Small rewrite I would have given to the underground seen, right after Max says they can go back in time so Red's the only one hurting:
Chloe: Hm, see, small problem with that. If we make the Queen of Hearts evil again, then my Mom looses her head.
Max: Wait, what?
Chloe: (mockingly) Oh, did the Oraculum not show you that?
Max: No, i-
Chloe: -was only focused on you and your Dad. (laughs bitterly) You're just as selfish as she [Red] is, aren't you? Both of you only ever think of yourselves. Did you really think I was doing this for you, Max? Or your Dad? No, I...I've seen the past. I've seen that sad story. And if it happens I'm still left hurting. No, I say we turn this around and look to the future. A future where I’ll finally be on top, and you’ll know what it’s like to feel invisible and pushed aside. A future where I won’t need either of you.
Max: But I gave you that power!
Chloe: So I could be your little sidekick instead of Red's? Well, I'm not. I took that power, and now you'll have to pay the price.
ⓘ Tip
If you feel unfulfilled by how you spent your time today, you can stay up late to try to combat the sense of dissatisfaction. This will ensure that you feel even worse tomorrow.
hey so anyone else just, feel thin. sort of stretched. like butter scraped over too much bread. like you need a holiday. a very long holiday. and you don't expect you shall return? or is that just me and bilbo baggins
Reader always falling asleep next to Bucky, yes. BUT. Hear me out okay, Bucky always falling asleep next to reader. Pre-relationship. All reader has to do is be in the same room as Bucky and he's out like a light. It becomes comical because the team tries to figure out who it is and stay w Bucky alone to see if he falls asleep, but it's not until he's sitting alone with reader that he passes out within the minute. The team thinks it's funny, Bucky is embarrassed, but reader thinks it's cute and gets him to start sleeping in her room so he can sleep properly 😋😋
It truly was an acccident.
You’re in the common room late one night, curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket tucked around your legs and a file open on your tablet. The compound is quiet in that rare, fragile way it only ever is past midnight. You hear the soft, familiar whir of servos before you see him.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask without looking up.
Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.
You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.
It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.
You blink.
“Barnes?”
No response.
You lean closer. He’s out cold.
You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.
You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.
The next night it happens again.
And the next.
It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.
The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.
“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”
“What?” you ask innocently.
“Sleep. Like that.”
You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.
“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.
Natasha catches on next.
She tests it.
One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.
He doesn’t so much as yawn.
You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.
“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.
Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.
And promptly passes out mid-sentence.
Natasha stares at him.
Then at you.
“Oh,” she breathes.
Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.
Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.
Nothing.
Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.
But the second you’re alone with him?
Lights out.
The breaking point comes during movie night.
The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.
“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.
The movie starts.
Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.
And lands squarely on your shoulder.
The room erupts.
Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.
Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”
You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.
It is funny.
But it’s also… something else.
Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.
It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.
He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.
“You okay?” you’d asked softly.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, once.
“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.
He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.
“I know.”
You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.
His eyelids start to droop.
You watch it happen in real time.
“Buck,” you murmur gently.
He blinks at you, trying to fight it.
“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”
It’s like someone flips a switch.
He sways once.
Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.
You freeze for a second.
Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.
He doesn’t stir.
The next morning, the team finds him there.
In your bed.
Still asleep.
Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”
Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”
You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.
“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”
His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.
“You serious?”
“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”
There’s a beat.
Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.
The team never lets him live it down.
But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.
reader who is a huge cuddle bug but is constantly shy to ask bucky if he wants to cuddle with her. and bucky who, every single time, just melts when she stumbles through asking him for cuddles.
You’ve been thinking about it for the past ten minutes.
Well, thinking about it, circling it, building it up into something much bigger than it actually is. Because it’s just cuddling. Just asking your boyfriend if he wants to hold you for a little while. That’s normal. People do that all the time.
But your brain doesn’t really care about “normal.”
Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.
You notice every single one of them.
You always do.
Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.
God.
You swallow.
“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.
His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”
You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”
His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod too fast. “Mhm.”
Another pause.
His thumb keeps moving.
“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”
Your face burns.
“I—no, I haven’t.”
Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.
“Doll.”
And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.
“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”
His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.
“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”
“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
You might actually pass away.
You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.
“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”
Silence.
Oh God.
You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—
“Oh.”
It’s soft. Almost breathless.
You risk a glance up.
Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.
His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”
“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”
“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.
That does something to him.
You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.
Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.
His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.
You go easily, curling into his side.
And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.
“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.
You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.
Safe.
Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.
“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.
“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”
Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.
“I always want you close,” you admit.
That completely ruins him.
You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.
“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”
You nod against his chest.
“Okay.”
His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.
You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.
Hi!! I'm desperately looking for a specific bagginshield fic and hoping you might be familiar with it 😭😭 so bilbo has these tiny flowers sprouting out of his chest, right over his heart i think, and they signify how many lives he has left; every time he dies one falls off
He keeps it secret from the company when their quest begins, but he dies a few times and loses some flowers, and then i think he falls off a cliff while they're all being chased at some point, and that's how it's revealed to them - because it's kinda hard to hide the fact that he like broke his neck and landed on some really dangerous rocks and allat
They don't want him to use up any more of his lives for them but then in the botfa he saves thorin from azog and yeahhhh
(But then oin saves him with good ole medicine and he gets to spend his one last/true life with thorin! Yay happily ever after)
Sorry for randomly bothering you with this omgg i feel kinda silly but aaaaa im SO DESPERATE TO FIND THIS I'LL ASK ANYONE FOR HELP
This should be it!
The Nine Lives of Bilbo Baggins by captain (theoddoodisnude)
This was not a bother at all! Actually, you have introduced me to a very interesting fic 😋 I had to ask the Acorns & Oak Leaves discord server (which you should totally join btw because the people there are awesome sauce) for help because I haven't read it. Took me an hour of searching ao3 before I remembered I could ask them 😭
To pass the time on long rides, Bilbo starts absent-mindedly braiding Myrtles mane. He does it almost subconsciously and is completely unaware of all the dwarf eyes keenly watching him.
Because they're good braids, some of them quite complicated and no one can understand just how he knows how to do that.
The only conclusion they could come to is that the hobbit must have a paramour back in The Shire, some long-haired lass who he spoils with pretty love-braids.
Thorins temper had been truly foul after Balin had proposed the theory out loud.
After weeks of Thorin sulking, it was ever curious: Ori, who finally asked where Bilbo had learned such intrecate braid work.
Bilbo then flushed and embaressedly explained that he'd learned it from competitive pie decorating.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
𝐜𝐰; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, it’s 6k words long.
𝐚/𝐧: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the couple’s first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
“We managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.”
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
“You’ll be off active duty for several months,” the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. “You’ll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.”
His voice sounds farther away now, as though he’s standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
“Okay,” you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
That’s when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediately—you could’ve sworn the men’s and women’s recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. There’s faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes you’re awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression you’re giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
“Why are you here?”
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
“Too many casualties,” he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. “Hospital’s full. Had to stick you in a spare room.”
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, silence returns.
─☆*:・
You can’t sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You can’t walk—not yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t look at you this time.
“Got shot,” his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. “Upper abdomen,” he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah,” despite his—still flat—tone, there’s dry humor buried underneath it. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“Still feels like shit.”
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
“What’s your rank?” you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
“Lieutenant.”
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
“SAS?” you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesn’t ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re Simon Riley?”
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Only lieutenant whose face I’ve never seen.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. “Yes. It’s me.”
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
That’s one hell of a roommate assignment.
─☆*:・
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. “Just making sure you’re real.”
His visible eye narrows slightly. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” you admit. “Thought you’d be uglier.” A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
“You always this chatty?” he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but there’s still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
“Just heavily medicated, don't get used to it,” you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way that’s starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting way—he got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skin’s paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
“You're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.”
Simon’s brow furrows almost immediately.
“You're dramatic.”
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, “you've got quite the reputation.”
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, “probably terrorize recruits with it.”
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The pain’s still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
“You look less murderous now.”
You crack one eye open toward him. “Don’t worry,” you mumble sleepily. “Still judging your face.”
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laugh—not a full one, though. He probably hasn’t laughed properly since birth, but it’s there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
─☆*:・
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
“Go back to sleep,” you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
“Tempting,” he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterward—not awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
“First time being benched?” he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrong—being this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?”
“A bit.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “I don’t know how to sit still,” the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Gets ugly in your head when you stop moving.”
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
—☆*:・
By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isn’t there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
“Riley.”
“I got it.”
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
“You look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.”
“'M fine.”
“I'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.”
His visible eye narrows immediately.
“Thought ya leg didn’t work.”
“Temporarily,” you shoot back. “Unlike your brain apparently.”
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn’t catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
“Congratulations,” you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
“I was getting water.”
“There is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.”
“I can do it on my own.”
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.” you say flatly. “You’re allowed to ask for help, just—go sit down.”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. You’re strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didn’t make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But there’s another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, he’s a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesn’t feel fair.
─☆*:・
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinical—sort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nurses’ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hits—one brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
“Oh, fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. There’s the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
“What happened?” still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering him—you really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate this—how helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
You’ve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldn’t. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like you’re falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomen—he had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeeze—hard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simon’s brows knit slightly.
“Whot?”
“Don't look at me like this,” the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
“How’m I looking at you?”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know how to explain it. He is looking at you like you’re something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
“You need a nurse,” he says quietly.
“No.”
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. There’s exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, there’s something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasn’t there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simon’s grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like he’s trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobody’s ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just full—heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
“Scared me for a moment,” the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesn’t look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity that’s become strangely familiar over the last few days. You’re beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough to—tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
“You should sleep,” he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact he’s still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simon’s eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
“'M fine.”
“Go lay down,” your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said I’m fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
“Hm.”
“You’re injured.” you debate a second later.
“So’re you.”
“Yes, but I’m clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.”
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadn’t realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because you’re afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesn’t want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
“You don’t have to stay over here,” you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
“I know,” the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
“I know.”
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. He’s already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you both—all of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simon’s gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
“Go sleep,” you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
─☆*:・
Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bed—advice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldn’t: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomen—fingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because he’s already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
“You make it difficult not to,” you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“Should I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?” he asks eventually.
There’s dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
“No,” the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simon’s expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
“How bad is it?”
“Better now.” You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at that—relief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
“You stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “you’re not nearly as cold as everyone says.”
Simon’s eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. “You should sleep,” you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. “Eventually.”
You roll your eyes softly. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, you’ve been staring at for the past three days while Simon’s stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
“We should go out once we’re discharged.”
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. “Are you asking me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Thought I was being obvious.”
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
“You know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?” you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, “not a problem.”
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, “Date sounds fun."
Imagine once after Thorin has recovered from his injuries, Balin approaches Bilbo solemly to ask if he could sign the appropriate paperwork now that they finally have some time, and he and Thorin seemed to have worked everything out, presenting him with the marriage contract. Bilbo just stares, going completely white before storming off to the sick bay, kicking the door open and yelling, "Thorin Oakenshield, did you marry me without bothering to tell me?!"
Actually Steven Moffat is basically just this sentiment given human form.
A version of this happened with The Magicians, tbh. Though instead of expectation: men, reality: women it was expectation: smug nihilists, reality: mentally ill queer folks.
Arguably Game of Thrones.
If we broaden it outside of television…I think Star Wars falls into this, at least the sequel trilogy. Maybe the MCU as well. And I can’t help but think of every band that’s ever complained that their fanbase is mostly women. 5 Seconds of Summer comes immediately to mind.
In general, most white male creators seem to have this massively entitled mindset where they want–and think they deserve–the time, attention, and enthusiasm that creative fandom (i.e. the side of fandom more dominated by women) is known for.
They want our eyes for ratings, our word-of-mouth for free publicity, our metas for social media buzz, and our spending power for merch and cons. But they don’t want us. And they don’t really want the responsibility of telling a story to a thoughtful, engaged audience, regardless of that audience’s demographic makeup. They just want to be praised for whatever schlock they cough up.
And like any other spoiled brat, they will break their toys before they share them.
It goes all the way to the top for kids shows. Toy sales will crash a show. Makes sense, but if those toys are gendered for boys instead of the female viewers, they won’t usually switch up the marketing and move them to the girl aisle. They cancel the show outright.
Mind you it is perfectly possible to make the switch in marketing, but execs would rather throw it all out than have something that doesn’t perform well with male viewers. For example the Rey merch was not expected to be popular, for some reason, there had to be public outcry to get merch of one of the main 3 protagonists. A PROTAGONIST. The fact that she wasn’t a huge part of the 1st launch says a lot already.
And what happened when female fans got too invested in the Sequel Trilogy? The entire writers room didn’t necessarily lash out, but they sure forgot how to behave.
Young Justice
Paul Dini: Superhero cartoon execs don’t want largely female audiences
#WhereIsRey (initial)
#WhereIsRey (ongoing)
The older, male generation of 'Star Wars' fans may be losing interest in the franchise, but female fans are stepping up.
Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker was designed to be the opposite of The Last Jedi
#SONS OF ANARCHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!#LITERALLY SONS OF ANARCHY IS THE BIGGEST EXAMPLE OF THIS LIKE EVER#kurt sutter wrote that show for MEN and ended up with an overwhelmingly female audience#because he’s actually a good writer and knows how to develop characters well and wrote excellent female characters#but once he realized that his audience was almost entirely women he literally took it out on tara and gemma in the show#but like tara specifically#he resented her character for being a huge draw for female viewers so he tore her development to shreds and killed her#in the most brutal gut wrenching way possible#kurt sutter you will pay for your crimes#i actually wrote a manifesto about this on one of my old blogs i should try to find it sldkjsldfjsdljf#long post (via@m-oonknight)
OMG YES. I LOVED Sons of Anarchy, especially the women and then I got to season 6 and it was like - everything was just tossed in the trash? And like, why did Sutter hate that Tara drew tons of attention? That should have been a good thing! He should have been like “Hey folks, this girl’s getting us more viewers, let’s put her in more scenes!” It just doesn’t make sense to me. MEN don’t make sense to me.
The 100 too. I’ll never forget how Jason Rothenberg would attacked female fans on Twitter and mock them in interviews, and then post links to male fan discussions on Reddit to praise and thank them. In his goodbye letter to the show he SPECIFICALLY thanked Reddit and it was so disgusting.
Star Trek from TNG on was also a boy’s club, even though the TOS fans were mostly women. Women, in fact, who literally created modern fandom with their zines. But after TNG it was all, “Women don’t understand Star Trek, only smart men hur dur.”
(though it could probably start to make some sense if you follow the money past audience bases to maybe a couple of investors or like a rich patron … 🤔)
Stooooop I just wrote a masters thesis on this shit. Media creation and distribution is a means by which dominant power structures consolidate their hegemony. Dominantly situated creators get upset when the audience they attract isn’t the audience they wanted, because they view the whole creation and sharing of the fiction as an exercise to sustain kyriarchal conditions that benefit themselves. When the audience is Other, they see it as a failure of those efforts and lash out.
Simply, they’re trying to assert a particular worldview via fiction, and upon getting confronted with something else, begin foot stamping. It’s not just men wanting male attention and gatekeeping. It’s that the fiction in the first place was an attempt to curate dominance and whoopsie! they miscalculated.
(anyway if anyone wants to read 35k words of philosophy about this, hmu)
The Littlest Winter Soldier White Wolf (Bucky x reader)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: AJ wants to be Bucky for his Halloween costume, so you and he are in cahoots to surprise the one and only winter soldier White Wolf. Bucky’s heart melts at the big reveal.
Warnings: fluff, established relationship, talk of Bucky’s trauma/ self worth. (I think that’s it, let me know if I missed something)
Word Count: 1k
Authors Note: Reblogs and comments appreciated! Masterlist (I am not responsible for your media consumption~ anti AI~ I don’t consent for my work to be copied or used for anything besides fun and enjoyment ~)
Halloween was Bucky’s least favorite holiday, and you knew it.
He'd never say it outright—not anymore, anyway. He was getting better at blending in, even learning to laugh at absurd costumes and decorate pumpkins without thinking about how carving used to be a survival skill. But deep down, there was always a flicker of discomfort. The masks, the pretend blood, the fake weapons—it all reminded him of things that weren’t pretend.
That’s why, this year, you had a plan. A surprise. Something that might just nudge that cautious heart of his a little closer to light.
It had all started a couple weeks ago when you were visiting Sam’s place. AJ, Sam’s younger nephew, had tugged on your sleeve with a serious look.
“I wanna be Bucky for Halloween,” he’d whispered.
You blinked. “You mean… Bucky Barnes?”
He nodded. “The Winter Soldier. But the good version. With the Wakanda arm.”
You tried not to grin too hard. “We can definitely make that happen.”
Cass had been within earshot and chimed in immediately. “What, so I have to be Sam again? That’s boring.”
“You could be the Hulk you offered. “Or a vampire Hulk. I don’t know. Halloween rules are flexible.”
Cass had ultimately gone for a zombie, but AJ was all in. Every afternoon that week, he worked with you on his costume—taping cardboard and black-painted foil for the vibranium arm, customizing a little black tactical vest, and even drawing golden accents on the arm to mimic the Wakandan tech design.
By the time Halloween rolled around, the plan was simple: Sam would bring Cass and AJ over in the evening. You’d make sure Bucky was cozy on the couch, under the pretense of handing out candy. And then—boom—AJ would show up in full Winter Soldier cosplay, ready to surprise his hero.
The doorbell rang at 6:17 PM.
You popped your head into the living room, where Bucky was already muttering about how many Spider-Men he’d seen on the sidewalk. He looked up at you.
“More kids?” he asked.
“Maybe,” you said innocently. “Go open the door?”
He groaned like it was a chore, but he got up. You followed behind, bouncing a little on your toes.
The moment Bucky pulled open the door, he froze.
Standing proudly on the porch was AJ in full Winter Soldier White Wolf glory. His little black boots were slightly scuffed, his cardboard-and-foil vibranium arm glittered under the porch light. In one hand, he held a plastic knife. In the other, a bright orange pumpkin bucket.
Behind him, stood Cass who was eager for candy. Sam was standing behind both of them, smirking like he was waiting for a reaction.
“Trick or treat!” AJ announced. Then, grinning: “It’s me. You!”
Bucky didn’t say anything at first. He just… stared. He was sure his heart exploded..or maybe imploded..or maybe melted- he wasn’t sure.
You nudged him gently.
He let out a slow breath and knelt down to AJ’s height.
“…You’re me?” he asked, voice quiet.
He nodded proudly. “But the cool you. Like when you fight aliens and save people and jump off buildings. With the Wakanda arm.”
Cass snorted. “He begged for two weeks, by the way. Him and (y/n) worked on it all week.
AJ shrugged. “I look awesome.”
Bucky finally smiled. It started small—almost cautious—but it grew into something genuine. Soft. Disbelieving, like he was still trying to understand what was happening.
“You really wanted to be me?” he asked AJ
He looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve got a vibranium arm. And you’re strong and cool and you hang out with Uncle Sam. And you always look like you’re thinking about something deep.”
Bucky laughed—an actual, low laugh that caught you by surprise. “I am always thinking about something deep.”
He leaned in and whispered, “Is it murder?”
You nearly choked on your spit.
Sam groaned from the steps. “We talked about this, AJ.”
“I was just asking!”
Bucky chuckled again and held out his real vibranium hand. “That arm looks better than mine.”
He looked scandalized. “No way. Yours is real.”
“Yeah,” Cass added dryly. “And cost about ten million dollars more.”
Bucky looked up at you then, eyes softer than you’d seen in a long time.
“His idea?”
You smiled. “Yep! All his idea. I just helped make it happen.”
He nodded slowly, like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth settling in his chest. “Thank you.”
AJ tugged on his sleeve. “So… do I look like a hero?”
Bucky blinked, then rested a hand lightly on AJ’s cardboard shoulder. “Yeah, kid. You look like a hero.”
He grinned so big it could’ve powered the porch lights.
Later that night, after Sam took the boys trick-or-treating and the front porch had gone quiet again, Bucky stood by the window, watching them disappear down the street.
You walked up behind him, slipping your arms around his waist.
“Still thinking about it?” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t get it.”
“What’s not to get?”
“I never thought someone would want to be me. I figured I’d be the cautionary tale. The lesson in what not to become.”
You rested your head against his back. “You turned it around. You’re the hope now. The proof that healing’s possible.”
He was quiet for a while. Then: “He looked so proud. Like it meant something.”
“It did mean something,” you whispered. “To both of you.”
He turned in your arms, pulling you close.
“…Do you think he would let me borrow that arm next year?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want to dress up as AJ dressed up as you?”
He grinned, the idea clearly amusing him. “Kid version of me, with a cardboard vibranium arm and plastic knife. Think I could pull it off?”
You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I think he would be honored.”
“And Sam?”
“Sam would never let you live it down.”
He sighed dramatically. “Worth it.”
“How’d you keep this under wraps?” Bucky asked, genuinely curious. Not a lot of people could surprise him.
“AJ and Sam weren’t a problem. But I had to promise Cass three full size candy bars to make sure it stayed secret.”
Bucky laughed- genuine and real. “Thank you.”
You smiled and kissed his cheek, hoping you and the Wilsons made Halloween a little easier for him.
Tags: (tag list of open, send me an ask if you want to be tagged, removed or only tagged for certain characters.) @chromecutie @xenomorphique @evelyn120700 @nightriver99 @iamwarrenspeace @this-that-and-every-thing-else @hsk-puma @bungeewabbit @pianomad @lesbianstarkx @hazilyimagine-blog @super-darkcloudstudent @thehuntress26 @siren-lamented-vampire @mooleche @rovvboat @leo-writer @dandyqueen @nitemaremotionless @thewintersoldierswife @justjakescharacters
Summary: You have a HUGE crush on your fellow Avenger, but have never gotten the guts to tell him. Instead, you write letters that you keep to yourself. Until one letter goes missing...
Warnings: one-sided pining (turns out it was mutual), elevator confrontation, mostly fluffy but with a bit of angst that mainly comes from the unrequited feelings
WC: 3.5k
Masterlist
When you joined the Avengers, you expected a life full of danger, intrigue, secrecy, and maybe comradery if you were lucky.
You never expected Bucky Barnes.
It didn't take you too long to figure out the rest of the Avengers, at least on a base level. Tony was brash and flippant, Steve had morals of steel, Bruce was awkward but brilliant, Natasha and Clint were watchful (yet somehow playful at the same time). But Bucky?
He was so hard to read. Quiet, brooding. He just stood off to the side during meetings listening but not saying much. When you had team dinners, he would have quiet conversations with Steve and Nat, but was never the life of the party.
He was hard to approach. During training sessions, you would ask him to help you out, and he never said no, but he was never eager to assist. Sometimes, you couldn't tell if he liked you or hated you.
But there was something about him.
The way his lips would twitch into the faintest ghost of a smile when the team was goofing off. The sparkle of pride in his eye when he saw his best friend come home after a difficult mission. Even the ferocity with which he fought to protect his teammates on the battlefield.
When you saw those moments, it was like you could see another side of him peeking through. A layer of softness that was trying to crack his hard shell.
You saw it especially well when you were just living your lives out in the Tower.
In the morning, you would spot him making a pot of coffee and cooking breakfast on the stove, and he just looked so... domestic. So normal. Or in the evening when Steve would turn on the news and they would sit and discuss current events, he looked like any other man.
And when he would help you with simple tasks, like grabbing a book off a high shelf, or fixing a door hinge that came loose, it took everything in you not to stare at the curves of his muscles as his arms flexed. You tried not to notice the way his lips would tense as he worked. You begged yourself not to peek as his shirt rose up an inch or two to show off his muscular abs.
But over time, you couldn't help it.
You couldn't help but be hyper-aware every time you were in the same room with him. You couldn't help the way your heart would leap for joy when you got assigned on the same missions, or when both of you didn't. Your breath would catch on the days he sat next to you at meal times, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
Not that you really wanted to.
A few months in, it started to feel stifling, these feelings you couldn't release. Your mind was filled with thoughts of him and nothing else, which was starting to show in your performance.
At first, it was simple mistakes, a missed cue, or an unnoticed shadow.
And then came the time when you got hit by a bullet because you were distracted by him.
Clint shoved you behind a wall and growled, "What is wrong with you?"
You cried out in pain and held your hand to your side, warm blood seeping through your fingers. "I-I'm sorry," you wheezed, "I thought I saw something."
"What could you have possibly seen that would override the guy right in front of you?!"
It took you three weeks to recover to a place where you could start participating in missions again. Three weeks where you barely saw Bucky while he was out in the field.
During those weeks, you bought a box and paper and just started writing. You started writing down all of your thoughts, all of your dreams, all of your fantasies. Every scenario that you fixated on when it came to Bucky was down on paper the same day. And each letter you finished found its home in a lovely little locked box that lived under your bed.
Your letters were your perfect safe haven. A place where you could be honest and free, and spill everything you wanted to without being judged or rejected.
They were your perfect secret.
---
Your breath came quickly as you tore your room apart. Your desk was a disaster, every piece of paper in the room was thrown onto it. The contents of your shelf were on the floor, your blanket was balled up on the corner of your bed.
Crouching down, you frantically searched under your bed. "Where is it," you muttered, shoving your hand out in hopes of feeling the crinkle of pink paper.
Nothing.
A knock sounded from the door. "Hey, you good in there?" Natasha's voice called.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I-I'm fine," you replied distractedly, hopping back up on your feet.
"You sure? I heard something bump against the wall."
"Yeah, that was my desk."
"...Why are you banging your desk against the wall?"
You rolled your eyes. "I lost something, I was looking behind it."
Natasha hummed. "What did you lose?"
You fiddled with your hands, floundering for something to say. No one knew about your letters. Not even Natasha, who was the closest thing you had to a friend among the Avengers. "Just, a personal item."
"Well, yeah, I assumed. Do you need help finding it?"
"No!" you said too quickly. "I mean, no, I got it. It's no biggie."
It was absolutely a biggie. This was the most recent addition to your letter collection, and was one of the most detailed you'd written to date. If anyone other than you found it, it was over for you. Months of hiding your feelings would go straight down the drain, and all your hopes of ever becoming more with Bucky would die with them.
After all, who would be interested in someone who's obsessed with them?
No. He could never know.
You huffed and threw your pillow across the room in frustration. Where could you have possibly left it? How could a piece of pink paper hide from you this well?
Natasha's voice came again. "One other thing, we'll be leaving for the gala in two hours, so make sure you're ready to go by then."
You winced. The gala. Right. "Got it. I'll be ready."
"See you then." You could hear her footsteps as she walked down the hall and let out a sigh.
Surely, you'd find it after the gala. Maybe it was hiding in plain sight and you'd only see it later.
Quickly, you showered and dressed in the shimmering gown Tony had picked out for you. You hated to admit anything that would inflate his ego, but damn it, he knew luxury fashion.
And damn it, he knew galas.
The moment you walked into the room, you were hit with the very image of wealth. Dozens of people in expensive dresses and suits that all screamed 'look at me!', waiters walking around with trays full of sparkling champagne that bubbled delicately. Golden light streaming from the beautiful chandeliers that were hung up above a dance floor.
Steve whistled from beside you. "He really outdid himself this time."
"Don't let him hear you say that," Bucky murmured softly from beside him.
You chuckled. "He'd never let you hear the end of it."
Bucky shot you a warm smirk and your stomach twisted. He was always handsome, but he looked positively stunning that night. His suit was perfectly tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders, the deep blue of the fabric making his eyes shine like an endless sky. His dark hair was swept back with gel, brushed and combed with care.
You wished you could run your hands through it.
"You look great, by the way," Bucky said casually. "The colour is nice."
Your cheeks flushed with heat as you glanced down at your outfit. "Oh, thank you. You look great too!"
He laughed. "Thanks, doll." He turned to Steve as you entered the hall, but you couldn't let go of that one word, that term of endearment that meant far more to you than it meant to him.
Doll.
You never heard him call anyone else doll. Giddily, you held that joy close to your chest as you joined in the party.
All through the night, your eyes struggled to stay on your conversation partners, drifting around the room until they landed on the only person you could actually pay attention to.
At one point, Natasha came over and gently bumped your shoulder, apologizing to the woman who was telling you all about her most recent mission to Dubai and whisking you away to a corner of the room.
"You know," she said quietly, keeping her eyes forward, "this wouldn't be a bad place to tell him."
You blinked. "What? Tell whom?"
She chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling with a lightness you rarely saw. "Bucky."
A cold hand gripped your heart and you took a step back. You'd never told her--anyone--about your feelings. "W-what are you talking about? What do I have to tell Bucky?"
Natasha waved her hand casually. "Nothing important, just that you're completely and utterly in love with him."
Your nervousness escaped your throat in a bark disguised as a laugh. "Nat, now is not the time for jokes."
"I'm not joking."
Your face cooled into a cold neutral expression. "Drop it."
"And let you keep pining over him from the shadows?" Natasha grabbed a champagne flute from a tray that was floating by and lifted it to her lips. "Did you forget that you live with a bunch of retired superspies? Did you really think we wouldn't notice?"
Your eyes widened. "You--Who--"
"Me. Clint." She sipped her drink. "Steve probably suspects but doesn't know for sure." When she lowered the glass, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "I think it's just us two."
"I can't believe--"
Your words were cut off by the loud squeak of a microphone. You swiveled to see Tony at the podium in all his couture glory, his wife Pepper right beside him.
Off to the side of the small stage, you could see Bucky and Steve standing at the ready. It was only then that you remembered Bucky was going to be giving the welcoming speech tonight. You even sat down with him last night and helped him write it for hours. He'd been so adorably nervous about making one of his first public addresses as an Avenger.
Bucky's eyes caught yours and he gave you a smile, holding up his speech in his hand to show you.
You started to smile back when you saw the pink paper on the bottom of his stack and your face froze.
Oh. Oh god, no.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Tony started. "As much as I'd like to be the one to thank you all for coming to this event, let's be honest, you should be thanking me for the invite."
A light chuckle echoed around the room.
Pepper took the podium, shooting Tony a warning look. "This team, these Avengers, are proud beyond measure to serve you as Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Here to say more is our very own Bucky Barnes."
You watched as Bucky took to the podium and tapped the papers on the wood. Your heart started to beat wildly. That pink paper on the bottom of the stack. That was yours. That was your letter.
It must have gotten stuck to something when you went to help him write the speech last night, it had to have. How else could he have it right there in his hands?
He started to speak, but you couldn't hear a thing through the blood rushing through your ears. The world started to spin, and you needed to throw up. But you couldn't run. There were too many people, too many eyes. He would notice you sprinting away from the speech he worked so hard on. You couldn't do that to him.
But every second that dragged on brought you closer and closer to your doom. Every page he flipped brought him closer and closer to your biggest secret.
When he finished the last page of his actual speech, he paused, sliding the pink paper out from behind it.
Nope.
You couldn't do this.
You refused to. Refused to watch his eyes turn hard and cold, refused to see the confusion turn into horror. Refused to watch as he turned his eyes to meet yours in question and in pity.
And so you turned away and started to leave. You sat through the speech, now you could go, right?
Quietly, you pulled yourself away from Natasha's side and started to weave your way through the crowd of patrons who were starting to mingle again after the speech was done. You made it all the way to the elevator and managed to push the down button before you heard him.
His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he ran after you, his breaths coming quickly and shallow. "Wait," he called after you, slowing down to a quick walk.
You pressed the button again, refusing to look back. Come on, you thought. Come faster!
Bucky called your name and stopped a few feet away from you. "We gotta talk."
"Nope," you said as the elevator doors opened. "I'm not talking about anything. I am packing my things and moving to Belize."
You stepped in and tried to press the Lobby button and close the door, but Bucky stuck his hand in between the doors and they opened again. Fear flooded your system as he stepped inside with you. You were so completely unprepared to have this conversation ever, much less right this second. Your hands grew clammy and you forced them into a neat fold in front of you.
The doors closed and the elevator started to move.
You could feel his gaze on you, even as you refused to look his way.
"You really want to do it like this?" he asked, something sharp in his voice.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, crossing your arms.
He huffed out a breath and reached over to press the stop button. Your eyes widened. "Hey, what are you doing?"
"If I let you off this elevator down there, you're going to run away from me. You're going to run away from this." He held up a piece of pink paper and your cheeks heated to a crimson hue.
Your eyes were glued to the paper. "Give that back," you said halfheartedly.
Bucky shook his head. "Not until we discuss this."
You threw up your hands exasperatedly. "What is there to discuss?"
He opened his mouth and then hesitated, like he was editing his thoughts on the spot. "Why was your--why was this in my script?"
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. "I don't know. It wasn't supposed to be, it was supposed to be in my room with the rest of them. Hidden. Never to be seen by anyone except me and an eventual fireplace."
"...There are others?"
Realization at what you'd revealed shook you out of your pity party and you turned around to face the wall, dropping your head into your hands. "Forget I said that."
"I don't think I can. How many have you written?"
"Oh, what does it matter, Bucky?" You whipped around to face him, your eyes wet with unshed tears. "They were supposed to be for me. Just for me. So I could... unload onto something that wouldn't care."
Suddenly the tears were no longer unshed, hot and wet as they dripped down your cheeks. "I-I... I'm sorry, you weren't supposed to-to see any of them." Your breaths were uneven as they filled with your tears.
He froze, his hand trembling slightly as it held onto your letter. Slowly, he looked from the letter to you. "So, everything in here is real?"
You closed your eyes and nodded. "I know it isn't fair to you, and I'm sorry. I wanted to just keep this to myself, but I can't even do that right."
"Why didn't you tell me?" his voice was soft as he took a few steps in your direction.
You pressed yourself back against the wall, creating space between you again. An incredulous laugh bubbled up inside of you. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Bucky, I know we don't talk a whole lot but I've had a crush on you for the last eight months and don't have the balls to ask you out!' I couldn't do that! I can barely ask Tony to get me take out most days."
You heard him make a sound, a sound that you quickly realized was him trying to cover up a laugh. "You're laughing at me," you said in disbelief. "My biggest secret comes to light and you're laughing at me!"
"Ten months."
You stared at him like he'd just grown a second head. "Excuse me?"
"I've liked you for ten months." He took another step closer to you, your letter still clutched gently in his hand like he was afraid to wrinkle it. "I didn't say anything because... I was sure someone like you would have been happier with someone else."
All you could do was blink. What was he saying?
He took another step closer. He was so close you could smell his cologne, deep and mesmerizing. Bucky took his hand and lifted your chin up gently, forcing you to look him in the eyes.
"Every time I see you, I want to scream my feelings out in to the world, to tell you the truth and run into your arms, but I'm so scared about what you might say," he quoted, reading from your letter. "You wrote that about me? "
A stray tear fell from the corner of your eye and you tried to turn away from him, but he didn't let you, just held your face firmly in place before sliding his hand up your jaw to brush the tear away with his thumb. The heat from his hands sent shivers down your spine. You gave him a small nod.
Part of you thought that he was trying to gently let you down, or tell you that you would always be friends but he was interested in someone else. There was no part of you that was ready for him to lean down and kiss you.
Your eyes widened in surprise, but when you felt him lean into you, you couldn't help but melt into him. His lips were soft and warm, full of a desperate longing that was so familiar you couldn't tell if it came from you or from him. Your head felt like it was full of air, floating away into pure bliss.
How long had you dreamed of this moment? How many nights had you stayed awake wondering what it would be like for him to be sleeping next to you? How many movie nights did you spend thinking about what it would be like if he sat next to you, close enough for you to feel his warmth?
And now, his warmth was all over you. His right hand held your face gently like he was afraid he was going to lose you, his left arm curled around your waist to pull you in tighter. His lips moved against yours, slowly at first, then quicker, fiercer with every second you didn't pull away. Your heart felt like it was beating so fast it would stop any moment now.
When you started to feel lightheaded, you pulled away, breath heaving as you tried to force oxygen into your lungs. Your lips felt swollen and heavy, and when you risked a glance up at him, he looked the same, his beautiful lips curved into a small smile.
If your cheeks could burst into flames, they would have at that exact moment.
"That was..." you breathed. "Why did you--"
"I have spent months dreaming of doing that," he whispered, placing his forehead against yours. "I never once thought I'd actually get to. Not until I saw the letter. I couldn't let you run away from me, not when I finally had a chance."
You let out a nervous giggle. "You really... like me?"
"Doll, I've liked you since the day you walked into the compound." He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, but kept his hand near your face. "I... I know I'm not good at talking about feelings, not as good as Steve at least, but... I really like you. And I-I would love to take you out for dinner. If that sounds okay to you."
You grabbed him by the collar of his suit jacket and pulled him down into another kiss.
He smiled against your lips. "I'll take that as a yes."
A/N ngl not my best work but I couldn't get it out of my headddddd
Bilbo seeing portraits in Erebor, ones that survived Smaug and ruin, and getting excited to see Thorin's family portraits.
Thorin is one Bilbo obviously recognizes. Dís too, if only because of her sons' likeness. His eyes linger on their brother, but truly stop when he sees Thorin's mother.
She was gorgeous. A simultaneously stern and warm look in her eye. Her nose was a defining feature, cutting a regal and imposing profile. There was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Her hair was a silky, almost iridescent black, like a raven's wing and it hung in curls over her broad shoulders.
"That is my mother." Thorin stood beside Bilbo, taking his hand in his own.
"You look so much like her."
His hand tightened around Bilbo's, his heart constricting in his chest. "You truly mean that?"
"I do," Bilbo said, light and sincere as if the simple statement didn't make Thorin's world spin on end.
Thorin felt no shyness for how his voice shook. "You do not know how much that means to me."
this story is meant to be open-ended and vague. a collection of scenarios between simon and his mail-ordered bride.
cross-posting on ao3
cw: this piece isn't necessarily nsfw or dark, but i will not promise it won't contain these themes as these pieces are literally posted on the spot with random prompts (18+)
early delivery
no privacy
help wanted
get off my lawn
views
quiet hours
expectations
necessity
no past
laundry day
stars align
comfort place
summer heat
movie night
mirror thoughts
left behind
it's orange
oopsies
plan b
besties
lunch date
reality
dinner date
honesty
make a wish
open book
wants and needs
the same sky
no control
easy
show off (fanart for this scene !!!!)
tactical
perfect height
too pretty
before
googly eyes
in every life
helping hand
a past life
boo!
#mail-order tag (lore + more lmao)
Just a Fangirl Livin in a Muggle World @stressed-and-book-obsessed - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
