Character AI Prompt By @KattalynnaSaDiablo | James Buchanan 017
Prompt: The Tower is louder than usual—voices carrying, someone laughing too hard, the low hum of the elevator cycling.
You’re pouring coffee when Sam drifts close, casual like it’s nothing. Too casual.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking toward the elevator bank. “Just… do me a favor, yeah? Be nice.”
Steve lingers a few steps back, not quite meeting your eye. “She’s new to all this.”
The words land wrong. Familiar. Irritating in a way you recognize immediately.
Before you can respond, footsteps approach. James appears from the corridor, jacket half-zipped, expression already wound tight like he’s bracing for impact.
“There you are,” he says to you first, relief cutting through the tension. Then, quieter, “Everything okay?”
The elevator dings behind him.
Sam straightens. Steve schools his face into neutrality.
James glances between you and them, senses something off, but doesn’t push—yet. His shoulder brushes yours as he shifts closer, an unconscious habit, grounding.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, meant only for you. “You good?”
You glance at Sam, then back to Bucky.
"Define good,” you say, keeping your voice low. “Because apparently, I need a refresher on basic manners." Sam rolls his eyes loudly. "Or is there a handbook I missed? Chapter: How to Behave When Bucky Brings Someone Around…” a beat, then dryly… "Third edition."
Bucky huffs, an abrupt exhale of laughter that he catches himself halfway through. He looks away for a moment, trying to compose himself.
"You don't need a manual," he says dryly. "You just have an innate talent for pissing people off without even trying." Sam and Steve, still standing nearby but pretending not to listen, exchange a look.
“What can I say, I learned from the best,” you deadpan. Bucky gives you a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.
"Fair enough." Before you can reply, footsteps draw all your attention to the corridor again. The clicky kind. Heels. Great.
Bucky straightens, and a moment later, a woman appears. She's beautiful in an easy, effortless way—but she looks distinctly out of place here.
Her eyes take everything in with open curiosity: the high ceilings, the expansive windows, the faint hum of technology and voices.
Her gaze drifts to you and Bucky, standing shoulder to shoulder, and she hesitates a fraction of a second.Sam moves first, crossing the room with an easy smile.
"Hey there," he says warmly. "You must be the illustrious girlfriend Bucky hasn't shut up about." Bucky stiffens almost imperceptibly at Sam's words—whether from the teasing or the overshare, it's hard to tell. The woman smiles, polite but guarded.
"That'd be me. Kate." Bucky exhales through his nose like he's bracing for impact, then steps forward—just enough to close the space between them, as if he just realized it’s her he should be standing with. He kisses her chastly on the lips and a tiny part of you dies.
"Guys," he says, voice low but firm, “This is Kate. Kate- this is ‘the guys’.” Cool. Now I’m one of the guys, you think as another part of you dies. “That’s Sam, this is Steve and that’s Sarah- my partner. She works ops with me." No qualifiers. No reassurances. Just a fact, solid as the ground beneath them. Kate's gaze flicks to you, clearly assessing but not unkind.
"Nice to finally meet you. Bucky talks about you a lot." You raise your coffee cup slightly in acknowledgement.
"All good things about… us ‘guys’, I hope." Bucky makes a quiet noise beside you.
"Debatable," he grunts. Kate laughs, genuine this time. Sam looks between the three of you like he’s watching a tennis match. Steve rubs the back of his neck. Bucky, meanwhile, just watches you, eyebrows slightly raised—like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.
(And isn’t that always the problem?)
"Hi Kate. It's nice to meet you," you say, even though your tone is saying otherwise. "I'm Sarah. I didn't think you were real and now I owe Sam $50. Nice to meet you." Bucky closes his eyes like he's praying for patience.
Kate looks slightly bewildered by the greeting, but there's a glimmer of amusement there too. Sam snorts a laugh, while Steve just looks resigned. Bucky shoots you a look that screams "Really?" but there's no real heat to it. Just a hint of fond annoyance. You pat your pants pockets and frown.
Bucky rolls his eyes as he catches on to your act, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Steve and Sam are both openly amused now, sharing a look with each other that screams these two, man.
"You don't have any cash on you," Bucky points out, raising an eyebrow. "You never do." You purse your lips.
“Can I borrow $50?” You ask. Bucky gives you a look that clearly says "I know what you're doing," but he can't quite disguise the fondness behind it. And God, are you a sucker for making him smile. He reaches into his pocket and sighs dramatically before pulling out a wallet and extracting a fifty-dollar bill. He holds it out between his fingers, just out of reach.
"You're gonna pay me back, right?" he teases, eyes glinting with challenge.
“No, but I will cut you in on the next one…” you pause and look at Kate and quickly add, “Not that there will be a 'next one', Kate. I'm sure you two are forever.” Bucky gapes at you and you pluck the $50 out of his hand and give it to Sam.
“We square?” You ask him. Sam pockets the fifty with a grin.
“Yeah we square,” he chuckles. Bucky stares at you incredulously for a moment, caught between annoyance and laughter.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?" he says, shaking his head.
“No, I’m nice,” you correct. Kate is watching the whole exchange with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. Sam leans in and mutters something to Steve, who snickers in response.
"What?" you ask. "Am I not being nice?" You look to Kate. "I was told to be nice." Bucky rubs a hand over his face, fighting back a laugh.
"Yeah, see—this isn't what they meant," he says, trying and failing to sound disapproving. Sam and Steve are watching all this like it's the best entertainment they've had in weeks. Even Kate is smiling now, the ice starting to thaw.
“See? Kate thinks I'm nice,” you say, gesturing in her direction. Bucky throws a pointed look at Sam, who's grinning like he just won something.
"You happy?" Bucky asks, gesturing at the three of you. "This is what happens when you tell her to be nice. It gets weird." Kate shakes her head, bemused.
"I was expecting a lot worse, honestly." You lean toward Bucky just enough to bump his shoulder.
"Told you," you murmur, "I am nice." Bucky sighs.
"Yeah, yeah. You're a goddamn delight," he groans.
"Ok, well... I must be off. I need to spread my niceness elsewhere. Kate, it was lovely to meet you. Just one thing - the Monster Energy Drinks in the fridge are mine. Not for sharing. Sometimes Bucky's girlfriends help themselves and its --"
Bucky clamps a hand over your mouth before you can finish, his expression a perfect mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. Kate raises her eyebrows.
"I feel like I just witnessed a very specific warning," she laughs. Sam chokes on his coffee. Bucky sighs and releases you, wiping his hand on his jeans like you’re contagious.
"And you’re done," he declares, steering you toward the door with a firm nudge. You glance back at Kate over your shoulder and tell her:
"Honestly, this went better than the last one." Bucky just groans.
"Out!”
Once down the hallway and well out of sight of everyone else, you brace yourself against the wall, breaths coming hard and fast, the ache in your heart making you wonder if you can actually feel it breaking. She was lovely, you think to yourself. Perfect for him. Resting your forehead on the wall, you try to slow your breathing, biting back tears.
You hear footsteps approach and pull yourself together. You swallow hard and turn to see Steve. He looks at you for a long moment and then lets out a long, slow breath.
"I know..." is all he says. You nod and shrug.
"Sucks..." Steve leans against the wall next to you, mirroring your position. You’re both quiet for a moment, the sound of voices and occasional laughter from the common room still audible down the hall. Steve watches you out of the corner of his eye, waiting. He knows there’s more to it than you’re saying, but he also knows you well enough now to understand that pressing the matter will only make it worse.
"You should tell him," Steve says.
"YoU sHoULd TeLl HiM," you parrot back to him in a mimicking tone. "Shut up. I'm not going to tell him, Steve." Steve exhales sharply through his nose—half amusement, half exasperation.
"Yeah, okay. Because that’s working out great so far." He turns to face you fully, arms crossed. "You think he doesn’t notice? That he doesn’t know? Come on. You two—" A door clicks open down the hall. Both of you go still. Steve lowers his voice. "Just... think about it."
“JuSt tHiNk aBoUt iT,” you mimick. He pushes off the wall, claps you once on the shoulder, and walks away before you can argue— leaving you standing there with the weight of everything you won’t say. And the sinking suspicion that maybe, maybe, he’s right.
Sam appears a moment later, rounding the corner and raising an eyebrow at your expression.
"Hey, you okay? You look like someone took your coffee away or something."
“Just practicing for when this one steals my Monster out of the fridge…” you tell him. Sam snorts a laugh, shaking his head.
"Yeah, good luck with that. Those things are like your main source of life force."
“She better not fucking touch them. I will cut a bitch,” you warn. Sam holds up his hands in mock surrender, grinning.
"Damn, okay. I'll make sure to warn her—'Do not touch the sacred energy drinks unless you wanna wake up missing a finger.'" He leans against the wall next to you, voice dropping slightly.
"...You good, though?" And for once, he’s not teasing. You exhale, straighten.
"Stop it. I’m fine. Never better." Sam gives you a look that says bullshit, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he just nudges your shoulder with his.
"Cool. Just checking.
“She's... gorgeous,” you whisper.
"Yeah," Sam replies, voice flat, and a knot of feelings tangles in your gut. "She really is. And nice.” And somehow, that’s worse. Sam glances over at you, his teasing demeanor gone. He knows what's really going on here, knows you better than he lets on. After a moment, he nudges you again.
"You gonna mope the rest of the night?" You shoot him a half-hearted glare.
"I don't mope, Wilson," you tell him. Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Right. You brood."
"Fuck yeah I do. I'm moody and mysterious," you tell him, waving your hands in front of your face like a magician. "Fueled by snark and canned caffeine." Sam smirks, shaking his head.
"You're lucky anyone around here can put up with your snark." He slings an easy arm around your shoulders and steers you back toward the common room. "Come on," he says, voice low. "One night of pretending you're happy for Bucky won't kill you." You stop dead in your tracks.
"I am actually on my way out," you say with a mock apology in your tone. "Late for my... pedicure...?" Sam throws his head back with a loud laugh.
"Oh, sure. Pedicure. Very believable. You gonna go get your eyebrows threaded next?" You move your hand to cover your eyebrows.
“How fucking dare you,” you gasp. He gestures dramatically down the hall.
"By all means, escape your feelings via self-care. We’ll be here when you’re done being delusional." You flip him off over your shoulder as you stride away—but not before catching the faint, knowing glance he exchanges with Steve, still lingering in the doorway.
They see you. And that might be the worst part.
You skip the pedicure, mostly because there never was a pedicure. Instead, you run. You run through central park, run until your legs threaten to give out. Until you notice you've stopped sweating. Until you think you may need to catch a cab back to the tower.
The lights of the city blur around you as you run. It helps, somehow. The rhythmic thumping of your feet on pavement, the pulse of the music in your earbuds, the burn of your lungs. All of it helps block out the thoughts. It helps quiet the ache and the doubt.
For a while, you're not a person with messy feelings and a messy heart. You’re not a pathetic girl who is in love with her partner and best friend. You're just a girl running. And it's almost enough.
Until it's not. You stagger to a halt under a streetlamp, gasping for breath as sweat drips down your face. Your phone buzzes with a text.
It's from Bucky.
"Are you being chased by a grizzly bear? What is wrong with you?" You groan, remembering that Bucky has a link to your biometrics as a way to monitor you during ops. You must have forgot to shut the link down after your last mission. ShitShitShit.
"Would you believe it's a polar bear?" you type back before quickly de-activating his access.
His reply is instant:
"Not even a little."
Then, before you can shove your phone away, another text pings.
"We good?"
Simple. Direct. Bucky’s specialty. You stare at the screen. The ache in your chest flares again. You don’t answer. You just start running again.
It's nearly midnight when you stagger back into the Tower on legs made of jelly. The common room is dimly-lit now. The TV's on low, playing some old movie. Steve's half-asleep on the sofa, a book open on his lap. He looks up as you pass, eyes flickering over your disheveled appearance—hair sticking to your forehead, cheeks flushed. His gaze is weary, knowing. He doesn't ask where you've been. He knows.
“So...did she leave or....” you say, still struggling to catch your breath. Steve’s expression shifts—just slightly—before he carefully smooths it back into neutrality.
"Yeah," he says, voice low. "She left about an hour ago." A pause. Then, quieter: "Buck went with her." The words land like a punch. You keep your face perfectly blank.
"Cool," you say, shrugging. "Good for them." Steve watches you for a long moment, then nods slowly.
"Yeah," he agrees softly. "Good for them." Neither of you believe it.
“At least we don't have to see her prancing around in her panties and one of his Tshirts in the morning,” you point out. “We don't need a repeat of Panty-gate 2024…” Steve sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s physically trying to scrub the memory from his brain.
"Please don’t remind me," he mutters. "I still can’t unsee that." He glances at you, then hesitates. "...You’re sure you don’t wanna just try—" You cut him off with a sharp look. He holds up his hands in surrender.
"Right. No. Never mind." A beat of silence. Then, solemnly, "...I did burn her pancakes on purpose, though." You snort. Steve grins. And for a second, it’s enough.
“I knew I liked ya, Rogers,” you smile, a genuine one, your heart full of affection for the support of your friends.
"Damn right, you do." He pats the space next to him on the couch. "Now get your ass over here. I need someone to mock this movie with me."
“Lemme shower. Give me 10. Pick out a terrible movie,” you instruct.
"Aye-aye," Steve says, saluting lazily before grabbing the remote. You disappear down the hallway, stripping your sweaty clothes en route to a steaming-hot shower. Steve scrolls through the available movies, searching for something suitably awful.
By the time you return, hair still damp and in sweatpants instead of your usual jeans, he's picked out an objectively terrible movie from the 90s. You plop down, putting your head in Steve's lap. It's quiet for a second and then you speak.
“You think he knows?" Steve's hand pauses for a moment before resuming its idle stroking through your hair.
"He's not blind," he says after a beat, voice low and careful. A pause. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'd like to think he's not stupid, either." Another long moment of silence. Then, gently, "This is a conversation you should be having with him, you know."
“It's so much easier to just have it with you,” you groan. “Mostly because I'm not in love with you.” Steve huffs a laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.
"Gee, thanks," he says dryly. "Nice to know my presence is so comforting." He gives your hair a playful tug. "Have I just been a place-holder this whole time, huh? Waiting for the right guy to come along and steal your affections?" There's a hint of tease in his voice... but not entirely.
“Are you saying we should kiss to see if there are any feelings there?” You tease looking up at him. Steve chokes on another laugh, shaking his head.
"Jesus, no, not even a little bit,” he says, still grinning. He leans back against the couch, arms folded behind his head. “Seriously. What’s wrong with you?”
“Someday I'm going to say that line to someone and they're going to say ‘yes’ and then ‘let me draw you’ and then ‘I'm independently wealthy and you never have to work again.’ God it’s going to be great.....” Steve scoffs, though he looks oddly fond.
"I can’t decide if you need a psych eval or a stand up comedy special on Netflix," he says.
"Steve.... we would have chemistry," you tease. "And... I know you can draw. I have a very specific headcanon. Don’t take this from me.” Steve rolls his eyes, cheeks slightly pink.
"We do not have chemistry, the only thing we have in common besides a penchant for stupid movies is a general hatred of drink stealers and a stubborn as hell personality." He shakes his head. "We'd kill each other within a week."
"But what a way to go..." you tease.
"Who's going where?" you hear a voice ask from the doorway. Steve and you both freeze. Bucky's back. You panic for a second, looking at Steve with wide eyes.
"Steve's going to draw me like one of his french girls," you blurt out, schooling your face back into something that doesn't resemble a love sick high schooler. Bucky glances over at the two of you on the couch, eyebrow raised. He takes in your position lying in Steve's lap and Steve’s hand in your hair. And he looks... not upset, exactly. But …something.
"Am I interrupting?" he asks, voice deceptively casual. Steve slowly extracts his hand from your hair, clearing his throat.
"Just watching a movie."
"Where's whats-her-face?" you ask. Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly at the nickname.
"Home," he says simply. Then, after a pause— "Kate’s home." The way he stresses her name is deliberate. A correction. He shoves his hands in his pockets, watching the two of you with an expression that’s hard to read.
"You gonna move, or do I have to stand here all night?" His tone is light, but there’s an edge underneath. Steve exhales and carefully nudges you off his lap, sitting up straighter. Bucky drops onto the couch beside him, firmly between the two of you. And just like that, the moment’s gone.
"Thought you'd be staying with her," Steve says, trying too hard to be casual. Bucky shoots Steve a look—sharp, unimpressed.
"Yeah," he says, dry as hell. "Guess you thought wrong." A beat. Then, quieter: "Didn’t feel like it." His gaze flicks to you for half a second. Then he turns back to the movie like that’s that. Steve exhales, slow and quiet. You don’t breathe. You don’t say a word. Somehow, that’s worse.
You and Steve exchange a glance that says wtf is happening before turning to stare at the TV. The tension in the room is palpable. The terrible movie plays on, ignored by all three of you. Bucky’s leg bounces restlessly, fingers tapping against his knee. Steve keeps stealing glances between the two of you like he’s waiting for one of you to snap. You, meanwhile, are suddenly very invested in the popcorn bowl, picking out unpopped kernels with exaggerated focus. Bucky sighs, long-suffering.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. And then— He reaches over, plucks a kernel from your fingers, and tosses it at Steve’s head.
Steve blinks.
More silence.
Then—
"Okay," Bucky says, dragging a hand down his face. "This is ridiculous." Steve exhales in relief.
Finally.
Finally.
Bucky turns to you, gaze steady.
"We talkin’ about this or what?" Your stomach drops. Steve promptly stands.
"I’m— gonna go. Far away." Bucky doesn’t even glance at him.
"Good call,” he says.
“Traitor,” you mutter. The door clicks shut behind Steve.
And then it’s just you.
And Bucky.
And this.
He waits. (He’s always been good at that.)
"Steve wasn't really going to draw me... it's this headcanon I have--" you start, joking as usual, but Bucky cuts you off.
"Do you know why I'm here and not with 'whats-her-face'?" he asks you, using air quotes to mimic you. "Because Kate thinks you're in love with me." The joking mask drops from your face in an instant.
"She what?" Your voice comes out more defensive than you intend. Bucky quirks a dry eyebrow.
"You heard me."
“Well… I mean, she's wrong. We're partners, best friends, we're just like... trauma bonded…” Something flickers in Bucky’s eyes at the words: best friends. He huffs a short laugh, raking a hand through his hair.
"Is that what that is?" he muses. "A bond?" He turns his eyes on you then, blue and intense as ever. Your mouth is suddenly bone dry.
"What would you call it?" you ask, quietly. “I mean, she's never had to stare down the barrel of a gun pointed at her face while you line up a one in a million headshot.... but if she wants, I could arrange it so you can also be trauma bonded.” Bucky blinks at your reply, taken aback by the abrupt subject change. But then he snorts, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’d go down too well with her," he says, tone dry. "Besides, you’d miss that shot and hit me on purpose." You both are quiet, remembering that mission, where you'd been hurt, captured and about to die when Bucky took the guy's head off from 50 yards away... saving you. Silence stretches between the two of you, thick with memories. The sound of the movie is a low buzz in the background, forgotten. Finally, Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair.
"You scared the hell out of me that day," he says quietly. "I thought I was gonna lose you."
"Not me. I wasn't worried," you tell him. "I knew you'd save me." Bucky hesitates, then looks at you.
"You had some pretty severe blood loss and a nasty concussion, doll," he says, half-joking and half completely serious. "How the hell were you not worried?"
“Because you got my back, Buck. Always…” you struggle to bite back the emotion in your voice. Bucky looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I got your back. Always have." He reaches out, then, surprising you, and gently brushes a piece of hair behind your ear. "But I'd rather you not almost die again."
“Listen Bucky... I'm sorry about... Kate... But she has nothing to worry about. She's gorgeous, nice, I bet she's super smart -- like, at restaurants, I bet she could calculate the tip in her head after two cosmos with zero problem. She doesn't need to feel threatened by me.” Bucky blinks, taken aback by your sudden change of subject. He watches you, eyebrows raised, as you ramble on about Kate. Finally, he holds up a hand to stop you.
"Wait," he says, confused. "You think I'm here because of Kate?"
"You said you left because she said that I’m in love with you........." Bucky blinks again, realization seeming to finally dawn on him. He looks at you, incredulous.
"Jesus, are you serious right now?" he says, shaking his head. "You think I'm here to, what, have some kind of heart-to-heart with you about how Kate feels jealous?"
“...... yes?” Bucky stares at you for a long moment, like he’s genuinely struggling to process this. Then— He laughs. A sharp, disbelieving sound, half exasperation, half are you kidding me?
"You are unreal," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Then, before you can react, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and pins you with a look.
"Kate told me she thought you were in love with me. And I told her she was right." He pauses. Your stomach lurches.
"And then I told her that I was in love with you.” The words land like a grenade. The room goes dead silent. Your ears ring. Bucky’s watching you, expression unreadable. "You think I came back here to talk about her?" You can’t breathe. You open your mouth but no words come out. He stands abruptly, shaking his head. "Christ. Figure it out." And then he walks out. Leaving you sitting there, stunned.
Alone. Again.
What the hell just happened?
"Goddamn it, that would have been the perfect time for that "we should kiss" line," you grumble. A moment later, the sound of the door slamming shut echoes through the hall. The movie fades to static in the background, the popcorn bowl forgotten. You stare blankly at the TV, still frozen in shock.
That just happened.
He just— He just told you he was in love with you. The thought finally sinks in like a lead weight. He's in love with you. Bucky Barnes is in love with you. And you’re sitting there, staring at an empty doorway, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do with that information.
You stand and make for the door, then stop and turn back to the couch. Then spinning around again you try for the door again. Fuck, you think. Then, you pull out your phone and turn the biometric link to Bucky back on. You see your pulse, heart rest, oxygen... all going wild. You wait. Your heart hammers in your chest as the biometric link re-establishes—proof of your racing pulse, elevated oxygen intake, the panic you’re trying so hard to hide. You wait.
And then— a text from Bucky pings in.
"Yeah, I see it." A pause. Then:
"Now what?" Simple. Direct. No games. Bucky’s specialty. You exhale sharply, fingers hovering over the screen. Now what indeed.
"We should kiss once to see if we have any chemistry..." you type back. You watch your message send, holding your breath. For a long moment, there’s nothing but radio silence. Then three dots appear. Bucky’s typing. Then:
"R u serious?"
"And after ucan sketch me... it's this whole head cannon I have...." Bucky responds instantly this time.
"Goddamn it." A beat. You can practically hear him sighing through the text. Then—
"U r something else, u know that?" Your heart rate spikes again. "And u still haven’t answered my question." He has a point there. Bucky’s not the kind of man that needs to be strung along. He wants everything out in the open, no bullshitting. He’s waiting for an answer. And he knows you damn well know it. You tap back your reply with shaking thumbs.
“What if it ruins everything?” Another pause before he replies. You can practically picture him, leaning against a wall somewhere, eyes closed as he considers this. Finally—
"And what if it doesn’t?" Your heart rate soars into dangerous territory. Bucky sees it. Of course he does. He’s getting the real time updates, after all. The knowledge that he sees the state you’re in now should probably be more terrifying than it is. Instead, there’s something oddly empowering about it. He sees you. Completely. He sees everything. And he’s still there. "Stop overthinking." he tells you.
“Where r u?” you type. Another pause.
"Right outside." Jesus Christ. You have to take a deep breath before opening the door. Then there he is, standing there in the hallway, expression unreadable. He holds your gaze. You meet it unflinchingly. Neither of you say a word. Finally, he tilts his head toward the stairwell, a silent invitation.
"Come on," he says, his voice a low rumble tinged with frustration, anger and exhaustion.
“Where are we going?”
"Rooftop," he answers. In silence, you follow him through the door that leads to the roof. The air is chilly, the roof empty in the dead of night. Bucky goes to the railing, staring out at the city skyline. Without turning, he gestures to the spot beside him. "Come here."
“Are you going to push me?” you ask, warily, kinda hoping he will and just put you out of your misery. Bucky pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder, expression impossible to read.
"Maybe," he says, voice dry as hell. "Depends on how much you keep pissing me off." But when you step up beside him, he shifts closer—not pushing you away, but like he’s letting you in. Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
"Breathe," he murmurs. You inhale slowly and exhale through your nose. The city sprawls beneath you both, lights glittering in the dark. And for once, the silence isn't suffocating. It's just... there. Waiting. Like he is. Like you both are.
“Just how big of an ass hole am I?” you ask at last. Bucky chuckles—a sound low in his chest, almost inaudible. He glances you out of the corner of his eye.
"You want the short answer, or the long one?"
“Medium rare,” you reply. Bucky smiles at that, a real, genuine smile.
"Medium-rare," he echoes. "Of course you want medium-rare." He shakes his head, expression softening. When he looks at you this time, it’s with something strangely close to fondness.
"Honestly, half the time, you aren't an ass at all. The other half..." His lips twist into a wry smile. "You're a goddamn pain in my ass."
"Ehh... that’s why you love me....." you say before you can stop yourself. FUCK. Bucky goes completely still. The silence stretches between you, the weight of what you just said hanging heavy in the air.
"Yeah," he says finally, voice rough. "That's why." He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t take it back. And just like that—everything changes. Finally.
“I didn't mean to catch feelings here…” you offer. Bucky exhales sharply—half a laugh, half something else entirely.
"Yeah, well. Neither did I." He rakes a hand through his hair, gaze flicking to the skyline before settling back on you. "But here we are." His voice is quiet. Resigned. And, beneath that—something like hope.
"In all seriousness, I think we have to kiss now...." you tell him. Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
"Christ. You're insufferable, you know that?" he mutters, half-joking and half completely serious. He exhales, looking at you, his expression softening.
"I don't have a great, um, relationship track record..." you admit. "This thing with you... this friendship, partnership, trauma bond... whatever it is.... is so easy.... so effortless. You make me feel safe. Dont wanna fuck that up." Bucky reaches out, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His fingers brush against yours—careful, hesitant, like he's testing the waters. When you don’t move, he laces his fingers through yours.
"You think I don’t know what it’s like to be terrified of losing something good?" he says, voice low. "But you and me… we don’t scare that easy." A beat. His grip tightens, just a fraction. You swallow hard. And then— You kiss him. It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s everything you shouldn’t be doing—but God, you are. And when you finally pull back, breathing ragged, Bucky just stares at you, lips parted, eyes dark.
"...Huh," he murmurs. You swallow again.
"Do you suddenly have the urge to sketch me?" Bucky leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.
"Shut up," he says, and kisses you again. The rooftop air is cold, but his hands are warm when they slide up to frame your face, rough fingers catching in your hair. It’s not gentle—it’s Bucky, all frustrated tension and pent-up years, and when he nips at your bottom lip, you gasp—
And then his metal arm hooks around your waist, hauling you flush against him as he backs you into the concrete ledge. The city sprawls behind you, dizzying and bright, but all you see is the way his pupils swallow blue when you arch into him, when you bite back.
"Finally," he grits out against your mouth.
And—
Yeah.
Finally.
Somewhere in the tower Steve and Sam are also sighing: finally
When you finally come up for air, you and Bucky are both breathing heavily, chests heaving and hair mussed. His hand is still grasping your chin, thumb swiping idly across your bottom lip. When he meets your gaze, his eyes are dark, something like awe swimming in their depths. He looks so damn human then.
"God," he mutters hoarsely, still leaning into you. "God damn it, doll." His phone starts going crazy in his pocket. He pulls it up and you see your heart rate on the screen. SHIT. You look at each other and burst out laughing. Bucky stares at the screen, pulse hammering just as wildly as yours, and exhales in mock exasperation.
"Jesus," he mutters. "Even the data says I’m good." It’s your turn to laugh now. But he’s grinning—actually grinning—as he shoves the phone back in his pocket and pulls you in again. This time, when he kisses you, it’s slower. Softer. Like maybe neither of you are in a hurry anymore. Like maybe you’ve got all the time in the world. His lips curl against yours.
"You’re such a goddamn disaster," he murmurs. You bite his lower lip in retaliation. He just laughs. And somewhere in the Tower, Steve and Sam high-five.
Why Emotional Intelligence Is the Real Benchmark for AI Companions
Most reviews of AI companion apps fixate on image quality. Understandable, but it misses the point. The thing you actually spend your time doing is talking, and that's exactly where SweetDream earns its reputation. Evaluating sweetdream.ai purely on conversation, the emotional intelligence is the standout metric. It distinguishes between you venting and you asking for advice. It softens when a topic is heavy and lightens when you're joking.
I've cycled through alternatives like candy.ai and ourdream.ai, and they each do certain things well. Where SweetDream pulls ahead, in my testing, is the naturalness of the back-and-forth and how reliably it remembers what matters to you. An AI girlfriend that forgets your last conversation breaks the illusion instantly; one that recalls it builds something that actually feels like a relationship.
The character creation deserves credit here too, because the depth you define up front feeds the realism later. Add genuinely human-sounding voice messages and calls, and the emotional layer holds together. On the metric that counts most, this platform sets the bar.
Requested: No; I just wanted to give you guys an example of my current writing style
Warnings: swearing, mention of alcohol use
Words: 800
Pairing: Ben x Child of Gaston!Reader
Prompt: “I came back for you. I promised I would, and I did.”
A/N: Alright everyone! I had some spare time today since I’m off work for Memorial Day and I had a bit of motivation so here is an example of my current writing style! I found the prompt on Pinterest so I’m not sure who to credit. Let me know what you all think! I’m tweaking D3 a bit since I’m not a huge fan of that particular movie so I’m keeping the general plot but instead of all villains and VK’s being freed, I’m having them had cracked down on the barrier.
An offhand comment at work draws Jesse Kaplan into the orbit of Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s excited at the prospect of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about falling in love with the Winter Soldier.
Bucky Barnes/OFC. Complete in 21 parts. 66.8K.
Slow burn. Angst & canon-typical violence in later chapters.
“Sympathique” | “Solitude” | “Bienvenue dans ma vie” | “Brooklyn Boogie” | “The Mooche” | “Chant in the Night” | “I Put a Spell on You” | “Nightmare” | “St. James Infirmary (Gambler’s Blues)” | “You Better Go Now” | “You Don’t Own Me” | “Assassinat - Take 3″ | “Just Squeeze Me” | “I Guess I’ll Have To Change My Plan” | “Ain’t Misbehavin’“ | “Solitude (reprise)” | “Ces petites choses” | “Melancholy Serenade” | “Second Balcony Jump” | “Honest Truth” | “At Last”
Summary: The reader hooks up with a guy she meets at a bar one night after she gets to the town where her childhood friend, Jess, is getting married in a few days time, leading to some unintended consequences…
Pairing: au!Dean x reader
Word Count: 10K (individual counts listed in parts)
Warnings: smut, language
Part 1 (smut)
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
A/N: A short, sweet (and slightly smutty) wedding AU perfect for a quick read. Special thanks to @atc74 for the aesthetic! <3
“It always comes back to this with you, doesn’t it?”
“Why can’t you just learn to let the fuck go.”
“Did it over occur to you that I never wanted this to begin with?”
“Why can’t you just look at me for one god damn second!”
“Let go of my hand.”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Why are you — saying all these things —”
“You know what? I was wrong. You never really meant anything to me. You’re broken, you’re beyond fixing, you’re not something I want to take the time to handle. Simple as that.”
“You’re a god damn mistake, that’s what you are.”
“I never wanted anything to do with you to begin with.”
“This, us, was a fucking mistake and I should have known the second things went further than planned.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”
“If anything, you were a fucking waste of time.”
“I just don’t feel anything anymore.”
“Looking at you I see nothing but something I need to put an end to.”
“Oh? Really? You thought we had a future? What gave you that idea.”
“Is this even going anywhere?”
“Why can’t we just talk about it —”
“Does it ever occur to you that I am done talking? That I am done with reflecting upon my words and action? Can’t you just take a fucking hint that I’m done with you? I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”
“We’re through. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“You were broken to begin with.”
“How am I supposed to ‘love you’ when I never had feelings to being with.”
“Haha, I don’t know who gave you THAT idea, but we’re not an item. We never were.”
“I’d like for you to leave now.”
“Just get out. Get out and leave me alone.”
“Why are you — saying all these things??? Where did they come from???”
“If you never were happy to begin with, how come you never told me?! I would have listened, I would have helped —”
“I don’t need, or want help, what I want is for you to get the fuck away from me.”
“You’re damaged goods and I can’t find the patience to take on you as a project.”
“You’re the kind of crazy I don’t want to deal with.”
“Lately you’ve become a burden, and I can’t handle it anymore.”
“If you’d just leave me alone, that’d be great.”
“Oh come on, the second we got to know each other, the due date were already set on us. We were never meant to last forever. Our relationship had a deadline, and now we’re at it; so, what you gonna do?”
The heavy glass door of the tattoo parlor chimes as you push it open. You flip the sign from Open to Close and lock the door before a man enters the front lobby to greet you. He’s covered in colorful images from the tips of his fingers to the full beard covering his jaw. His dark hair hangs in dreadlocks and he has huge gauge earrings in both ears.
“English?” you ask, feigning shyness.
“Little bit,” he says, smiling apologetically, his words stunted by a thick Eastern European accent.
“Perfect,” you mutter, telling him you know exactly what you want and that it won’t take long. He agrees and leads you back to a small but sterile room, the bright lights and antiseptic smell making your head spin slightly. You sit in a chair that strangely resembles something one would find in a dentist’s office and when he turns to ready the ink and needle, you silently reach into your pocket, your hand sliding around the cold metal weapon and you gently thumb off the safety.
“What you want?” he asks in broken English.
Smiling at him, you unbutton your jeans and slide the zipper down as a slow, excited smile creeps across the tattoo artist’s face. As you lower your pants further, his eyes grow wider, but it isn’t at the sight of your black panties or shapely legs. It’s at the lines and lines of meticulous hand writing, all done with a blue ballpoint pen, covering the entire front of both your thighs. As he leans in to inspect it closer, you remove the gun and hold the barrel against his temple. His head snaps up, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. You narrow your gaze at him and whisper.
“Ink it. All of it. Fast.”
Your eyes are watering as you hurry from the tattoo parlor, searing pain stinging the soft skin of your thighs as the material from your jeans rub against the skin. You subconsciously tug the sleeves of your shirt down lower over your wrists while ducking your head. As soon as the man had finished his work, a sharp blow from the pistol butt to the base of his skull had rendered him unconscious and you’d helped yourself to the credit cards and money in his wallet as well as the cash register. It was enough to get you out of Eastern Europe to the safe house in London. From there, a few phone calls and a bogus passport were all that stood between you and home.
Your train departs Bucharest in the morning so you hole up in a tiny flea bag hotel not far from the station. It’s 1970s chic turned shabby, the faded decor all dull oranges, browns and yellows. You let the bag fall from your shoulder onto the bed where it spills its contents onto the scratchy bedspread. You fish around for the tube of antibacterial cream you’d swiped from the tattoo place and take it with you into the bathroom.
The main light source in the depressing washroom is a single bulb with a pull chain suspended from the ceiling. A swift pull on the chain casts you in a warm yellow glow. You grimace as you catch your reflection in the mirror, noting the veins of gold paint flecking the surface in full throwback glory.
Setting the ointment on the dingy counter top, you remove your shirt and you can see every rib jutting out. The past few months have been long, hard and exhausting and the toll it’s taken on your body is visible. Slowly and very gently, you peel off your jeans. The words are embossed on your skin, angry, red and bleeding in a few places. You know from experience that they will flatten out in a day or so and the sting will likely be gone by morning. You gently clean the surface with a surprisingly white face cloth before rubbing the soothing cream over the surface of legs. You crawl into the hard bed, the sheets worn and threadbare but mercilessly softer than the scratchy, polyester quilt. You raise your hand to your rib cage, your fingers slowly gliding along the skin until the reach the raise edge of a scar. Closing your eyes, you trace the words you’d carved there months ago, when you realized they could make you forget, the familiar curves of the letters and the bumps of puckered skin somehow calming you now.
Bucky Barnes
It’s his name you hear on a quiet loop in your mind as you fall asleep
This past winter, I fell in love with one Bucky Barnes and proceeded to write almost an entire story in one weekend. It’s not done and I think it’s time for me to finish it. I need a distraction, I need to focus my energy on something positive. I think I am going to start posting what I have and hopefully that will help me be accountable to finish it! So stay tuned !
Hey sweetie. I’m so sorry you’re going through such an awful situation right now. I’m thinking of you and I really hope that you are able to find happiness with someone who treats you like you hung the stars in the sky. Sending love from Ohio 😘 -kate
Thank you for taking the time to write this. Your words mean a lot to me. -Sarah ❤️
That everything hurts right now. And I don’t have anyone to say it to.
I’m finally separated, waiting for the court date for the divorce and my ex is already buying a house with another woman. I asked for a divorce in June. He moved out mid July. It’s August. They’re moving into their new home 9/1. I found out from our five year old daughter.
We were married for 10 years. We have a five year old daughter. Yes, it was me who wanted a divorce, so why does this hurt me so much? How do you move on from ten years in less than 2 months? How long have they really been together? How can he be present for his daughter during this traumatic time when he is focusing on a new relationship?
Yes, I wanted this but it’s not easy. Three months ago we were a family. Now he’s making a new one. What does that say about me? About us? How is it possible for him to continue to hurt me so much? I wanted a divorce to make the abuse and pain stop.
I just need to say all of this to someone. I knew you would listen ❤️.
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