for the king, more than your own respect for how he had behaved so far; it threaded deeper than that. As something glimmered in his eyes, prompting you to tell the truth, no matter what it would be, you did not only feel safe to do so. You felt compelled. For you wanted to please him, wished not to disappoint him – and wanted nothing but to show the honesty of the very heart beating in your chest, consequences be damned.
It did not seem to truly matter if the king had ordered you to speak the truth; it felt as if you were meant to do so from the moment your lungs had expanded with your first breath on this Earth.
No punishment will come to you, sweetling, his eyes coaxed you, softening further as you took your time to continue. Please, believe me. Speak up and the rest shall be taken care of. Allow me. Believe in me.
Your lips parted with a wavering breath before you obeyed his wordless request. “For one, I could meet my end by my own knife.”
Nothing less than fire flared up in his irises, his jaw tightening, broad shoulders turning more rigid.
You would swear your life that you could feel more than see the men by your side stiffen too, but you could not find yourself to regret it. And neither you nor the king paid them any mind.
You were safe.
There was utter insanity in such thought given your predicament and yet you’d swear it on the sacred memory of your mother.
Both Dimitri and Henry were seething and either of them could probably draw a blade and slit your throat faster than a lightning, but with Steven right there, you would swear it:
You were safe.
Yes, my sweetling. Yes, you are. These men – any men – will not lay a hand on you ever again, an echo of his fierce whisper resonated in your ear, but his lips had not moved beyond twitching at your admission. He gave the smallest of nods.
“I see. Would your family not protect you?”
A noise dangerously resembling an amused snort sounded on your left, a throat cleared on your right, both carrying the same meaning, even as one was mocking and the other simply stating a fact.
The flash of regret in King Rogers’s eye told you he understood the message easily: What family?
“Well, Your Majesty, her father, sadly, was a drunk and got killed in a brawl-“ Henry began, your heart skipping an angry beat at the atrocious fake compassion in his voice.
You were not allowed to react to it, however – you were not faster than His Majesty once more.
And where your outrage would have scorched the earth, Steve’s might as well leave the earth permanently frosted over.
“If you even remotely wish to join the Royal Army, I suggest you care how you speak – and that you let the lady speak in the first place.”
It was clear to you more than it should that Henry had tried not to wince upon the icy tone of authority. Yet he did.
With shame, you realised just how pleasant of a feeling settled in your lower belly to see the man squirm in front of the king who snapped at him on your behalf, the man’s head now slightly bowed even as you would swear his teeth were grinding in anger.
With considerably less shame, you caught yourself impressed and charmed by the fact King Rogers not only defended a man who was not present to defend himself – even as he’d have little to say, considering Henry’s words were true – but also seemed to see straight through Henry’s feigned politeness and emotion.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. We are here to serve you, of course and she is, after all, a gift to you. It is your utmost right to do with her as you please.”
“And I shall,” the king replied simply, the words causing your heart to stumble in sudden fright, the reminder that no matter his kindness, Henry and Dimitri were not wrong about His Majesty having been a mercenary, a man hardened by battle. Where he was showing you respect almost beyond comprehension here in the Royal Hall, it might be strikingly different behind the closed doors of whichever chambers in which he’d decide to take you, however he pleased indeed.
But when your gazes met once more, it was nearly impossible to believe he’d be anything but gentle, every inch of your soul whispering that you indeed were in the safest place this world offered.
How foolish it was for you to trust so easily. Especially when you had not even been safe in your own bed before.
“Do they speak the truth, my lady?”
“I… yes, Your Majesty. May my father rest in peace, his soul be lifted to heavens, it was not unusual of him to… drink heavily, so much he cared little whether we’d have food to put on our table the next day…. And my mother passed two summers ago,” you added softly, unable to resist.
It was true, perhaps, that women were not made to fight men’s battles; but when it came to family, you believed they would fight just as if not more fiercely. As insignificant as the fact of your mother’s passing might seem to the men beside you, it was crucial to you – and not only in the matters of protection.
Mostly in the matter of your own heart.
A wistful smile passed the king’s lips at your addition as if in silent agreement to your thoughts and he nodded.
“I see. You have my condolences, my lady… for all your sorrows.”
The sincerity of his voice sat like a lump in your throat, the sudden burn of tears in your nose making it harder to speak. You bowed your head a fraction, out of respect – and to hide the glassy gleam in your eyes.
“Thank you, good sir--- Your Majesty.”
“And I shall see to it that your dinner is to your utmost comfort. I’d be pleased if you’d join me for the meal.”
Heat flared up on every inch of your skin at the last remark – nothing less than a subtle order.
You might be everything but adept at the court etiquette, but the silent heh erupting from Henry was enough of a confirmation that that was exactly what it was – including all implications rushing through your head like a tidal wave of terror battling a little voice and the heat in your lower belly arguing it would not be such a bad thing. The fact it was Henry approving of the king’s words however silenced the voice quite effectively.
Stomach much heavier than before, much like your head, you could not bring yourself to look the king in the eye, cheeks burning while icy fingers slowly curled around your throat.
For all the tales you had heard about the king of Starkerbürg, for all you had witnessed in the past minutes, for all you would swear on your life you could see light around him, an aura of a protector, you also heard many, many a story of the cruelty of men hidden behind a handsome face and polite manners. Just because Henry was not good enough of an actor to play the king as much as he’d please, it did not mean the king was not much more apt at the game of deceit.
And just because fate seemed to deal you a much better hand in this round of gamble, there was no guarantee you could walk out of this game unscathed, let alone somehow win.
You bend at your knees as low as you could, staying there for several moments despite your knees aching and turning shaky. You replied just as you could hear the king draw in a breath.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind.”
Rising to your full height, you did not dare to look up still.
Not even when slight bewilderment coloured the king’s voice, a request and an order at once, however respectful.
“Natasha, please. If you could see to it that our guest is well-taken care of in one of the guest chambers, offered a bath, a little to eat and anything else she might need or request.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” a red-head woman who had been standing near his throne, not quite looking like a maid or someone who should be showing anyone to their room, let alone a low-born intruder like you, stepped out, gracing you with a light smile. “If you could follow me, my lady.”
You reciprocated her smile shakily, the brilliant green of her eyes glimmering with what almost seemed to be mirth.
“Of course… thank you.” You took a deep breath to gather courage, glancing up at the king for the briefest of moments, your heart pounding in your chest and nearly exploding when you were once again met with the absurd beauty of his face. “Thank you kindly for all your generosity, Your Majesty.”
You did not linger long enough to see his smile. You did not let the voice of your father warning you it was the Devil’s beauty that would lead you astray into the deepest pits of hell fill your head, no matter how hard the ghost of him tried.
You willed your mind to be as empty as humanly possible when you followed the woman out of the hall, the heavy door closing behind you with finality.
Not before His Majesty’s voice, strengthened by authority and ceremonial tone, reached your ears and filled your stomach with cold dread.
“Now… it is the time to reward you gentlemen for bringing me such an exquisite surprise of a gift. Please… tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…”
Part 2
S.R. masterlist
Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did an have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕
This three-parter fullfils the following prompts/tropes: Abducted as a gift for someone (and consequentially, Receiving an unexpected gift) and Medieval AU from the original event. It's also three months late. It is also decidedly NOT below 5000 word limit 🤭
I hope March has been kind to you and is not looking to stab you in the back (or anywhere else). Sending love 💕
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: one sexy explicit drabble is posted under the cut here, and eight amazing General Audience drabbles are located on the post at this link. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
Your task is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Ready for some sexy probably-won't-happen-in-Doomsday goodness? Here you go!!!
Drabble 9 - End of the World
Rating: Explicit
The world was ending. Again. Bucky didn’t care.
He’d booked the lakeside cabin to spend this weekend with you six months ago. The apocalypse could wait.
His phone kept buzzing.
Bucky dipped his head, tongue dragging slow and filthy through your soaked folds, sucking your clit until your back arched.
“Doomsday can wait until Monday. I’m busy," he murmured against your cunt, pushing two thick metal fingers inside you. You shattered with a cry.
Bucky lapped up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were sobbing. His belt clinked open.
“Good girl, now turn over, we’ve got all weekend.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the Explicit Drabble if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: eight amazing drabbles are rated General Audiences and can be found below the cut. One sexy explicit drabble has been posted on its own over here. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
YOUR JOB is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Thanks for reading!
Drabble #1 - Hope
Rating: General Audiences
The battle ended without fanfare. No portal in the sky, no impossible odds, no incursions. The multiverse was safe.
Weeks later Bucky was at an animal shelter, standing in front of a white kitten in the cage.
Retirement wasn’t what he’d expected. He imagined boredom, restlessness. His days became wonderfully ordinary: coffee, aimless walks, reading, sitting with Alpine on the balcony, watching the sunset.
He started imagining a different future: go back to school, reelection.
Perhaps, settle down, start a family.
It felt unbelievable. The universe had stopped asking from him or taking from him.
Bucky was allowed to live.
🚫
Drabble #2 - Shots Fired
Rating: General Audiences
"This is stupid!" Sam yelled, waving his gun in the air.
"The games the game." Bucky chuffed with a smirk.
"You're the one who suggested this." Yelena chuckled alongside Bucky.
"Yeah a nice normal game of Lazer tag. Not Lazer tag with the world's best assassin!" Sam continued.
"Look man," Joaquin huffed as he joined Sam's side, "Maybe we just call it quits, we've gone 5 rounds, we keep losing."
"No we go again." Sam replied sternly, pointing at Bucky with narrowed eyes, "You, left hand only."
"Fine by me." Bucky grinned before jogging back into the darkened zone laughing.
🚫
Drabble #3 – Do This All Day?
Rating: General Audiences
Sam laughed once humorless. “Trust? Don’t start with me on trust, Buck. I had to hear about your new team from the evening news.”
“That’s not what happened.” Bucky groaned
“No? ’Cause it sure as hell felt like it.” Sam's tone cold.
Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight. “They have information. Information that can help.”
Sam opened his mouth, anger ready.
Another voice beat him to it.
“You two gonna do this all day?”
Everything in Bucky locked up. He turned too fast, breath catching painfully.
Steve stood there, steady and impossible.
For one stunned second, Bucky only stared. Disbelieving.
“Steve?”
🚫
Drabble #4 - Doomsday, Declined
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky is trying, with effort, to understand a tax-credit rider. It’s not going well, but it is going privately, which seems important.
You’re halfway through explaining depreciation when his phone rings.
YELENA BELOVA
Decline.
Again.
Decline.
YELENA: Stop being dramatic. Is only maybe end of world.
Swipe.
SAM: don’t be like this.
His jaw shifts.
Swipe.
DEADPOOL: Winter grandpa, Kevin says assemble.
Swipe.
You lower the bill.
“James.”
“No.”
“Could be important.”
“It’s always important.” Bucky’s phone flips facedown. “I’ve appeared in every MCU phase. The other guy who managed that turned into a tree. Let me legislate in peace.”
🚫
Drabble #5 - Apocalypse Meow
Rating: General Audiences
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, preparing to face the end of the world was familiar. Everything after that was not.
“That was anticlimactic,” Steve said.
“They can’t all be Thanos,” Bucky agreed.
“Hardly worth coming out of retirement. This happen a lot since I left?”
“Fury’s cat’s saved the day before, but it’s a first for Alpine.” After a beat, Bucky added defensively, “She’s still a kitten.”
Kitten or not, her purrs almost drowned out Doom’s booming admiration while he pet her rather than lay waste to the world.
“Come on, Steve. Fight’s back on if I can’t rescue my cat!”
🚫
Drabble #6 - Them
Rating: General Audiences
The ozone on his tongue was sharp and growing sharper by the second.
Something was wrong.
More than the battle chaos amidst the ruins of the Stark Expo grounds.
Bucky turned slowly, surveying his surroundings.
Then he saw them.
Each wore his face but not his history. One in a crisp, white uniform from some alternate century, a stillness to him like a wolf that knew every trick in the book and didn’t need to snarl. The other a grizzled wreck: gray at the temples, sleep deprivation tattooed under his eyes. Both sported the arm—his arm, that ugly, magnificent thing.
🚫
Drabble #7 – Tumblr to the Rescue
Rating: General Audiences
He was dying. Fine. He'd done it before.
Then the portal opened. Blue. Tumbling. Chaos shaped like small circular portraits of strangers, cats, anime characters, and— unsettlingly— him. Long hair. Short hair. One arm. Two. Smiling, something he didn't remember doing.
One handed him a juice box.
Bucky stared at it. Stared at himself, multiplied, in eras he couldn't fully account for.
"This," announced an icon of a small white blue-eyed cat, "will not happen in Doomsday."
He had no idea what that meant.
Something about the cat felt familiar. He couldn't place it.
He drank the juice box anyway.
🚫
Drabble #8 – Fix It
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky sheathed his knife when you walked in.
“Bucky,” you began softly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna make the writers fix it.”
“Fix what exactly?”
“Everything,” he answered through his teeth. “Like Natasha dying.”
“Bucky…”
“And Steve’s ending.”
“Bucky.”
“And Sam and I being on the outs again.”
“Bucky!”
He paused to look at you.
“You can’t fix it,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be aware that you’re in a movie, and I shouldn’t even be here.”
He blinked, confused. “Then… what do I do?”
You smiled. “Leave it to the fanfiction writers. They’ll know what to do.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the Explicit Drabble if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Explicit | 18+ only| Bucky Barnes x fem!Avenger!Reader | Enemies-to-Lovers, 2012 Tower Life Vibes
When a whirlwind of events transforms you from an ordinary plant science researcher into a superpowered individual that the public knows as Fern, the Avengers welcome you among their ranks. Or... most of them do. Bucky Barnes doesn't quite get you, and you don't quite get him. It's totally fine, though. It was expected; flowers and winter don't really get along.
...or do they?
A collection of drabbles with a living-in-the-Avengers-Tower-2012 slice of life atmosphere to them, with an overarching plot of Reader (she/her, adult, no Y/N used) joining the team as a new member. Every drabble will be 100 words. See the series masterlist for full fic info.
SERIES WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content, Bucky has PTSD, canon-typical violence, Avengers chaos, enemies-to-lovers plot with Bucky being sort of a dick in the beginning for plot-related reasons.
Series Masterlist | AO3 | Tumblr Masterlist | Fic Sideblog
Challenges: @star-and-shield-monthly April 2026: In Bloom or In Gloom. @marveldrabblechallenge June 1st to 7th: New Teammates.
“Botany powers?”
You met Barnes’ doubt-filled eyes, refusing to waver despite him towering over you and the team staring.
“Yup.”
“You sure you can keep up with us?”
He probably wasn’t trying to be a dick, but he sure as hell sounded like one.
Pursing your lips together, you moved your hand just slightly. The potted Monstera plant on the edge of the hall sprung to life, shooting out as long vines.
Bucky barely had time to yelp before they wrapped around his ankles and yanked him face-first onto the floor.
“Yeah, I think I’ll keep up just fine, Sarge.”
Series Masterlist | AO3 | Tumblr Masterlist | Fic Sideblog
Summary: When John breaks up with you suddenly, you swear off all future relationships to your best friend, Steve. But what if the man you’re meant to be with was your best friend all along?
Warnings: Break up with John, Slight heartbreak, but then some fluff, confessions of feelings, & friends to lovers.
A/N: Trope: Sworn off Relationships & Quote: “I’m not losing you again.” For @elixirfromthestars Arcade Bingo.
A/N 2: Thank you to my beta reader & header maker @late-to-the-party-81
Please Reblog & Comment. It lets me know you like my work. 😊💜
I do not consent to the translation or reposting of my work on any social media platform, app, or third-party site, or to running it through AI. If you see my work anywhere besides my personal Tumblr & AO3 accounts, it has been stolen.
John Walker is an asshole as far as you’re concerned. Who breaks up with someone over text messages anyway? In your eyes, if he isn’t man enough to say it to your face, then he isn’t man enough to be your boyfriend.
You walk through the front door of your apartment building with tears in your eyes, but stop to get the mail before you head upstairs to your apartment. The elevator whisks you upwards and you step out on your floor, dragging yourself to your door. As you’re juggling your mail, phone, purse, and keys, your best friend Steve appears from the stairwell. He lives across the hall from you, and you know he’ll spot your tears.
“Hey hun, how are you doing today?” He cheerfully asks as he stops in front of his door.
Trying to hide your face from him, you mumble, “I’m fine.” However, at that moment, you lose your grip on everything in your hands and the whole lot drops to the ground. You kneel to gather everything up, but Steve is already by your side, his large, dexterous hands faster than yours.
As he passes you some mail, he notices your tear-stained face and instantly his fingers gently tilt your chin up. His heart breaks from the tears that well in your eyes.
“Sweetheart, speak to me. What happened?” He holds out his hand to you and you grasp it like a lifeline as he helps you to your feet.
“Umm… not here. Can we talk inside?”
“Of course. Here, let me help you.” Steve holds out his hand and you give him your stack of mail to hold while you unlock your door.
You push the door open and head inside with Steve following you. As you walk in, you enter the kitchen and dining area. To your right is the living room. Down the hall is a bathroom and two bedrooms. It may not be huge, but it’s comfortable for just you.
Steve puts the mail on the counter as you drop everything else beside it. Heading over to the living room, you sit on the couch. Steve sits next to you but thankfully doesn’t say anything.
You take a steadying breath before you look over at your friend. His eyes scan you as he tries to figure out what’s wrong. You know that look very well – you’ll have to tell him the truth. “It’s John.”
Steve sits closer, his nose flares, and his eyebrows narrow. “What did that asshat do now? Did he touch you? I swear to God if he did I’ll…”
You interrupt him. “No, he didn’t do anything like that, Steve. But he did break up with me. By text.”
“What? Through text? Like, what is he in high school? If he were a true man, he’d have given you the courtesy and broken up with you face-to-face.” He sees the hurt written on your face and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, hun, for what he did. You deserve a hell of a lot better than him.” Steve lightly takes your hand in his as you take another slow breath.
“I want to say I’m surprised, but if I’m being honest with myself, I saw this coming. John has been pushing me away for weeks. Missed dates, short text messages, and picking arguments with me. All the signs were there, but I ignored them. Made excuses for him and blamed myself. Why does every man I date end up being toxic? I thought he was different. I thought I might even be in love with him, but I was foolish. I swear I’m done with relationships. I just can’t take the heartbreak anymore. There really are no good men left.” The tears that gently roll down your cheeks are the beginning of the flood and you lean into Steve’s shoulder and start sobbing.
He wraps his arms around you and lets you cry your broken heart out. Softly, he rubs your back as you bury yourself in his arms. Life just wasn’t fair. Why were there no good men left in the world? That’s not entirely right; there was Steve, but he was your best friend. Steve didn’t see you like you wanted to be seen.
Steve takes in your scent as he holds you close and tries to look for the right words to say. “You know I like to believe there are decent men still left in the world. Sometimes they’re hard to find and other times they’re right in front of your face, waiting to be seen. I’d like to think I’m a decent man and a gentleman. One that has been there with you through the ups and downs that life seems to throw your way. Someone who cares what happens to you and always tries to fix things for you.”
You pull back from him and wipe at your eyes. “What are you saying, Steve?” You tilt your head to the side and look at him curiously.
Steve smiles at you and holds your hands. “I’m saying I could be that man in your life. I’ve had feelings for you for years. Every time I’ve tried to tell you, it never seemed to be the right time. I think now is a good time to share my feelings before you swear off relationships for good. I know you might not be ready because of what John did, but I’m just asking to think about it – think about us, and what could be. That’s if you feel the same way? If not, at least I’ve finally been honest with you about how I felt.”
You reach up and cup his face while smiling at him. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me. If I’d known sooner, I would’ve never gotten together with John. I’ve had feelings for you for a long time. Hell, one of the things John messaged me was that he knew I had feelings for my best friend deep down inside and he was right. I’ve been trying to ignore these feelings for years now because I didn’t think you saw me as anything other than a friend. But now I know I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not going to. I’m not losing you again. I’ll help you in any way you need to get over the hurt that John caused you. From there, I want to be able to call you mine and build a loving relationship with you. I want to treat you like you should have been treated all along. I want to take you on dates, show you off to the world, and love on you every chance that I can get. What do you say? If you’re not ready, it’s okay to say so.”
Grinning at him, you shake your head. “Let’s do this. I don’t need much time to get over him. Honestly, as I said before, I knew it was coming. I was mainly upset by the words he wrote and the way he did it. But I wouldn’t mind taking things slow with you and seeing where we end up.”
“I’d like that.” Steve cheerfully says. “How about we order in some food and watch any movie you want on the TV.”
“I’d like that very much.” You lean in and kiss him on the lips, catching him off guard at first, but moments later he kisses you back. As you pull away from him, you can’t help the butterflies in your stomach – how excited you feel. At this moment, all that matters is the two of you.
Based on a Tumblr screenshot (which we can't add here) from : @autisticvoltronld :
How will this work?
You already know who you want to work with? Great! Fill this form!
If you do not have anyone:
I will provide a google sheet to fill for those of you who do not have someone to write with. Please either choose from the people already there or fill it!
The description says 5 chapters, but we only need THREE: each writer will write three (3) chapters, for a total of six!
You (as a team) will choose two (2) tropes and two (2) prompts that are opposite!! This will be most fun if your choice are truly opposite, so keep that in mind as you choose!
Lists to chose from (Please open this link in a new tab because you will need it!)
How many words per chapter? You will decide a range between the two of you. What is doable for each writer always changes so it is up to your team to decide.
Sign up period: June 1st to June 30th
Writing starts July 1st
There WILL be check-ins every two (2) weeks!
I will need to know who is writing which chapters, so we know who to check in with.
1. The court holds Google responsible for statements made by its AI, considering them Google's statements (search engines have limited liability for results in their engine as they're the words of other sites/companies/people), meaning when their AI lies/hallucinates they're liable for the defamation/harm resulting from those statements.
2. Google's defense that customers are generally aware of the lack of reliability and are responsible for fact checking was dismissed. As the court pointed out, that would "significantly diminish" AI Search's stated purpose and it can't be distinguished from Google's business practices/statements as a search tool.
3. Studies have found about 91% of Google's everyday AI responses are accurate, leaving millions of searches per HOUR with potential liability for falsehoods. 56% of correct responses weren't supported by the sources the AI listed. Both of which mean Google is now liable for a LOT more AI "errors."
4. Google was held liable for 80% of court costs in this case and this precedent is expected to reverberate around the world. This is a massive shift from the 3rd-party search provider role Google has previously played and it comes right as they've tied ALL searches to their AI search.
I need your opinion about the posting schedule for my long fics.
Because you may have noticed that I write long series...
I usually post one chapter per story per week. I already ran a poll about the general posting rhythm, and the preferred option was Monday / Wednesday / Friday / Sunday rather than posting every weekday and taking the weekend off.
The thing is: with that rhythm, and with the number of long stories I currently have that are either finished, in progress or planned, some fics may not start being posted for months.
So I’m trying to figure out what would work best for you as readers.
The options I’m considering are:
Option 1: Posting on the other days too
This would mean adding chapters on Tuesday / Thursday / Saturday as well.
I’ll be honest, this is not my favorite option, but I’m including it because it is technically possible.
Option 2: Posting more than one chapter of the same story in the same week
For example, one fic could get two updates in one week, but not on the same day.
Option 3: Posting two different stories on the same day
For example, Before Us (Clint) and The Shape of Chaos (Steve) could both update on Monday, with other stories paired on other days.
There is also the matter of taglists.
I’ll try to take them into account as much as possible, because I don’t necessarily want someone who asked to be tagged for Steve and Bucky stories to suddenly get overwhelmed with two different fics on the same day.
That being said, people who asked to be tagged for everything will probably end up in that situation no matter what, simply because they are on every list.
So please vote, but more importantly: if you can, tell me in the comments or reblogs what you would personally prefer and why.
Would you rather have more posting days, more chapters of the same story in a week, or two different stories updating on the same day?
Your feedback would genuinely help me organize things in a way that feels manageable for me and enjoyable for you 🖤
Hello! A few of housekeeping things before we get the prompts:
Thank you to everyone who responded to the survey. Your insight has been valuable. We'll be tweaking the format starting July. We'll announce the changes shortly.
As you may have noticed this month's post is a bit barebones. I'm dealing with some life things (everything is being taken care of) and I don't have access to my laptop or ways to create graphics. There will be badges this month, but they'll be a surprise!
We've also decided to extend the deadline for the extra life challenge to this Sunday (June 14). So if you were on the fence, you've got some extra days to get your entries in.
Okay, now on to the June prompts
Prompts
This month's challenge will run from June 10th to July 10th.
1. PRIDE 🌈
Ideas to spark the muse: Genderbend AU, affirmation of identity, joy and resistance, fringe sexualities
2. Maritime AU
Ideas to spark the muse: Pirate AU, Mermaid AU, Titanic AU
3. "Crap, that explains the dreams."
Please tag us and use #ssmchallenge , #ssmjune2026 when you post your submission to your blog.
You are eligible to receive a commenter badge if you have commented on at least 1 of entries this month. Please DM us with a link to your comment to claim your badge.
How to use these prompts?
You can use these words and dialouge to spark an idea. You don't necessarily have to use the exact words in your entry. As long as there is connection to the prompt and you can tell us, it's all good.
You can fulfill as many prompts as you like.
This month’s badges:
Coming soon!
Participating
We don't accept any AI generatred work. Submitters of AI work will recevice a warning and then continued use will result in a ban.
Creating
We accept the following creative work: Writing, Art -traditional, digital, Image manipulations, Moodboards, Playlists, Podfics. If you're not sure whether your work qualifies, please reach out.
We will queue your submission as soon as we can. If your post recevies a 'Like' that means it has been queued.
Please read our submission guide before you make an entry.
Commenting
You can also participate by commenting and sharing! This is a community focused event, and we strongly encourage you to read and comment on other entries to the challenge, especially if they are writers and artists you do not typically interact with.
You are eligible to receive a commenter badge if you have commented on at least 1 of entries this month. Please DM us with a link to your comment to claim your badge.
If it has been over 10 days since you posted or submitted a form and you haven't gotten a badge from us yet, please politely send this blog a DM.
