#Expanded Metal Sheet

[bobcometal]

Discover the Versatility of Expanded Metal

Expanded Metal is sheet metal that has been slit and expanded up to ten times its original width. The formation of the diamond-shaped pattern adds to the strength and rigidity of the sheet. Flattened Expanded Metal is especially suited to welding because of its flat surface. Whether you're a builder, designer, or contractor, our expert team is here to guide you through the process, from selection to installation, ensuring that your vision becomes a reality. Experience the versatility of expanded metal and elevate your projects to new heights of innovation and excellence. Visit our website today!

[salmanrashidblog]

Choosing the Best Type of Steel Sheets for Your Construction Needs

Learn how to select the right type of steel sheet for your construction project, ensuring strength, durability, and cost-effectiveness for long-term success.

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part four]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10k

A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!

main masterlist | series masterlist

In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.

The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air. 

“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. 

His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”

His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.

You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.

His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.

Stop. 

You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.

“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight. 

“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”

The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”

“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making. 

“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”

His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.

"I can't... I—”

"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."

His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."

He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.

"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"

"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."

"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him. 

You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.

You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap. 

"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."

He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.

"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."

He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.

"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."

The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.

"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"

He nodded shakily.

"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."

You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—? 

No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?

It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.

When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.

"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."

"I’m sorry," he croaked.

"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."

That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.

You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.

“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”

His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.

Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable. 

“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”

You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators. 

"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"

He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"

"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"

“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion. 

Was he… angry? 

Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken. 

“What?” You managed to stumble out.

Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”

You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.

Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”

“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out. 

It was fear. 

Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you. 

“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.

Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.” 

He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.

“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”

Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”

You knew this look. 

The thinly veiled judgment behind it. 

It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.

“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”

You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.

“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”

Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.

“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.

You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.

“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”

Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”

His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”

You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.

“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”

The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.

It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.

So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.

“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”

Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.

“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”

Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.

You didn’t need to.

His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.

The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal. 

The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.

You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.

Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.

His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.

“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.

“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”

“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.

“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”

You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.

“So are you like dating or—”

“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.

Maybe too fast.

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails. 

“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”

He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.

You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.

He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.

“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.

Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.

Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.

“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”

“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.

You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.

You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.

The word caught your throat on its way out.

“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.

Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.

“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.

“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.

Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”

“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.

“What?” 

“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”

“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”

“You lied to me.”

“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.

“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”

“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,

Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.

“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”

“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”

“Why are you so worried—”

“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”

You recoiled in shock.

Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.

Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.

You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.

Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute. 

“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly. 

“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed. 

The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you. 

“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.

“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly. 

“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."

Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.

At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.

“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”

“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.

You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.

—

You’re on your own now.

The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.

They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.

You’re on your own now.

You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.

It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.

You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.

Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.

The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.

You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible. 

Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.

You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?

You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.

“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.

You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack? 

“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.

“Jesus, give it a break.”

“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”

“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”

You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.

“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”

Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.

Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.

You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.

But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you. 

You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.

A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.

It wouldn’t budge.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.

The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.

The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.

You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.

You’re on your own now.

—

The shower hadn’t helped.

You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.

You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows. 

With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.

You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.

The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.

Just talk to me.

Please?

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.

Can we please talk?

You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older. 

Are you still awake?

Come over?

Can’t sleep.

Still can’t sleep.

I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?

You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you. 

You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.

You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.

But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.

Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.

A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.

You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward. 

“Bucky—”

His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.

And everything stopped.

You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.

You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

—

You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.

Except it wasn’t.

You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.

And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.

“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”

You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.

Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”

Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance. 

You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”

Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”

You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.

So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”

You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.

“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”

You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”

You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”

Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.

“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”

Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.

This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?

Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.

“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat. 

You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.

The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.

“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.

You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.

“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”

A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped.

You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.

You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.

“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Your blood roared. 

Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.

But it was too late.

You charged again.

No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.

He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.

Then he flipped you.

You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.

His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.

You struggled.

At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.

Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach. 

Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.

Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.

You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.

You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.

You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm. 

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.

You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.

“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.

You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.

His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.

“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”

He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.

You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.

Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.

But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.

Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.

And that—that meant something.

Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached. 

“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”

“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?” 

He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably. 

Still, it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.

“What did you just call her?” 

Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed. 

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. 

You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.

Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.

—

Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.

You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.

God, you hated looking the part.

But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.

You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.

Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.

You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.

You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.

You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.

“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.

You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”

“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.

“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”

You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation. 

Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.

Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.

You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.

Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.

The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.

Except—

He was there.

Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.

He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.

You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.

And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.

Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.

It broke your heart.

Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.

His eyes locked on yours.

You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”

Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”

“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”

He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.

“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”

“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[steelplatechina]

Aluminum grating bar custom made supplier and metal grating bar supplier from China

[witherby]

I love your Littlest Wayne series! I was just wondering, can Connor still hear mouse when she is in the shadows? Like, how would he react if she suddenly used her powers and he couldn't hear her anymore?

Ohhhh I LOVE THIS PROMPT. Let's explore that!

More Conner x Gender Neutral!Reader coming up~

Littlest Wayne: Signs of Life

Masterlist is Here!

Conner uses your heartbeat to lull himself to sleep. Its steady cadence is an anchor point for him when he's overwhelmed, or when he misses you, or when he wants to know where you are. Its calm, consistent thumping is always in the back of his mind, even when he isn't consciously listening for it.

So when he cracks his eyes open out of a dead sleep, groggy and confused, it takes him entirely too long to realize that he woke up because can't hear you anymore.

He's at Wayne Manor in seconds, uncaring of the alarms he's tripping in his haste to get to you, and hovering anxiously in the air when he finds your bedroom unoccupied. When Hal blearily stumbles in and asks him why he's in his youngest's room in the middle of the night again, and to please stop doing that because it's very inappropriate, Conner grips his shoulders too tight and blurts out the first coherent thought in his mind.

"I can't hear them!"

Hal rubs the sleep from his eyes, unphased. "Kid, I don't know what —"

"I can't hear their heartbeat."

The alertness is there now. Hal pushes his hands away and goes to the bed, pulling the covers back.

"The sheets are cold. Stay here, I'm getting Bruce."

Conner zips out of the room and pulls Bruce from his bed, then sets him back on the floor before Hal can even finish turning towards the door.

"Help me find them!" He snaps in a panic. Bruce blinks heavily, but it doesn't take him long to realize there's an emergency.

"When did you stop hearing them?" Bruce asks, glancing around your room. The only sign of disturbance is the window Conner came through, which was closed prior to his arrival. Bruce starts examining the space around your bed, wondering if you simply slipped into your pocket dimension or if something actually happened, and Hal leaves to go grab his ring so he can scan the area.

"Eight minutes ago. I woke up because I couldn't hear their heartbeat anymore, Bruce. I've never not been able to hear them before, I can't see them or detect their heat signature —"

"Superboy," Bruce says firmly, "deep breaths. It's extremely likely that they're still alive, but you can't help track them down if you're panicking."

Conner takes deep breaths. A little too deep. When he exhales the wind almost pushes Bruce over. He glares at Conner, who grimaces and flies back through the window to breathe outside instead.

"Where are you..." He whispers, frowning. He wraps his arms around his waist in a facsimile of a hug and closes his eyes, trying to center himself.

It'll be fine. Bruce and Hal don't seem to be frightened (they aren't a good base to compare to anyway, being seasoned vigilantes trained not to panic in stressful situations) and they aren't making any attempts to reach out to other League members for backup. It'll be fine. You're alive somewhere, Conner just can't hear you or see you or smell you or sense you or —

Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Focus. Just breathe and keep looking. They're fine. They're safe. They're....on the moon.

No fucking way.

Conner opens his eyes, incredulous. He listens for your heartbeat again, expanding his hearing outside of Earth.

There it is. The steady thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump he's grown to love is on the dark side of the goddamn moon. Like metal to a magnet, he follows the sound of you up, and up, and up, until he breaches the atmosphere and enters space. Then flies even further still, until his socked feet touch down onto the rocky surface.

"You scared the shit out of me," he snaps, when what he meant to say was "I'm so relieved you're okay."

A lumpy patch of darkness, darker than the rest of the ground, wobbles a little and inches forward until it's tickling Conner's toes. You move like you're unused to the terrain. It only makes him angrier.

"...a w a k e...w h y..."

"It's your fault," he says, hands shaking so bad he clenches them into fists. "I woke up with this huge sense of dread. Something was wrong, every bone in my body knew it. And I realized I couldn't hear your heart anymore."

He presses his fists to his eyes, applying pressure until bursts of color dance behind closed lids. They're burning, and not from the threat of head vision.

"I thought you were — I couldn't find —" he shakes his head and gasps your name. He feels that same tickling sensation on his feet again, more insistent. He steps away from your shadow. "Do you know how terrifying that was? To wake up and not find a single sign of life!? It's the middle of the night, and you're out here just — just on the moon!! On THE moon, the one in outer space!! When did you even find out you could travel off-planet!?"

"...y e s t e r d a y...p r a c t i c i n g..."

"Leave a note next time!" Conner says. He wants to throw something. Wants to kick the moon apart. Wants to drag you from the darkness and never let you out of his arms. "Leave a text! Tell someone something before you do this again!!"

"...i p r o m i s e...s o r r y C o n n e r..."

This time, when your darkness reaches for him, Conner allows himself to be pulled under and into your tight embrace. He floats in absolute darkness with you, soothing himself with your heartbeat.

When you return to your room, Bruce and Hal find you and Conner in each other's arms and sleeping away.

[megapteraurelia]

🫧 SUMMARY; — yamaguchi tadashi got a piercing, and you have to try it out! (at his expense)

🫧 WARNINGS; — graphic smut; fem!reader; cock ring; whiny!yamaguchi / overfucked!yamaguchi; unprotected p in v; oral m!receiving

🫧 WORD COUNT; — 1480.

🫧 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — i'm depraved. i love the idea of him being a pathetic mess, all fucked out and sloppy and— i'm sorry, ok?? ahhhhh!!! i'm a LOSER AND I LOVE BABY BOY TADASHI and he would absolutely be the the whiniest boy ever

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

“let me see,” you mumbled, fingers tugging on his waistband but his hands were clamped over yours, sweaty. 

“don’t, it will be too much,” he pleaded; eyes squeezed shut because fuck, he was so hard he could feel the pulse through his entire body. to have you touch him, look at you hollowing your cheeks, gaze hard and fierce on his face? fuck. “i won’t be able to take it.”

yamaguchi tadashi’s cheeks were flushed; the hand of yours hovering over his clothed dick warm, thumb daring to press down, right into the metal ring around his head.

“i’ll take good care of you, ‘dashi, mhm?” tone thick with lust, heat gathering between your legs at the thought of the piercing gliding inside of you, using it to stimulate your clit, losing your mind over it.

another weak attempt to ward you off, even though the heat in his groin licking at him from the inside was almost enough to make him break, “i won’t last that long.”

“you don’t last that long anyway, baby,” you smiled at him, teasing and loving, eyes lidded as you looked up at him from your knees, voice turning sinful, “though that means i’ll just have to make you cum and cum and cum all over again.”

his adam apple bobbed, strands of his hair already damp, and then a whine escaped him, half affirmative, half fearful. your hand sank down to palm him through layers of clothing, and tadashi’s chest expanded with air and a rising wave of arousal, exhale shaky as he expected the sensitivity to hit him. yamaguchi tadashi was like a little dog in heat, rutting his hips against your fingers because despite the panic, he was desperate.

so you gave him the extra pressure, the extra attention, mouth leaving little bites on his skin over the pants he wore, giving him other sensations to focus on.

“ng—hh, fu—huck,” tadashi gasped and moaned so prettily, body flushing closer to yours, eagerly rubbing his length along your hand; eyes squinted, brows furrowed and chest moving heavily. his fingers worked clumsily in tugging down his waistband, and you helped, nails scratching his flesh on accident because god, you wanted your mouth on him just as much as he wanted it. 

his eyes fluttered closed when he felt heat wrap around his tip as soon he sprung free, tongue rough and wet, gliding over his throbbing cock with ease, avoiding the piercing easily, until he was like butter under your fingers, begging, pleading, stuttering nonsense.

“plea—h-hease, ng—h,” head thrown back, neck glistening with sweat, fingers jittering as they struggled to fist your hair, his voice carrying need and embarrassment, “m—want t’feel your mmm—mouth all over.”

you allowed a breathy laugh to escape you, letting the air fan over the piece of metal pierced through the dark red, glistening tip before you carefully bit into the metal and tugged roughly.

a high-pitched, long drawn-out whine escaped him, hips thrusting up reflexively, out of his control, fingers letting go of your hair to touch the edge of the bed. the sheets curled underneath his fingers, and his mouth opened, a little line of drool trickling down his chin as he panted into the air — he was an absolute mess. the prettiest.

“oh, you like it, eh, baby?” letting a grin fool him, enveloping his dick in your mouth once again, letting him sink into wet heat, the ring rubbing against warm flesh. your tongue slid over his skin, swallowing around his length, heavy in your mouth; you wanted to drive him crazy and oh, how he had gone mad.

his arms were straining clutching the sheets, thorax heaving up and falling down hysterically, hips jerking around aimlessly, only wanting something to make him cum — it didn’t even need to be somebody. he could have rubbed his dick against the cushion and he would have gotten off in a second. 

but feeling the teeth softly graze his shaft, tongue swirling around the metal, hooking in the ring to pull—

tadashi’s face was locked into an art work, teeth biting his lower lip red and swollen, eyes squeezed shut, freckles adorning his face in the same way hickeys decorated his throat and he started twitching, shooting thick ropes of white into your mouth. the sounds coming out of his mouth were pathetic and pornographic, short and high, pants falling from his lips freely. he was so vocal, dissolving in front of you into a whimpering mess.

so much so that you couldn’t help drawing out more from his sensitive tip, the pain and pleasure intertwining in his loin at the tug on the ring, the irritated skin around it glaring an angry red; each touch eliciting a shudder, tears like pearls on his lashes, “p—plea—nhghn. i can’t, i ca—” a hiccup interrupting him, “— han…t.”

more and more, wanting to paint his dick purple, leaving galaxies all over the glistening skin, you took and took from him, leaving him with heaving sobs and drool, pink cheeked, blubbering nothings, quivering in your mouth, again and again until yamaguchi tadashi had no other choice but to come undone at your will.

having crashed backwards onto the bed, tadashi was too spent to lift his hips to meet you halfway, but you didn’t mind, thighs slick with his cum and your own, muscles burning as you heaved up and sank down again, mindlessly chasing another high, the ring dragging deliciously slow against you, little moans aimlessly leaving your mouth.

he was watching you with lidded eyes through his lashes, fingers grasping your legs weakly, abdomen spasming at the overstimulation as his cock twitched inside of you, like it was all a reflex, like he couldn’t help but react anyway. like his staring at you was a front only, not a single thought behind that cute forehead, just seeing and reacting.

your skin met his in sharp slaps clumsily, messily; wetness sounding out, sticky, and through tadashi’s open mouth came quiet noises, “h—ah, hhngh, a—aah”, like he didn’t have control over his vocal cords either, no control over the hyperventilation forcing his chest to breathe too fast; the blush on his face deepening because despite everything, his nerves were burning, his dick still so painfully hard and leaking constantly, his tip on fire, wounded, and his hips jerking at the sloppy kiss you shared with him.

“nh, ‘dashi,” your throat raw from how deep you had taken him earlier, tongue licking up his spit, his jaw, adding another bruise to your canvas, “i— hh, ‘m gonna cum.”

his freckles were going under in the pink, and his pruney fingers lifted weakly, like a command, to graze the little nub hidden, to add another layer of featherlight touch to help you, and it didn’t take long. the strain of your muscles enhanced the swapping feeling in your stomach, rising to fog your brain, to force an onslaught of sensation over you as you tipped your head back, voice cutting out into nothing when another orgasm came crashing over you.

legs having given out, you sat on his dick with his finger still caressing you, still giving you something to squirm about, until your voice resembled the whines he had given you earlier, and you allowed yourself to slump over him, to trap his hand between your bodies, limiting his movement.

“i can’t,” you murmured into his lips, and the way he kissed you back was tired and sluggish, barely responding, only “mhmm-hm” leaving his mouth.

your lips met his again, soft, sweet, kissing his mouth, their corners, his cheeks, his cheekbones, his nose, his freckles, and your voice was just as airy as your pecks, “cute ‘dashi, you’re so cute all fucked out like this.”

“s—stop,” he blushed harder than he should have, and the red looked delicious underneath the blue and purple on his throat and neck.

“we should —,” you couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop your hands from brushing his hair away from his face to see the sincere look in his eyes, couldn’t stop from sending a similar one back, his body warm and sticky underneath yours. he pulled his hand out from between you both, fingers slinging around your back to flush you close even though not a lick of air could even fit between your skin, “— clean up, baby.”

“you’re so pretty. so unbelievably pretty,” he only responded instead, voice shy and soft, and hid his face in your neck, “i’ll clean in a second, just stay like this. please.”

“cute ‘dashi.”

his protesting whine was muffled against your skin, his hips squirming when you shuffled around, body jerking as he hugged you a bit harder, embarrassment strong in his voice, “please stop moving, pretty, i can’t — “

you complied for a few seconds before moving, testing, a giggle ready burst out. a strangled, pretty whine, “ah—hhan—gh. please—”

[madaqueue]

CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

playlists | 'do i wanna know' x hozier

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

themes/content: angst. alcohol consumption, a not-great breakup, sometimes you don't have to say 'i love you' to know it. 18+ MDNI (wk: 1.5k)

a/n: maybe putting this man in a situation will get me out of my writer's block

“Hi, baby,” Satoru’s slurred voice crackles through the speaker, cold metal held to your ear.

At least through the shitty phone you refuse to upgrade, he can’t hear your sigh from the other end. “Where are you?”

“I’m not telling,” he sing-songs, ending with a hiccup he can’t quite stifle.

Not that his answer really matters, only half playing through the otherwise-silent bedroom. You’re already up, groggily pulling on sweatpants and palming for the shape of your keys, lit by the tiny screen blinking his name.

“Well, don’t go too far. I’m on my way.” You hang up before he can complain (not that he would - if you had stayed on the call for a second longer, you would have heard the contented sigh slipping from his lips, a quiet ‘thank you’ that his microphone might have missed).

The bar is sticky and hot, uncomfortable at any time, but especially at 1:30 a.m. when you should be at home under soft sheets and moonlight. Shedding your coat does little to fix the air clinging to your skin like a vice as your eyes scan past neon lights, parsing through the blaring music for something familiar. A flash of white across the room, and your steps fall in a straight line.

When you place your hand between his shoulder blades (gently, of course - you know he startles easily), he manages to pull his head from the haven of his elbows, a temporary shelter along the wooden countertop.

“You came.” His grin is wild and unruly, only half there, but his eyes pierce through you all the same. You’ve always felt too bare under them; you tug your jacket on.

“Let’s go, Satoru.”

He doesn’t protest as you loop one arm around his torso, and lets you pull him to his feet. It’s always a bit of a balancing act to get him through the door, his lanky limbs colliding with yours, his shoes heavier than the rest of his body. Drunken giggles tumble into your ear from where his head rests atop yours, watching you kick his ankles away to keep him upright.

“Were you born with two left feet or something?” you grumble to yourself, muffled by the screeching chatter encasing you.

“Don’t think so,” he says earnestly. With a slow glance downward, he hums. “Nope. Right and left.”

You scoff to hide the giggle that threatens to escape. You wish he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t charm you and force a smile, wouldn’t make you ache with forgiveness.

The night air is cold and welcome, finally letting your lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like days, in spite of Satoru’s crushing weight on your shoulders. Opening his door first, he falls into the seat, enveloped by the familiar cloth, and you fasten his seatbelt before stepping into the driver’s side. In the confined space of the car, the smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, slowly making its way towards you, and you sniffle. The engine hums as you drive, roads and turns you know better than the veins coursing below your skin, ones that tingle under a watchful gaze.

With a quick glance, you find Satoru’s eyes lazily fixed on your own.

“You’ve got a staring problem,” you state.

“Just admiring the view.”

The thrum of your pulse picks up. You resent it.

“I still love you, y’know.”

The leather covering of the steering wheel creaks below your tightening grip. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” If you didn’t know him so well, you’d think he was teasing, playing coy, pushing your buttons until he finds the one that makes you force him out along the highway. Unfortunately, you know it’s genuine.

“Because.” You exhale. “Because you broke up with me.”

A groan is muffled beneath his palm, rubbing into his skin as if he could wipe the words away. It was mutual, you told your friends, who took it well, your parents, who didn’t, as you tried to hide the familiar stinging in your eyes, as though you hadn’t just emerged from the bathroom where the water ran cold from scrubbing salt stains off your cheeks.

“It doesn’t make it any less true.” When he’s forced to hear the click of the turn signal too many times against the silence, he continues. “And I didn’t wanna break up with you.”

Ah, his favorite excuse. It makes you grimace at the bitter taste rising in the back of your throat. ‘I don’t want this either,’ he said as you screamed and cried in his arms, as he held you until the worst of the shaking was over. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

“Whatever,” you acquiesce (he’ll never shut up if you don’t give him something to cling to).

(He only feels sane when he hears your voice. The silence aches for it; it tears at him from the inside out. If his agony could sound like you, he’d suffer like this forever.)

Before he can beg for more, his door opens. You reach across his waist to undo the seatbelt and toss his arm over your shoulders again.

In his hazy mind, he wonders how many times you’ve done this - he never really remembers this part, so it makes it hard to count. But there’s a fluidity as you shuffle towards the garage, punching in a code he never dared to change, as you wait the three seconds for it to rise just above his head and maneuver him inside.

And of course he doesn’t have to guide you towards the bedroom (he has to call it that now, ‘the’ bedroom; he thinks you got upset with him for calling it ‘our’ bedroom once, but that’s foggy, too).

With a huff you toss him onto the bed, every muscle uncoordinated, too out of it to scramble for the shreds of his dignity. Instead, he watches silently as you untie his shoes, unlatch his belt, unbutton his shirt. Even in just his boxers he doesn’t feel bare, not under your eyes, ones too gentle to cut.

“There’s water on the bedside table, and I put some crackers there, too. Please eat them.”

“M’sorry.”

“What?” You try to ignore the way your throat burns, the way your legs can’t move.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“Satoru, what-”

“That’s why.” When he finally removes the arm that had been shielding his face, those bright blue eyes are dull, clouded with tears. “That’s why I - hic - fucked it up. I wasn’t strong enough to protect you. I love you so much and I wasn’t strong enough.” I couldn’t risk anything happening to you, I was too dangerous, I would have gotten you hurt. I should have protected you, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in the thickness at the back of his tongue.

Some part of you, a part you tried to crush and kill and bury, claws its way out. You sit at the edge of the bed and rub his arm.

“It’s okay. I loved you, too.”

Loved. What a wretched thing past tense is. He wants to scream.

“No!” he cries, the sound weak and cracked. “I can’t…I can’t do anything but this, but love you. You’re the only one. And I ruined it.”

He makes no move towards you, curling into himself instead, sucking everything in until you’re captured by it, too. Your hands cradle his face, and let the tears spill over your fingers.

“I’m sorry I called you.”

The sobs have started to quiet, his breathing becoming less labored. He’s shaking less, now, with your skin on his.

“It’s okay.”

Your fingertips travel along his jaw, and you try to ignore how beautiful he looks with tears catching under the moonlight, how the comforter is stained darker beneath his cheeks. You try to ignore the way this hurts worse than any wound could, that you would have rather be killed for loving him than suffer through losing him. You try to ignore the way your heartbeat slows with your skin on his.

Through parted lips, his sleep-laden sighs fall steadier. His forehead is warm beneath your lips.

His protection is a funny thing, you’ve grown to realize. Maybe it’s his upbringing, or his job or his role or something else that has infiltrated and woven its way into his mind, but he seems to get it all twisted up, entangled in the ropes of it. How funny, to protect someone by alienating them; how funny, to make them watch as you destroy yourself.

But you don’t mind. Not really, not when you get to brush damp strands of hair from his neck, when you get to pull the blankets up to his shoulders and watch the soft sheets tickle his skin.

You don’t mind that you’ll always have a space in your heart with his absence carved out of it, that you’ll always leave your keys on the bedside table, that you’ll always come back, even if you’re crawling, your hands and knees will carry you to him. You have to protect him too, after all.

Softly, you whisper, “I’ll always answer your calls.”

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Scarlet Moonlight

Vampire!Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf!reader

A/N: Just bullet points to something I might expand on. So please feel free to ask about these two because I have more than just this in mind~

-Wanda hates humans.

-Wanda is told to get a human pet by Nat.

-Wanda refuses and goes out to go find a meal.

-Wanda lets her eyes scan over the club, trying to pick the best meal

-Then she sees you, grinding up on some girl. A toothy grin. Canines are almost as sharp as hers.

-She tries to ignore you, but through everything she can hear the growl, you let out when the girl tries to leave a mark on you.

-She's next to you in an instant. A practical death grip on the drunk girl's shoulder.

-The girl runs off terrified of Wanda.

-You roll your eyes, and each of you can smell it immediately. What the other is.

-You try turning around and leaving to go find someone else to bring home.

-Wanda has made up her mind. Pulling you out of the club.

-Sure you were stronger than humans, but Vampires are stronger than werewolves in their human form.

-You find yourself in a penthouse. You're basically in the clouds. Everything smells metallic.

- “I was told to get a pet. I decided that was you.” She'd say.

-You scoffed, “Just because I'm a werewolf doesn't mean I'm a pet.” A low growl comes out.

-For weeks you fight Wanda as she holds you there captive.

-The whole time, she's sweet as you growl and bite when she gets too close

-But then it happens... your heat cycle...

-You feel like you're going absolutely mad with need.

-You try fixing the problem yourself, but it's not helping.

-Wanda even gave you heat pills to try and calm it down, but still, it didn't help

-Then it happened. She came to bring you food in the basement you were kept in, chained up.

-You got a wiff of her scent, and it wasn't that metallic smell you were used to it was what was beneath that which you hadn't noticed before; cherry blossoms.

-You grab her with a strength she hadn't seen before.

-You pull her close; flush against you and growl in her ear, "Let me do this, and you can drink."

-She agrees, and you're pulling her clothes off.

-Your member is throbbing as you slip it into her, and you are the farthest thing from gently. Luckily, a vampire can take it.

-When you knot and finish inside of her, you find yourself biting her neck, marking her as yours, something you'd never once thought about doing to someone.

-She returns the bite in kind with her own, the two fangs sinking in as you feel her drinking your blood.

-You continue rutting and whining as she drinks.

-You wake up in a bed you don't recognize, silk scarlet sheets, the room is dark with just a little light filtering through the sides of blackout curtains.

-You turn over to find Wanda there, sitting up and reading a book.

-She looks at you with a soft smile, "Feel better?" Her voice is just as soft as she reaches out.

-Her fingers are freezing but gentle as she pushes some hair behind your ears and gently scratches.

-Everything she has done with you since bringing you here has been soft and gentle.

-It has you melting, making satisfied noises as you push into her hand, your eyes closing.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

Surrounded by Marks, but you still yearn for him. You take soul-sucking measures to dull the pain, and get someone on your side to hunt down Phantom.

NSFW. Shlorp shlorp!

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [15] [17] [Chapter Index]

16 * Hindbrain [8.8k]

"Outside your house,

Down on my knees,

Swollen with doubt and animosity."

Mercy - Sir Chloe

        Gray didn't turn around when he entered. Back to you, sat ridged, trying to rest and conserve what energy he had left. "What do you want?" 

        Tracksuit set you down on the corrugated metal sheet flooring as Maskless touched down beside him. "Wow dude, I come bearing gifts and this is the thanks I get?"

        Gray turned, "What-"

        Surprise wasn't an expression he was used to wearing. Foreign. Alien as his blooming feelings for you that he thought had been snuffed out with your apparent death. But there you were. Standing, leaning on a crutch. Dirty and miserable, but alive. 

        He looked nearly identical to the last time you saw him. Suit knicked, scratched in a few places. Hair undone, slightly longer. Strangely, no stubble grew from his cheeks. Somehow not a degree tanner or paler.

        He swallowed back the urge to rush forward. He approached slow, measured. "My compatriot will be pleased at your return." He made himself say as he scanned clinically over your body. You weren't rapt with starvation and your skin was unburned by the sun. Curious. Then there was the mystery of the crutch and your wrapped and splinted leg. He didn't like the look of misery on you. Didn't like it one bit. "He will be returning from scouting soon." His eyes flicked to the others, hovering nearby. "You can go."

        Tracksuit blinked. "Go?"

        Gray nodded a tight solider's nod. "You've done well brining her back. Am I wrong assuming you would rather be rid of her?"

        "What the fuck?" Tracksuit had to do a doubletake at the pure audacity. "I know I said gifts but that was a joke, man. She's like- a person."

        "I am aware." Gray said, hovering around you in a loose circle, getting a better idea of your condition. The bruises made him rather unhappy, he had to suppress the urge to reach out. "She is a person safer in our care than anyone else's." 

        "Uh, yeah, that's not happening." Maskless said though it wasn't aggressive. This move wasn't a trade, it was an olive branch. An acknowledgement they trusted one another even after the shitshow. 

        Gray didn't understand the concept of life not being tit or tat. He'd rather barter now than feel he owed the duo something later on. He was also not too keen on expanding the camp by three people. It would draw untoward attention from the others, make you less safe. 

        "I doubt we'll have anything worth your time." He said, implying the idea of trading. He knew a human wouldn't like that word in regard to their autonomy. 

        "We're not trading." Maskless said with an annoying lack of tact. "Think of this as a favor." He moved to the center of the room where a fire pit better than anything he could build waited. 

        Gray eyed you. Were they really going to give you up? Just like that? When he and/or Omni could double-cross them at any moment? What was the angle?

        You hobbled to the fire, sat by it when you were close enough. Bad leg stretched in front of you with a grunt. Maskless had a growing fire and the rudimentary cookware set up by the time you were settled. Arms lifting out of the cloak, little bugs crawling up and down your forearms. You picked one off, killed it with a flick to the chest, and popped it out of its exoskeleton.

        Gray watched on. Tried putting together the few puzzle pieces he had. The bruises. The bugs. The misery on your face. The story he put together in his head wasn't too far off from the truth, though it was missing some key points. Leaving him to calculate risk versus reward. Give up his healing accelerant and get... Nothing. You could aid in his survival with a healed leg, yet you were a crutch yourself, especially when you could not give him children. But despite this, when he saw you it had his immediate thought, to heal your wounds and any burden that would come. But there was no need, you were already giving him food and according to Maskless it was for no trade. He didn't need to barter when provided with everything he needed for survival- bet he still wanted you better. Seeing you hurt, the way your eyes were hollowed out- it shifted something solid within him. Perhaps this was what father described feeling for mother. Caring? Affection? 

        Maybe he didn't need to get something out of helping you- when helping you was fulfilling enough. Was this...

        Gray's stomach growled. Thankfully, you didn't look at him in his embarrassment. You went on, picking bugs off your skin, killing them, and shucking them as the water Maskless brought in the basin started to boil. 

        Maskless had explained the plan on the way over, though you weren't listening. Feed those two and they'd have two more allies who weren't about to die. By no means did he want to have more buddies or to share his newfound food, but the tortured screams during the night had shook him. He was terrified Lensless and Scars would come for him next. Make him scream while everybody listened and nobody helped. It was better to have people to throw at them first. People who were strong enough to not immediately die so he could get away. Live on for William, for the world lost to his father. 

        Gray would parse his intentions out later, but in the moment he was focused on you, his mind made up. His heart fluttered as he knelt down, pulling a vial out of his pocket that meant more to him than you could know. 

        Especially when his voice came out as flat as usual, "Here." 

        You vaguely remembered him showing them off on one of the first nights. You didn't take it, not quite remembering what it was. Cologne? Plasma from a spine? No, that didn't sound right.

        "For your leg." His flat words make you remember. Wound something or other.

        You snatched it out of his waiting fingers. He relished the moment of contact but his face gave nothing away. You snapped the top off and threw your head back. His hand is back on the vial, over yours. 

        "No." He says sharp. Maskless and Tracksuit tense. Not quite willing to fight for you but not quite willing to give up a bargaining chip either. "You have to directly apply it to the skin." 

        Your hand fell, your companion's shoulders relaxed. Imagination running wild with what would've happen if you drank the stuff. "You're only telling me this now?"

        "An oversight." 

        Tracksuit laughed to himself, "Oversight. Who the fuck says oversight?" He went ignored.

        You started to bend forward to undo the tight cloth wrapping only to cringe. A pulse of pain shooting up your leg. "Shit."

        Gray didn't think, just moved. Propped up your leg with a rock he zipped away to find before you even noticed. Unwrapped it and laid the bandages and splint to the side. It was... Not good. Your skin was discolored up and down your shin with a noticeable lump in the middle where your bone had snapped. The only good thing was that the skin didn't break. 

        He held out his hand for the vile, "May I?" 

        You eyed him suspiciously. His intentions were always hard to read, he was short and acted without explaining. But you had no idea what you were doing in regards to self care beyond stitched up gut wounds. No choice in the matter, you returned the vial. 

        "I need to make an assessment first." He said, "This will hurt." Before you could protest, his hands were cupping your leg, pressing down gently but sending rockets of pain shooting through your body. You gasped, flinched back, jostled your leg and flinched again. Gray steadied you, voice neutral, "Don't hurt yourself."

        You straighten your leg best you could and let him continue pressing, lifting, assessing the damage. The only sounds were the water hissing and fire crackling. It reminded you of the cave. Of Mark. Suddenly you are on the verge of tears, blinking them back.

        "How do you know how to do this?" You make yourself say, voice calm but wavering. You needed to think of something else but every time you tried you saw Mark's face in the pale firelight. Then blackness, hearing echoes of his voice. His dying gasps. 

        Gray notices but doesn't pause. "Viltrumite and human biology are almost identical." He says, "The key differences are in our muscle tissue, much denser than a human's. Our brain tissue as well is denser, allowing for better senses, especially in battle."

        "Doesn't make sense why so many of us are so stupid then." Tracksuit said, sitting feet away, idly watching. Ears perked for Omni's arrival. Wondering if he'd kick Gray's ass for weirdly massaging your leg. 

        Again he is ignored. "As part of the World Betterment Committee, we must be prepared for all sorts of resistance. Many worlds fought against our occupation. Many had no chance but some were clever. We are trained to assess physical damage and minimize the time needed for healing." He flipped the vial, spilled a few drops onto his hands and lathered them together. His hands came down, encompassed your leg best they could. You hissed, pained, but the liquid made his hands a cool relief in the sweltering heat.

        "You really are one of them." Maskless said to himself- literally.

        Gray didn't reply. Focused on rubbing the slick into your leg. "This is agent fourteen. It enters through the skin into the bloodstream. It targets damaged tissue throughout the body but is faster acting when applied to the-"

        "How can you live with yourself?" Maskless said, a little louder this time.

        You winced while trying to relax into his cool, gentle touch. His hands were calloused, movement rigid and precise. He was distracted by everything happening around him, the smell of soup wafting on the hot wind, making his stomach lurch and his mouth go dry, unable to salivate with the lack of water in his system. The feel of your skin under his own, the way your heart was beating erratically from the pain. But he didn't stop. "I'm almost finished."

        Tracksuit snorted. Maskless snapped, "How could you turn your back on your own people like that?"

        "Earthlings are not my people." Gray said coolly because clearly this man-child would not stop pestering him until he answered, "The Viltrumites are."

        "Your mother is an 'Earthling.'" Spat like a slur.

        "Yes, she's proud of her heritage, but recognizes that Earth was primitive compared to the empire. She has long since accepted what became of it." 

        Maskless's lip twitched. "And what became of it?"

        He had to wait for a reply. Gray only truly cared for your comfort. "You should be able to put some weight on it in a few days. Though it may be a week or so until it's fully healed. It's the best I can do."

        "I'm talking to you."

        But Gray doesn't hear his poisoned words, focused on the way you mutter, "Thanks," under your breath and look away.

        "You are welcome." Said more robotic than usual.

        "Hey."

        Ah yes, the other one was still speaking to him despite his disinterest. "Most of Earth's population had to be culled to quell any resistance." Despite this resistance was rampant on the colony. The human spirt was a strong, burning flame that'd never go out. Much like the Viltrumites, but they didn't have the strength to back it up. That's why he took you. You burned bright despite your circumstances and it helped he found you rather pleasing to the eye. "Last Father reported, the population had been growing." Gray didn't bother meeting Maskless's hard stare. Attention set upon your leg, now lightly glistening. "Earth's occupation was a success."

        Your skin tingles as his touch leaves. 

        "A success?" Maskless fists ball and unball. Body undecided as his mind was ready for blood. Attack and quell some shred of vengeance. Don't and let that abomination with his face continue to exist. "You call killing thousands a success?"

        "We killed millions." Gray corrected. "I don't see your point. You did the same thing working with Angstrom Levy." Gray rose, padding to a stockpile of potentially useful garbage. Looking for something clean enough to wrap your leg in.

        Maskless's hand went to his chest, "So I could fix things."

        "Millions had to die for the betterment of Earth. It's the same thing." 

        Maskless's body twitched. The idea of attack clear in his movement. Yet he made no move to hop over the fire and give Tracksuit the drama he craved. Gray waited for him to make a move, back to him, sifting through the materials, body relaxed purposefully. Almost a taunt. He wasn't worried. Which made Maskless want to kick his ass even more.

        "I can't believe we're the same person." Maskless rose to his feet. Purposeful. Gray pulled out the longest stretch of dry canvas he could find in the pile- a faded white and green ad for some long dead company. He passed by Maskless, paying him no mind as he began to rewrap your leg. Purposeful.        

        "Neither can I." Gray's eyes left your leg to flick up and down Maskless' blood-crusted suit. Hoping he'd get the message, that he was a hypocrite- All that death, not for the greater good or the Empire, but for personal reasons. Pathetic. He fought for nothing. Unlike Gray, who finished wrapping your leg. Setting the splint firmly as you'd allow- fighting for something he didn't yet understand, and the Empire, of course.

        Maskless stepped around the fire, stood before Gray. Fists twitching. Gray stood, body a shield in front of you. Maskless's gaze flicked to you- his apparent Achilles' heel. "If you don't care about us Earthlings, why do you care about her so much?"

        "Keep me out of this." You grumbled.

        Maskless went on, chest puffed, feeling emboldened with rage and memory. "Is she different because she was some sort of slave to you? Did you tie her down and force her to have your kids?"

        The thought had occurred to him but mother insisted he try things the human way- after he kidnapped you. Despite his attempts, Viltrumite ideology rang true, "Viltrumites choose their mates. If the selected can not fight off their prospective mate, procreation occurs."

        A collective cringe crossed your faces. You were thankful for Gray, for the balm, already feeling like the pain had ebbed. But the idea of you as some baby-birthing machine to an alien empire made you look at him differently.

        He sensed the shift. "I did not do things the Viltrum way. I courted her." He said carefully. "Mother said humans like to have a choice." She hadn't had one, but you didn't need to know that. "My comrades looked down on me for it but I enjoyed our time together." Much as he'd allowed himself to with the perpetual stick up his ass. "It was a shame when she passed." He snapped her neck like one kills a sick pet rabbit. You were sick, too poisoned by the rebellion's ideologies. Ungrateful for the second chance. Yet he could never bring himself to return to Earth for another mate. Strangely burned on the inside, like something had been lost. He had enjoyed when you were more docile with fear. When you talked with him of inconsequential Earthly things. It was nice, but you were not. So that you had to die. This time he'd do things different. Even if you hated him for it, you would not die so long as he drew breath.

        This you didn't need to be so scared. You should be afraid of him, yes, fear would keep you in line, but too much and you'd reject his advances again. Because he wanted to try again, to soothe the burn that ate away at his insides.

        Gray thinks he's done well curbing your idea of him. He had, all save for that last part, said with too little care. Like you were a childhood pet, remembered fondly but inconsequential. Maskless opened his mouth to jab at him.

        The barely secured floor shook as Omni landed. Suit torn at the knees and fingers. Cape shreds of what it used to be. He stepped into the tent, pulling his mask off his face, blinded by the switch to shade after hours in the bright desert. He was so tired. So frazzled. So grief stricken he didn't notice anything but your loss. "There's no sign of-"

        His mask was freed from his sweaty face. Black lenses glinting sunlight. Tanlines softer on his face than you'd expect. Stubble a solid shadow on his jaw, though not as dark as the circles under his eyes. Light and honey-toned but flat with despair. 

        Until they land on the sliver of you visibly behind Maskless and Gray. They would've been toppled over if they hadn't moved. Quarrel put aside, for now as Omni barreled past them. 

        He stopped at your feet. Standing close but not touching. Scared you and the food were a mirage. "Is it really you?"

        You looked awful. Tortured. Not as bad as he'd let himself hope late in the night- wishing he could see you one last time. Assuming that last time would be holding you dying again. If he ever got to see you, bones lost to the dunes.

        "Yeah." You were not enthused by his presence. By any of their presence. You missed Mark, missed being held and kissed. Missed the cool cave but couldn't imagine going back.

        "You.." He knelt, hovering over you a moment before lunging. Hugging you flush to his chest. Feeling your skin, your raggedy clothes, your breath and heartbeat against him. "You're really real." He at least avoided your leg, seeming to notice the splint. To be asked about later, but forgotten for now.

        You could have shoved at him and he'd have let go. But you didn't. Even as Gray eyed Omni's back, as Maskless stared in mild disgust, as Tracksuit watched the others for their reactions. The contact felt like a missing puzzle piece. You had missed being held, arms like a vice keeping you together in this fucking wasteland.

        "I thought you were..." He can't say it. Can't say it because then you'd dissolve in his arms.

        You felt that. Deeply. Too deeply. 

        Your arms came up and held him back, hard as you could. Pressing your body to his like you were trying to become a single whole being. You needed to be held. Needed to be comforted. Hated it at the same time. Hated yourself for throwing yourself into it like a sad puppy. You wanted to scream and cry and puke just as much as you wanted to hold him until everything was better. 

        Omni pulled back, hands sliding up your sides and to your face, holding your cheeks. He sees it then. The bruises, dark and puffy where Mark had held your mouth shut, where he'd tied rags around your face for days. Your hands come up to push his off, wincing from the pain. Which only lets him see your wrists. The rubbed raw indents, just starting to scab over where the rebar had been for days.

        He was absolutely murderous. "Who did this to you?"

        Mark. 

        Mark was right in front of you. Mark was beside you. Mark was watching over the fire. Mark was happy without you in another dimension. Mark was dead. Everything was Mark's fault.

        You hated that you couldn't stop the tears. The way his dark brows knit together and his lips fell when the tears came and didn't stop. He reached to wipe them away but it reminded you too much of Mark. You flinched back, covered your face with your hands.

        "Eat." You managed. "We brought food."

        Omni doesn't want to be away from you. Still partly terrified you'll vanish. He sat beside you, thigh grazing your own as Maskless reluctantly served them both bowls. You were aware they were eating. Talking. You were too busy trying not to lose your shit more than you already had. When the tears and sniveling were done for good, you removed your hands the best you could. Face stinging with shame as wet friction. Palms slobbery with snot. The fire only made your misery more apparent. 

        Omni had long since finished his bowl. Watched you quietly convulse. Wondering what happened to break you down like this. What stroke of luck brought you back to him. He held out his cape to you. You took it, wiping off your hands. Nodding a tight lipped thanks. He tried catching your eye but you looked away. To the desert and the gray sky. 

        Maskless told Gray and Omni some of what he knew. The cave, the bugs, how he found you. He left out the rebar around your wrists, the dead body. He hated talking to these assholes enough as it was, that part was yours to tell. But you didn't start talking, just looked into the sandy nothing while they stood around, dicks in hand.

        "If there's anything else down there we don't know about, now's the time to tell us." Maskless tossed the ball in your court.

        Only for it to bounce, once, twice, then roll to your feet. You hadn't been listening to him anyways.  "The bugs. These are the last of them." You said. "Unless you can dig out the nest and save the queen larvae, but they're probably all dead. There's a mold farm too. I think you said it was also collapsed but maybe you can recover some spores from it." You knew what they wanted to hear but couldn't bring yourself to say.

        Gray thinks those resources could be recovered but he cared more about, "The prisoner- that's his blood on you, correct?"

       You don't say anything for a moment.

        "The bugs will last us awhile. Don't make me eat him." An acknowledgment, but the most you were willing to do.

        Omni's leg pressed more into yours. "He's gone then."

        "I don't want to talk about this."

        Tracksuit scoffed, drawing annoyed glances. "Oh, boohoo, your crazy desert boyfriend died. News flash, sweetheart, you've got like a bazillion boyfriends who aren't as crazy right here. So why don't you fess up n' tell Daddy what's wrong?" At Omni's expression, he quickly added, "Not countin' myself or my good man 'ere." He wasn't scared of Omni but he'd rather watch the drama unfold than be part of it. He wasn't good with other people's feelings, let alone his own.

        "Did you see the body?" You asked, remembering in flashes. The dark, the blood stench, the sound.

        He seemed oblivious to the shift in your tone, the way the others had stilled.

        "Nah, but my boy here said it was nasty."

        The response made you want to scream, to tear him apart. You turned on him then, hollow eyed, "I could do that to you. I'm stronger now."

        You meant it. Wanted to do it. But you were scared of feeling another Mark's body heat dissipate beside you. You knew you wouldn't, but the threat felt good. 

        "Meeee-ouch! I thought we were friends but apparently not. Okay, cool, I get it. I'd hate me for being chill and normal too since you like 'em crazy." Clearly, Tracksuit wasn't taking you seriously.

        You clicked your tongue a few times and tiny bugs began crawling up his legs. He batted a few off but some make it under his collar, crawled under his clothes while he shot up and danced around, trying to swat them all. "Call them off! Call them off!" Bugs were no big deal, they weren't even biting but he hated the little fuckers. 

        "We ate their queen and lived in her exoskeleton." You say, "They listen to me now. Do you know how many of them there are left?"

        "I don't fucking care! Get these things off me!"

        "I tried counting before. Lost my place after a thousand." Though there were way more than that and counting had been an exercise in boredom. You couldn't tell one bug apart from another. "I could make you tear yourself open and let them eat you. Think about that before you say rude shit about him again." A few clicks later and the remaining bugs crawled out through his sleeves and dropped to the sand where they burrowed before he could stomp the life out of them.

        You regretted calling him crazy, regretted so much you had done. But you didn't regret your freedom, being in the sun, horribly hot as it was. You missed Mark so much your chest ached.

        "Wasn't bein' rude." He shivered, still feeling the little legs on his skin.

        "If she said you were being rude, you were being rude." Omni said but still, he needed to know, "We need to know what happened to you down there, we want to understand. What happened?"

        Nothing. Everything. A lifetime in two weeks. You didn't want to talk about it, but you knew they were like dogs with a bone.

        "He took me down there and I let him. Told me how he was going to fake the disappearance and everything."

        "You assholes cut us out?" Tracksuit huffed.

         "Would you have taken everybody?" You asked.

        That stung. Tracksuit thought you were cool before but... you were sort of traumatized now more than you already were. He could almost give you a pass for being a massive bitch, and you were right. He probably wouldn't have taken you. "Should've never let you smoke my shit."

        Omni eyed him quizzically but looked back to you when the story kept going. "Phantom found it first. Showed Mark and Mark showed me." Omni and Gray should've felt insulted you called that prisoner their shared name, but oddly they didn't. Omni knew you knew his name- Markus, though you hadn't said it again. Gray was content with your nickname specially picked for him. The dead man could have the title Mark. 

        "He was supposed to stay long enough to convince you all I was gone, then he was going to come back. Help us make a tunnel out that you wouldn't find so we wouldn't get cabin fever down there but-" You thought about the screaming in the night but remembered he's fucking Invincible. He should've been able to get away to tell someone else where you were. He'd had all the power in the world to help you and had done nothing. "-Man, wha'dya do when you got two ex-cons and want 'em to hate each other?" Looks of concern were shared but nobody said a word, "That's right! Leave 'em in a dark cave for two weeks until one of them..." The word stuck in your throat, you couldn't say that he killed himself. You'd made him do it.

        Omni leaned in soft-browed, fingers hovering over your wrists, "He did that to you?" He was partly horrified Mark Grayson of any variation could torment you so. He had killed you sure, but it had been quick. 

        "No shit." He doesn't move back despite your venom, "I answered your questions. Answer mine. Where is that screaming asshole?" 

        Omni hesitated. Gray doesn't. "They're close enough to be a threat."

        You leaned in, blood in the water. "Where?"

        "If you're trying to get me to take you to him- it won't happen. He is constantly surveilled by those pests." Scars and Lensless in their yellow suits.

        You felt the need for revenge pulsing in your scabs, under your bruises, in your heart. "Take me to them."

        You cast the net too wide. Connect weakly with Maskless and Tracksuit, but Gray's mind is like a steel trap and Omni had always been difficult to control. Maskless and Tracksuit come for you, held off by the others a few moments until you control snapped back in your face like a bungee cord. Their expressions hard, daring you to try again.

        Blood trailed down to your lip. "Fine. I can wait." Until you were stronger, strong enough to get a ride and kill all three of those assholes. A few days was all you needed. 

        You don't say it but they feel your intent. An uneasy undercurrent passed between them. You were weak, but controlled two of them at once. Being strong enough to survive this long wasn't a small thing. You were a real threat to yourself and to them.   

        "Don't do that again." Omni warned, though it was soft as he reached to wipe the blood dripping down your nose. "You don't know what you'd be getting into. Those two are a problem but don't push yourself for revenge. It's not healthy." Said the psychosexual, emotionally-incestious-daddy-issue-having freak. 

          You let him touch you. Smear the hot blood away. Fractionally leaning into his touch. Missing Mark. But knowing, "I can wait." 

        "Whatever." Tracksuit's feet left the floor. Head shaking off the cloud you'd laid over his brain. "We did what we came to do. We're gonna head out if you're all powered down."

        You had some dregs left. You don't tell him that. Thinking it'd be good to always keep a little power in your back pocket. It was safer that way. "I am."

        He turned to Maskless, "Cool. You carry her this time."

        Light early-life wrinkles the rest didn't have deepened on Omni's brow. He opened his mouth.

        "You haven't shown us the cave with water." Gray said first.

        "Fine. We'll show you, then we leave." Tracksuit jutted his head toward you, Maskless approached but Omni was in front of him.

        "I can carry her." He said.

        Maskless narrowed his eyes. "How do we know you won't just take her?" He didn't care about you, not at all, but he recognized you were the glue keeping things together before. Best case scenario, the others would flock to you, kill each other to get in your pants and he'd have more meat. Worst case scenario, you could be traded for his own life. 

        "How do I know you won't take her away and never let me see her again?" Omni retorted.

        You weren't waiting for them to hash this out, "I'm not going down there." You said.

        Tracksuit crossed his arms, little more than tiffed with you and your emotional outbursts. He'd been baking in a desert, starving and thirsty while you were cool and fed, and probably getting dicked down. 

        "Oh yeah? Whadd'ya gon do to stop us?" He was above ground, where the bugs couldn't get to him.

        You should save the power but the rage boils out, unexpected and deeply hateful, "Hit yourself."

        Tracksuit's fist came up against his will. Reeled back to the shoulder blade before springing forward, cracking against his jaw. Not as hard as Mohawk, but hard enough to send his flight off balance. You caught a look at his face before his mask fluttered down, lip smearing blood cross his teeth. 

        He doesn't attack as he stabilizes himself. Omni was in front of you like a Viltrumite-human shield. So he spat out a wad on blood onto the corrugated floor, "Touchy, but I'll admit you got me there."

        "I'll do worse if any of you think about taking me back down there." You said, weak and weary, "You all go. I'll wait here."

        "No." Gray and Tracksuit. 

        "'S just asking for those other guys to snatch you up then boom! There goes the food-lady." Tracksuit alone this time. "One'a you assholes stay with 'er."

        "I will," Gray said before Omni could. Omni wanted to protest, but he needed the building trust between him and Gray to stay. Gray had been the only one Omni semi-tolerated in the caves. The only reliable ally he had. So he'd allow it, remembering he'd get his turn alone with you in time.

        "Not alone," Maskless added. "You stay too."

        Tracksuit spluttered. "What- No way, man!"

        "You got lost on the way here." Maskless deadpanned.

        "Only a little!"

        "Fifteen miles give or take."

        Tracksuit didn't argue that. 

        And so it was. 

        Maskless led Omni into the dusking desert, leaving you, Gray, and a pissed off Tracksuit alone. Leg tingling with numbness.

        "Hey," Tracksuit was first to talk in the minutes of long quiet. You sat by the fire, the same way you had in the cave before things got bad. Gray stood by the edge of camp, hovering an inch over the sand, straight postured with hands behind back like always. "You're not gonna kidnap her if I take a s-"

        Gray held up his hand. "There's nowhere for us to go. This alliance is worth too much to put at risk anyway." 

        "Cool, cool. Uhm, others shouldn't be back for a bit if they-" He doubled over clutching his stomach, "come back before me tell them to suck it." Tracksuit was gone in a flash. Too much food after a period of starvation making his stomach a roiling mess. 

        You were alone.

        Two days after your... after Mark died. Aching stupidly on the inside, the dark of the desert whispered memories you tried to drown out. Trying to turn your thoughts to Phantom. Where he and the others were, if he was truly suffering or not. If Phantom was already dead, if you'd get revenge or not.

        "Where are the others?" You ask.

        "In the cave that you-"

        "The other others."

        "Ah." He's quiet a moment. Deciding weather or not to tell. You didn't exactly need to know. But it wasn't like you could fly or walk. 

        "Gray." You turned on him, find his expressionless mask cracked by a single word. "Where are they exactly? I need to know."

        He knew that look. Saw it on his mother all the time. When father was following Viltrum's customs a little too closely. You'd given him the same look, the other you, when you told him how you hated him even though he brought you to a utopia. Emotional determination that perplexed him so. Father would give into mother, but he never gave in then. He should now to win you over- but you had powers. You cried in front of him and clearly hated it- you were unstable, unreliable. You had plans in mind, ones that'd get you killed.

        "You can not make me tell you where they just like you couldn't make me take you. You are powerless."

        Stubborn insistence, you knew better. He tried to stay impartial, but he cared about you like the others. He just needed a push and you needed to forget.

        "I controlled that asshole." You scooted toward him on your ass, using your good leg as leverage. "You don't know how much shit I got stored up."

        He watched you, confused as to why you were trying to pick a fight with him on the floor. "If I were to attack, you're making it much easier for me."

        "You won't." You grunted with effort, pulling the last few inches you needed to be by his feet. Sat splayed by his legs like a good dog, looking up at him from under your lashes. "You're right, though, I probably couldn't control you, not for long anyway."

        His gaze hardened, understanding you had ulterior motives, "Don't make me restrain you."

        "I'm not doing anything." You said as your hand moved to his leg. Feeling up his calf that tensed at your touch. 

        You knew Gray wanted you. Knew he was some repressed alien freak. People who say 'courting' have never came in their entire fucking life. These over-protective assholes wouldn't give you what you needed, not like this. But if you leaned into their underlying carnal desires- they'd be putty in your hands. Revenge would be yours for the taking.

        And Mark. You could hold Mark again. Not your Mark but a Mark and for now, that was enough.

        "What are you doing?" Gray watched you feel up and down his calf. 

        Your hands traveled further up. Over the knee to his strong thighs that unwillingly flexed at your approach. He didn't move away. "Just admiring the view."

        Viltrumites didn't do such things. He'd walked in on his mother and father, sure, but not in the light touches of pre-sex, pre-foreplay. He didn't see the bait you were holding.

        "You need to touch me to do so?" Your fingers were feather-light. Tracing then cupping much of him as you could in your palm. It sent tingles down his back, electrical shocks to his abdomen. Made something within him that had been in a lifelong slumber, open its eyes.

        "Gotta get the full picture." You lifted onto your good knee. Leg numb but scared you'd hurt it. Hands splaying the expanse of his legs, up the to creases his hips not hidden by his stupid skirt. You press your thumbs in and he shuddered. You saw it, how the usual lump in his skirt was a little larger than you remembered. Easy, just like Mark had been. A distraction from your situation, just like Mark had been. 

        Your touch moved up, to his lower belly. Up the muscles, tightly packed in white clothes. "Very nice."

        You weren't just buttering him up. The man was drool worthy. Part of your plans, yes, but a distraction you desperately needed. 

        He watched you, expressionless, gaze intense. You think he's going to crack. So you snatch his forearms and use them to pull yourself up. He gets the memo, ends up pulling you up himself, feet coming to the ground. "You shouldn't be on your feet for long." He said as you leaned in. Pressed your chest to his, arms going around his shapely waist, hands skimming across his broad back, head crooked in his shoulder despite the height difference because he was so much (taller/shorter) than you. His arms refolded behind his back. Heart hammering oddly in his chest as blood rushed low in his body. He knew what was happening but feeling it was another story. Territory he had never crossed into with the old you, too afraid to touch him in any capacity.  

        "I won't be." You grabbed the hammer and swung it down- pulling his stupid collar to the side and kissing his neck.

        He tensed. Crack. You kissed lower. Crack. He white-knuckled gripped his elbows. Crack. You trailed kiss, kiss, kiss, until you reached the nape of his neck where you sucked. He let out a nearly inaudible sigh. Crack.

        Gray knew he should make you stop this nonsense. But when you lathed your tongue up the side of his throat, groaning into his never-before-worshiped skin, his resolve disappeared. He wouldn't stop you, but he wasn't stupid. "He will return soon." Your husband. Technically not, but still he claimed the title. Humans took that title very seriously. Except you.

        You kissed his jaw, felt him swallow. Pulled back and looked at his embarrassingly flushed face and apparent hard-on. "I won't need much time."

        "Time for what?" He knew what you meant but... why? Why him? Why now? Usually he could think, figure you out but his mind was a haze tunneled on you. The questions quieted when you pressed your lips to his. Chapped and rough. The pressure was pleasant. 

        You pulled back, ending the feeling too quickly. "You gonna just stand there the whole time?" 

        He tilted his head. Wracking his brain. He'd never been kissed like this before, his mother had pressed them to his forehead and cheeks when he was young. He had seen mother and father kiss quick morning pecks, but that was no tutorial or training with his mentor. 

        You breathily laughed at his expression. "What? Big bad alien boy doesn't know how?"

        "There is no use for mashing lips together on Viltrum." He wanted his voice to be even but it warbled. Palms sweaty behind his back. 

        Your hand came to his neck, pressing gently, "Tilt your head like this." He did and went too far, you had to adjust him again. "Good, and I'll come in like this. Just follow my lead, okay?"

        He mirrored your parting lips. Was robo-stiff in the kiss while you moved, lips, jaw, and all. Teeth came down on his lip and made his hands slip behind his back and his cock throb in his uniform. When you slipped your tongue past his defenses, he had to reinforce his knees as not to fall. You did all the work while he let it happen. Trying to take mental notes, trying to commit the moment to moment while living in it. So unreal, so good. 

        When you pulled back, his lips followed yours. Pressing tentative kisses to your buzzing mouth. You chuckled, grinding your tongue against his just to hear his soft whimper. Then you left him, red faced and wanting, looking absolutely fucked-out from a little light kissing. "You've got a lot to learn." 

        "Activities like this were not part of my training regimen." Gray was unsubtly looking at your lips. Hands hovering, wanting to take your sides and press you to him but he didn't know if that was the right thing to do. He wanted you, but wanted it to be good, worthwhile the way you'd made it for him.

        You laugh. "That's fine, you're a fast learner."

        Which was true. Heat pulsed hard between your legs. You'd like to take him to the floor. Like to teach him a lot more, but you didn't have time to teach him to get your rocks off. You knew however, you had more than enough time to take care of his straining hard-on which had been delightfully pressing to your thighs. He had twitched, but hadn't dare truly hump your leg. 

        Your hands go from his sides, down the hard planes of his chest, over the needy bulge. He gasped, shuddered into your hand. "What are you-"

        "I think it's pretty obvious." You ran your hand slowly up and down. Watching his face tic and contort. "Do you want me to stop?"

        Gray's throat twinged as he tried to find breath, find words as you squeezed him ever so gently. "Don't." He just barely managed to sound composed.

        You grinned, touch leaving him a moment to move his skirt to the side. Without the gray fabric, you got a better idea of how pleased he was with his current predicament. Dick straining against the alien white cloth. "I've barely done anything to you, and you're this hard." Your teasing touch returns and his eyes go misty. "Are you sure you're the same guy who conquers planets?"

        "Yes." He replied stiffly.

        "I'm having a hard time believing that."

        "I was a part of three large scale invasions and countless solo scouting excursions-" You palmed at him harder now. Every tense of your fragile human fingers had the composed solider gasping and twitching. 

        "Wow, great dirty talk." You smiled as you sank to your knees. You paused, pulling hard at his pants that didn't seem to have an obvious fly. "How do you open this thing?" 

        He slid his thumb into an invisible seam beside his crotch but paused, "The others..."

        "Trust me, you'll be done before I even get started." 

        Still, Gray scanned the horizon. Nobody. Plus, you were... humiliatingly right. He'd never cum before but knew of the function. Knew his heart was hammering, his lower belly coiled tight, cock aching were all signs of what was to come. It'd be better to take care of his problem before anyone saw anyway. He pulled the fabric apart, held together by an invisible magnetic strip. 

        His cock sprang free in front of your waiting face. Thick and defined as the rest of him. Precum wept out the tip. Slippery and shiny on your hand as you brought it down, from tip to base. Gray had to actively prevent himself from thrusting into your palm as not to hurt you. He watched you, lips parted, gaze burning as you admired him. Jerking him off slow.

        "We," his chest heaved, fingers twitching, feeling pleasure he never had, "we don't have much time."

        You hummed, pressing a kiss to the side of his cockhead. Eyes looking up at him as your lips slowly captured him. Tongue lathing unhurried over the sensitive skin. Your jerked him off lazily from the thick base. Pushing and pulling his skin back but never enough to fully expose the flash of pink you saw. Not yet. You had to build him up. Make the chance for another blowjob like this worth risking his life.

        So you jerked him off, pushing more of your head down his cock. Bobbing lazily, eyes always locked on his. Moaning at the stretch of your lips around him. So big it was hard to swirl your tongue around anything but the bottom of him. Veins pulsing on your tongue. Tasting of salt and sweat. 

        Gray doesn't know what to say. Can't speak at all. All he can do is try to repress the moans that escape him, foreign as they sounded on his lips. Your mouth was wet, and warm, and so inviting. Lips good on his but so much better on his dick. Looking up at him like you needed this, not the other way around.

        His cockhead started to stretch the back of your mouth, soon to hit your throat. You moaned. Feeling a phantom of him in your cunt. Not really there but the thought of him inside you drove your head up, down, up, down until the only thing separating you from his pubic bone was your own hand. Which migrated to his thighs, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to fuck your throat. Fuck the pain away. 

        "Too-" He gasped, feeling your throat open up around him, feeling your lips press to his hips. Throat tight and vibrating with your moans, "Too much-"

        You should finish him off. The others could be back soon. You pulled your head back, feeling the regrettable loss of his girth from your mouth. His cock glistened with spit and a wishing well's worth of precum. It was too easy to grab his dick and pull the skin back, expose the lickable pink of his unsheethed head. 

        Your open mouth came down, tongue teasing along the bottom when Gray gutterly groaned. Shooting cum onto your waiting tongue. You paused. You were expecting him to not last long but wow. You hadn't even really gotten going.

        His chest rocked. Never before had someone, even an enemy or his mentor, left him so red and breathless. Then there was the feeling of cumming, so foreign, but like a straight shot of adrenaline after a hard battle. But there had been no battle. Only you and your flushed face and cum coated tongue that slipped back into your mouth. Throat bobbing before your lips reopened. His fluids gone down your tight throat. 

        If he hadn't gone soft, he'd cum again. 

        He could stare at you like this all night long. Wanted to return the favor, though he had no idea how. 

        Except you rocked back, patting his thigh, "Clean yourself up, think I see company."

        He was back in his pants. You were back sat by the fire with him yards away. You looked back at him, lips buzzing, tongue tasing of him, a smile that left him dizzy as you said, "Hey, I'm not doing that again unless those assholes are dead."

        You little...

        "I'll-" He swallowed, watching the figures grow closer but still out of earshot. "I'll confer with your husband."

        You didn't have the energy to be annoyed by the title.

        ***

        He never thought those assholes would leave. Always lurking in the fucked up castle they built. Always indulging in the freshest meat the desert could offer. They had to go out a search for you sometime. Through the madness, it was apparent that they'd lost hope. Looking was just a part of their schedule now. They expected nothing.

        Mohawk slipped inside the ruins. Knew what turns to take, he'd done this before. He'd been watching them for days. Stealing food from under their noses. 

        He's where they left him just... missing another piece. The first time Mohawk saw him, it was his broken forearm. Then it was his calf. Now, they'd taken the rest of the leg nearly up to the hip. Yet he still breathed, shallow in his unconscious stupor. Wounds wrapped tight in bloody cloth.

        He recalls your voice, missing it so much it hurt. You called him, the pathetic, plotting motherfucker- Phantom. 

        So he said it now, hoping the name would goad him into the world of the living. "Phantom."

        His head stayed dropped, chin to chest. Unmasked and sunburned. Scalp scabbed and stubbly from where they'd sheered off his hair with that knife that used to be yours. At first, they kept him masked, seeing their own face tortured was too weird, but the hair got in the way of remasking and the longer you stayed missing, the more they wanted him to hurt. They let his skin blister and peel. Broke his bones unhurried before tearing off the limbs and eating them raw. Mohawk had too grown used to the feel of wet, raw meat slipping down his throat. Had almost come to savor the taste, but never as much as those two.

        "Phantom." A little louder this time. Mohawk wasn't afraid of Lensless and Scars per se, but they could be back anytime. Give up leaving any day, eat Phantom whole and let their fragile brains collapse even further into ruin. "Hey."

        Phantom's head bobbed. "Whhaaa?" Mohawk was in front of him, holding him hard by the chin, forcing him to look up with those disgustingly blue eyes. Cloudy with hardly held on lucidity. 

        "Where is she, shithead?"

        Phantom hadn't told Scars or Lensless where you were despite the torture, so there was no way in hell he'd tell Mohawk. Would rather go to the grave then let them find you. But he wasn't planning on it. He told himself he'd escape sooner or later. He'd get back to you. Take care of Baldie. Be with you the way he had planned. Delusionally sure since they made the first cut.

        Phantom smiled before his body slumped. Unconscious again. Dying. 

        "Hey." Mohawk shook him. "Hey!"

        The building shuddered as one of them touched down, then the other. "Did you hear that?" Lensless. Home earlier than usual.

        "No."

        "I swore I heard something. Do'ya think he got loose?"

        Boots crunched glass and gravel as they made their way through the winding halls. Mohawk looked to Phantom, still unconscious, useless. Mentally promising to be back, to get answers, and if he didn't? He'd kill the fucker himself.

        Mohawk slipped out the busted window, flying low and thanking Art for his suit that melted into the night.

[bi-writes]

still wakes the deep au | soap x f!reader

Installment 2/?: Warning Signs

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. masterlist

Being alone feels different when there’s nowhere to run. Every wall looks the same, and the stench of must permeates in every room–the carpet must hold it in. Everything drips; the taste of salt won’t go away, and it makes your eyes dry out every time you close them and open them again. There are other people around you, men that are the cause of the knocks against the rig, but they are as alien as what lies beneath you. Every time you feel as if it’s too foreign, you remind yourself that there is nowhere to go.

The only way out of this place is by doing your job; but even that scares you all of the sudden.

Your bed is lumpy. The mattress feels dry, stiff, and it barely gives as you lay in it. You stare up at the bottom of the top bunk, trying not to think about the sound of sea water pelting your window like a threatening knock while you try to sleep.

Your mind barely gives. You keep the lamp that sits on your makeshift desk turned on. Without it, the black of nothingness from outside bleeds through the walls, and you swear you can see a thousand different shapes that claw their way out of the moonlight towards you. The rig doesn’t shake, but it breathes. It lives, somehow, deep legs connected to the seafloor to keep it from drifting off, from separating, from taking you with it, from suffocating you until your breaths are filled with water and your body is too cold to–

You jump when the lamp bursts. A jolt of electricity shatters the bulb, and you sit up in bed, clutching the sheets as you watch the lamp glow slightly before fizzling out. The room blankets into the dark, and you move shakily off your bed and pat around for your flashlight before clicking it on. The small circle of yellow light doesn’t do what you hoped; instead, it makes the shadows of every object longer and seem further away, and they start to move as your hand shakes, so much so that you cannot tell if something is coming towards you or if your mind is still convincing you of some sort of seasickness. One lodged into your brain, one that doesn’t make you nauseous but makes you paranoid that some hole in the ocean will open up and take you with it.

The thought of drowning is not as terrifying as finding out what lies beneath the surface of the water.

When you used to think of the ocean, it used to soothe you. When you closed your eyes, all you could see was crystal clear blue and tropical fish. You thought about running your fingers through warm water and kicking your feet as you watched dolphins fly beside you. When the sun penetrated the light, it shined until it showed the seafloor, where little creatures burrowed beneath bright sand, making it sparkle.

The ocean you know now is anything like it. You understand what they mean when they say “mother nature,” because only a woman scorned could eat the world the way she does. Waves touching taller than buildings. Animals so large, they would swallow you whole and let the acid of their insides quiet your screams for nutrition. An endless void, reaching miles towards the center of earth, a vast unknown that crushes heavy metals and defies physics the further and further you drop. She’s unforgiving. Mean. A terrifying, wonderful thing, and you are cheating death. You know it. She screams at you from just outside your thin walls, and you are pretending not to hear her. She’s telling you something, but you bury your nose in your books.

If it’s a warning she’s trying to give, you won’t know it until it’s too late.

The rig groans in the middle of the night. You can hear the pipes expanding, the water moving aggressively outside your window, the sounds of cranes and metal creaking that rattle off around you. Your hand shakes a little as you try and find your shoes, slipping them on as you open your door in search of a new source of light.

It’s the middle of the night, but there’s still a skeleton crew around, moving between their night shifts. You make your way down the hall, clicking off your flashlight, and you find yourself in the rec room in search of light bulbs in the utility closet there. You hear the doors swing open behind you, and you try to ignore the rowdy voices of men as you stand on your tiptoes and rummage the hundredth box for what you need. You try not to think about the whisps of something delicate you feel grazing your fingertips (because spiders wouldn’t be this far out from land, right?).

“Looks like ye need a little help, bonnie.”

You startle yourself nearly out of your skin. You trip off the ledge you’re standing on, trying to hold your hands out to brace yourself, but you never hit the ground. Strong hands grip you around the middle, breaking your fall and getting you back onto your feet, nice and steady. You spin around, clutching your flashlight to your chest, panting like an anxious puppy. You can make out his blue eyes even in the dark, bright and seemingly concerned as Soap tries to get a grip on you to keep you from swaying.

“‘S alright, lass, ‘s just me! Soap, it’s Soap.”

You put a hand over your chest, trying to calm your breathing, You shake your head, closing your eyes as you try and repeat the mantra you’ve been telling yourself since you got on this stupid rig.

Your feet are on solid ground. Your feet are on solid ground. Your feet are on solid ground.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I…”

“What are ye doin’ up?” He asks, clicking his tongue. “‘S the middle of the night! Reckon ye need yer beauty sleep.”

You smile a bit, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You do it to placate him. Men don’t always respond well to sharp teeth, and you haven’t decided how you feel about this one yet. He’s too comfortable. His hands are still around your arms, thumbs smoothing too easily over the bone of your shoulders. He’s too close; he steps just nearer to you, tongue sliding over that top row of teeth, and you try not to think about the way his pupils dilate at the terrified look on your face, the one your smile cannot hide. When he tilts his head to the side, you think he means to look curious, but you think it closer to prey playing with its food. The curls of his growing mohawk fall over his forehead, drawing a dark shadow over his eyes, and you can no longer try to see what might give him away in his gaze.

“The light in my…room. I need a new one, I–” You shake your head. “It’s stupid, but I just…I can’t sleep.”

“We’ll get ye all right fer bed, love,” Soap chuckles. “What’s broken, ye ken what kind ye need?”

You blink, biting your lip, thinking. He’s still touching you; he still has his hands around your arms, but now they’ve settled around your elbow, calloused fingers curled over where they rest.

“I’m not sure. The lamp on my desk, it’s–”

“Ach, those are hidin’, I’m sure o’ it,” he lets you go, reaching up and hoisting down a few boxes before reaching for what lies behind them. He carries them on his shoulder before dropping them onto the floor, and you try not to think about watching him work. He’s a large man. Strong, that much is evident, but there’s something off. You think his physical appearance hides what lies inside. He’s pretty, in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. Straight teeth, a killer smile, arms that do not give once they’re taut with use. Even the uniform he wears does nothing to hide thicker thighs and a solid middle; but you try not to let it distract you from what really remains. If he wasn’t so gorgeous, you don’t think he’d get away with that tick that must exist in his brain. The one that allows him to crowd your space without much resistance. The one that lets him smile like that, like he’s won something, like he’s gotten what he wanted not because he fought for it, but because it is what he is owed. 

He bends over and picks up a bulb that looks good enough and hands it to you. When he straightens his back, you try to catch that look in his eyes again. Maybe he knows you’re looking for it, and now he’s hiding it. Maybe he’s cooing in his own head about what a clever girl you are and trying to decide how he’ll play his game differently.

“Can walk ye back, put it in fer ye.”

You take it from him, drawing a shaky breath. You want to say no. You want to tell him you can do it all on your own, that you’re fine, but then the closet door swings open, and a group of tired-looking crew stare at the two of you as they snicker and nudge each other.

“Wot ye doin’, Soap, seven minutes in heaven with the fuckin’ feds?”

“Och–shut the fuck up, the lot o’ ye,” Soap bites back. “Just doin’ her fuckin’ job, just like the rest o’ ye, so get the fuck out the way. Middle of the night, bunch of gobshites.”

Soap puts a hand around the small of your back, guiding you past the group and out into the hallway. He follows you wordlessly back to accommodations, stopping in front of your door. Your name isn’t on it, but you don’t comment about how he knew this was yours. He waits for you to open the door for him before following you inside.

“A right mess, luvvie.”

He doesn’t let you help. He kicks your bin under the desk, carefully discarding of the pieces of glass that are scattered across your desk. He grumbles under his breath about it being too sharp and how he will do it better and how he can take care of ye. 

When the lamp clicks back on, it paints the room in that comforting orange light, and you relax as you take a seat on your bed, clutching the sheets to dry your clammy palms. He still invades your space, but somehow, with the light, it dampens the sentiment. He scares you just a little less, but if you give him just that much, how much will he use it to his advantage?

“Ye need anythin’, I’m…just down there,” Soap says finally. He points behind him, down the north end of the hallway, and all you can do is nod. “Don’t listen to the lot, bonnie,” Soap adds. “Bunch o’ old, tired bastards. Mean no harm. But if they do, ye come ta me, ye hear?”

“Uhm…Soap?” You call out as he’s leaving. You don’t know why you stop him. You don’t know why you’re talking to him; you’re certain he’s not a stranger to telling a good lie. He turns to face you, leaning against the doorway, and you clear your throat. No one should look this good on just a few hours of sleep, but he’s still blinking awake, unsettlingly calm. “This place…it’s safe, right? I mean…safe as it ought to be?”

Soap smiles, but it’s not like his other smiles. It feels unnatural. His teeth are duller. Lips drier. Maybe he’s just tired.

“It’s safe, love. Swear it. Got me on those rivets.”

You don’t know why, but when he comes close to you, you let him. You let him touch your face, thick fingers smoothing down your jaw just a little too rough, big thumb along your bottom lip rubbing just a little too hard. You hear his door shut nearby once he goes.

The ocean screams. You can hear her again now that his voice is no longer around. You fall asleep knowing he’s close, and you pretend not to notice her. Just like always.

[strengthineverylayer]

Discover how expanded metal evolved from British innovation to a cornerstone of Philippine industrial leadership. Explore its journey, impact, and future in local manufacturing.

[salmanrashidblog]

Exploring the Different Types of Metal Mesh Sheets and Their Uses

Discover the different types of metal mesh sheets, including expanded metal mesh, corrugated metal sheets, and perforated metal sheeting. Find a reliable metal sheet supplier near you for durable and cost-effective solutions.

[honeyhonest]

Waaait requests are still open right??

I'm pretty sure you've already talked about it but just in case you'd wanna expand on the subject, since it's bleeding out time for those of us who've aligned; nsfw period headcanons with whoever you'd wanna? I think it'd be very funny to not tell Crowley and just let him screech when he pulls down reader's underwear, headmage of a boys' school who's never touched a woman and talks to one maybe once every 5 five years at best, if he ever knew periods exist he's probably forgotten about it centuries ago

who am I to deny a little period headcanon post...

minors get blocked, 18+ only

✧˖°. period thoughts

warnings: gn afab!reader (you/yours pronouns), reader is not specified to be yuu, both fluff AND smut, established relationship, mentions of blood, fingering, cunnilingus, and penetrative sex

characters: all staff + fellow + dylla 💞 + lilia FOR YOU!!!

length: short headcanons!

✧˖°.Dire Crowley

the mental image of him screaming and passing out upon seeing a Blood is good, but he just awkwardly dances around the matter until he can make an escape- period? what period! he didn't notice anything, he just remembered he left the coffee machine on in the staff room! and Crewel had asked him for a... a thing... yes! those papers! so he'd better deliver those right away! and then do his school rounds one more time, can never be too safe at Night Raven! (if he ever gets over the awkwardness, he would like period sex; but let him figure that out on his own) Mr. Dire Crowley, however, is never one to turn away a chance to manipulate your emotions! he might coerce you into extra cuddles by bringing you cheap chocolate or wine or whatever it is he's got sitting around unopened- and he thinks he's quite brilliant for playing your period to his advantage, while you're thinking you're rather clever for luring him into giving you free food and attention (this is just what dating him is like, I'm afraid) he may also be persuaded to massage your sore spots, if only because the cool metal of his dull talons with the warmth of his hands is Peak Period Comfort

✧˖°.Mozus Trein

DOES NOT CARE!!! he's not some fickle teenage boy or a man with a fetish, he's just an adult who was married for several years and has daughters- periods are perfectly normal. granted, he hasn't had a partner to tend to in years, but he handles you with grace- that is, not pissing you off and you can expect him to stock up on pads in his apartment and on campus without being asked, and he's always got the finest dark chocolates, cheese boards, and rich wines to satisfy your cravings, no matter what they are sex neither picks up nor is avoided during your monthly; if it happens, it happens, and if it doesn't, it doesn't. your period doesn't bother him, but he'd still be willing to lend a hand if it would alleviate some of your pain- "Better than having to hear your whining", as he likes to say (LOVINGLY)

✧˖°.Divus Crewel

blood is hot and that's all there is to it, doesn't matter where it's coming from! okay now get on the floor, these sheets were six thousand thaumarks JOKING, Crewel isn't afraid of a little mess- nor is he of getting his hands dirty, which, trust me, he will. he'll be knuckle deep in the pussy, enjoying how much more sensitive and wet you are <3 orgasms help period cramps, he swears by it! he won't let you go to bed without a healthy dose of dick to help you sleep he insists on doing your nightly routine for you (as if his micromanaging problem couldn't get any WORSE) so you don't get too greasy or look too tired come morning, and as much as you'd like to complain, he does a really good job- you never look as vibrant as you do when he's had you in some fancy face mask and fed you egg white omelettes all week. can't have his favorite pet feeling unwell, after all <3

✧˖°.Sam

Sam is the sort of man to always carry pain meds on him in case your cramps start acting up. he'll happily stay up with you, deep into the night when you can't sleep, laughing with you and making tasty drinks to pass the time. he's no horny beast, but a true romantic when you're not feeling yourself. he's always on call for you, definitely reminds you how good you look even when you're bloated and exhausted and breaking out (speaking of which, there's always just something about you when you're hormonal and moody that just makes him melt. maybe it's how human it is, maybe it's because he likes being relied on, but he can hardly keep his hands to himself, expect a lot of sneak-attack kisses all over your neck and shoulders)

✧˖°.Ashton Vargas

as much as you don't want to (and for as many pillows you've thrown at him when he's tried to pull you outside), Vargas INSISTS that the only proper treatment for period pains is a good workout. the first time he saw you hunched over and whining about being hungry, he dragged you into the great outdoors for a four-hour hike... you can imagine how that went over since then, he's found a much more comfortable remedy for at-home period relief: annoying amounts of sex!!! it's a full-body workout, it stretches all the important muscles, and it affects the problem area directly- he'll put you in all kinds of weird positions to take the pressure off your uterus (and to tire you out so you don't start trying to bite his fingers off again)

✧˖°.Fellow Honest

Fellow had heard of periods, but they've never really impacted his life until he met you. at first, he didn't really get it: you're obviously very horny and bothered by it, but you don't want to fuck? is he getting that right? what is he supposed to do, magic it away? ...it took a few days of him getting kicked out of bed before he learned to watch it with the snide remarks. and then he understood that you felt bad. and not just ate-dumpster-food bad, but gross, unattractive, unfuckable. and though he thinks that's insane, because you're never too gross for him to fuck, he knew he had to be more delicate with you: praising you, complimenting you, telling you how sexy you look (and smell- period blood's got a little something to it that his sensitive nose picks up just right), and THEN he gets to fuck the pain out. imagine his delight upon realizing that you're more sensitive on your period! and afterwards, he lies over your stomach and works as a very satisfied heating pad. (also enjoys massaging your tummy- soft and warm and good)

✧˖°.Dylla Spade

my wife... I just KNOW she's got the full period package at home; the nice cotton pads, hot water bottles, snacks, enough pain medication to fill the Epcot Ball, and every season of her favorite reality TV show, taped and ready to rewatch while she fingers you on the couch. this is as luxurious as it gets on this list, she Gets It one must also imagine taking care of Dylla on HER period, too. she insists you don't have to do anything for her, she's fine "toughing it on her own" (it's what she's always done, after all), but I can't imagine she'd be anything but horny at the slightest provocations. one must imagine eating her out and making her cum three, four, five times, until she's gotten all of it out of her system, or outercourse, grinding on each other through your pajamas in bed...

✧˖°.Lilia Vanrouge

at this point, Lilia and period sex are basically synonymous with each other, he is in the blood like thoseferatu, he is eating period pussy like his life depends on it. also hot for him? outercourse! rubbing your hips or lower back through your pajamas to work out the soreness, his hand ~magically~ slips between your legs to work out the tension there, too. finds you completely irresistible, crawling all over you all week on the fluffy side, he'd... well, he'd still be crawling all over you all week, but like, cutely! hanging off your side and lovingly asking if you'd like him to make you a snack (SAY NO) or if you'd like more kissies (you don't get a choice with this one). takes you everywhere with him- you're his poor sick beloved angel OKAY!!! unfortunately the kind of guy to point at your uterus and say "stop hurting my partner!!! >:("

[tinydefector]

I was just interested if you were a suckered for the clothing and fabric and perfume trope as I am. In the sense where fabrics and a abundance of organic flora was considered more common for higher class cybertronains but that even then it was pretty scarce. Imagine a bot or con after getting over their fears or mild disgust of the squishness of humans so to speak the next few things they notice is how many types of hair there are. How many styles and how many different ways to dye said hair. It drives them nuts the feel such softer fibers all together to make a more denser form. Curled,staight,wavy it all catches their optics. Painted nails almost similar to paint for their frames. Tattoos so intriguing. A human willingly damaging their surface that is more fragile than their metallic frames. It's a living scar. And they can't help but slowly come to love it to when they see how much their human complain does. But fabric? God they almost get drunk off of it. When they get a hug they shiver at the smooth article that brushes on their frame. The variety. So many styles and colors. So many meaning behind patterns and techniques. They can't help but almost grow jealous hearing how far back a simple stich can come from in human history. Humanity dressing itself in plush silks and flimsy polyester but it's all gold compared to what the cybertronains have come to crave. Imagine them having made themselves smaller so they could be inside your living space and they can't help but notice all the fabrics. All the plush surfaces. Their in heaven fully convinced they're going to meet the great primes. And if you had a scented burning candle? Sweet or citrus they can't help but want to inhale deeply to capture the scent. Perfumes? God their drunk whenever a human walks into a enclosed space because all mechs and femmes are fighting themselves to not snatch you up and keep you. If you use scented body wash or scented lotion then can practically taste it on your skin if you are near or hug them. They crave it when it's late at night and they've got you sobbing and thighs shaking as they kiss and lap at your scented thighs. And if theirs multiple humans in a space? That almost has a bot slurring their words as iff they just had the best energon. Just some thoughts haha I'm very sorry it's so long. I'm just a suckered for all these headcanons and just how while they may be disgusted and have hatred for humanity some fo them can't help but swoon for so many qualitys of their human companions that are nothing like their skin. So soft and complaint and so very warm at heart.

So I do have some fics on this stuff one is

Ratchet x reader. Involving perfumes effecting cybertronians like a sex potion or sex pollen.

Then I have

Starscream x reader. Involving the infamous dress and him testing out different outfits on his partner.

This small collection of bots reacting to nipple piercings (was like my first fic I ever wrote here)

_________________

I am quite a sucker for the clothing and fabric and perfume trope. I really enjoy writing cybertronians who adore seeing their partner drapped in shimmering fabrics. Becuase to the human its could just be a satin sheet, but to the cybertronian it is luxury, it showcases so much about you and every chance they get they love getting to just feel or touch the fabrics.

Imagine: your cybertronian is sat on theirs berth which is a mix of almost foam matting(yoga mat/ expanding foam) They don't lay on just metal but it's not particularly comfortable for their human. So one day, they introduced them to memory foam, and its like the bots world has opened up. It becomes a soft, comfortable recharge. But as you start bringing sheets, blankets, and your pillows, it makes the bots feel as if they are falling in love. They love it when you drape the soft fabric over them and make yourself almost a next on their chassis with the soft bedding. To they it feels like a luxury that you are pampering them even if it's just to make yourself more comfortable. It's the fact you leave them in their suite on their berth take makes their spark clench in delight knowing you'll be coming back.

I also tend to write cybertronains have alot more nasal sensors and detectors to the point they can break down the partials to annalise them. The smell of fresh lining is something that effects them almost like catnip with a cat. They will roll around in the fabric optics wide. Engines roaring in delight. As their joints squeak and clank against the walls.

I also love writing that Fabric was something that only the Highest of society had on cybertron, but mainly due to have small the fibers are it is extremely hard for cybertronains to replicate the material, so it fetched for high prices when Imported from organic planets. If you were of the lower classes, you would be lucky if you had a tarp or some sort of soft plastic as it was also still very sort after. So you can imagine how the cybertronains reacted once on earth, even while undercover. Fabric is such a huge part of human culture that cybertronians, when they find even just a pretty scrap of Fabric, keep it as a token. As if to say "frag you" to the universe.

But I can also see a human finding the stash of Fabric cut off's and offering to sew them all together in an almost patchwork like blanket for their bot and you can bet your ass you will have that cybertronian on thier knees worshipping you for it.

______

"Hey, we have hail forecasted," their voice calls out to the vehicle parked in the driveway. The cybertronian is rather quiet as they register what was said to them. "It isn't acid rain, so it won't be anything too bad." they try to argue only to have a large old blanket thrown over them. "Hey, what are you doing?" It sends shock throught their system having something so soft drapped over their frame.

"I'm covering you up so you don't get hail damage, I sadly can't get you into the garage at the moment so the next best thing I can do is cover you up with some blankets and a tarp so you don't get damaged by ice falling out of the sky" they explain as they throw another over the vehicle. Making sure to fully cover the bot before throwing a waterproof tarp over them, too. "Sorry, I don't have anything better than this, but it will keep you dry and our of harm's way." Those words hit their spark in a way they never would have thought it would. They are left almost speechless, cosy, and somewhat warm as the hailstorm rolls in.

________________

When it comes to hair colour, skin colour, and tattoos. It fascinates them so much to see such diversity and colour on a species they originally believed to be quite dull. It gets to the point when making their holoform avatars they love exploring and expressing themselves as if making a sims character. Even going as far as some get custom paint jobs of the tattoos, they get on their avatars because, for them, it's the closest thing they can have to tattoos. But think about you getting a tattoo in a shop right across from where your cybertronian partner is getting their paint job because it was a cute couples day out.

And don't get me started on how much cybertronians love human's hair. The fibers are so different to them and they love the feeling of it, they just have to be very careful when running a digit theought thier lovers hair as to not get it jammed in the joints causing you pain.

Another thing that cybertronians are fascinated by is humans' willingness to injure themselves in the name of beauty. From tattoos, piercings, injections, and surgery. In honesty, it's not that different from frame ulteration, but they don't know how a human can do it. The bots can turn their pain sensors off while humans are just soldier on through it.

I love the idea that the bots also horde car freshners that their humans get them. It becomes a full-on pokemon card situation of them trading double ups, begging their partner to get them others so they can rub it in their friends' faces. But air freshners weren't a thing until Earth, and the bots love how it makes their frame smell different from the oil, grease, and car smell.

But perfumes gods I love the idea that perfumes have a certain chemical reaction to Cybertronian systems to the point to turns them into a raging horny bot who can't get enough of how your skin taste and how desperately they try to literally lick the perfume off your skin as if it were the riches and most expensive high grade energex on the market. It also leads to a lot of personal working with the bots not being allowed to wear perfume/cologne. Deodorants don't affect them the same way, but they also enjoy how they smell quite a bit.

But yes I love the idea of perfumes pretty much working like a pheromone spray and don't get me started on actual pheromones spray, your not leaving that bots berth for atleast 3 days, they will bring you food, water and anything you want but it literally overrides their system protocol and makes them desperate to breed you.

In conclusion, DO NOT wear perfume or Pheromone spray near the bots unless you don't intend to be leaving the berth for at least 3 days if not more becyase they can and will keep you their.

________________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

@angelxcvxc

@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

@buddee

@bubblyjoonjoon

@chaihena

@pyreemo

@lovenotcomputed

@mskenway97

@delectableworm

@cheesecaketyrant

@ladyofnegativity

@desertrosesmetaldune

@stellasfallow

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa

@shinseiokami

@tea-loving-frog