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marvelstoriesepic · 25 days ago

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Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

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c0s-lettuce · 6 months ago

Note

I love your Sergei story. Can you please do a Sergei x female reader story where he sees her taking a shower? He sneaks up on her in the shower and they have passionate sex? Ty

flattery - sergei kravinoff x reader

word count: 1405

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only, minor dni, fem!reader, shower sex, breast play, oral sex (f receiving), swearing

a/n: thanks for the request, nonnie! i'm glad you like my previous fic! this is my first time writing smut so i'm very sorry if it sucks 😭

Sergei used to ask if he could come over. Then, it turned into him stating he was coming over and no longer requesting permission. Soon enough, he started showing up unannounced. At first, it would be at your front door. But if you were ever home late, or if he was just bored, he would make his way inside. He would get comfortable on your couch or fix himself a drink in your kitchen. And he would laugh when he scared you half to death.

"You left your window unlocked," he would say.

You seethed, mainly because of the audacity of this man. But also because you live on the third floor of your apartment building. Not long after, you relented and gave Sergei a spare key.

At this point, it was almost like he lived here too. He was getting very comfortable, and you weren't sure how to feel about it. You considered charging him rent. Or, at the very least, telling him off. But before you ever got around to it, his mouth would find its way to yours, his hands to your waist, and the rest would become history.

It's another regular evening when Sergei comes over. He arrives to a quiet apartment, with only the hum of household appliances, distant traffic and, most noticeably, the sound of running water from the shower.

After locking the door behind him, he kicks off his shoes and discards his jacket on the back of the couch. He heads over to the bathroom, carefully opening the door and peeking inside. Warm steam and the fragrant scent of your shampoo waft through the air. And through the foggy glass of the shower screen, he sees you.

He smiles to himself as he enters, recognising the potential of this situation. Your back is facing him, and you're blissfully unaware of his presence. The running water helps mask his actions as he shuts the door and approaches the shower.

He pulls the shower door open and reaches to pinch you on the waist, making a sudden noise to scare you. You flinch and let out a yelp. As you turn around, your startlement turns into anger when you see the culprit.

"Sergei? What the fuck is wrong with you?" you yell at him.

Sergei chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."

You grab the door and hold it closed, creating a sort of barrier between the two of you. "That was not fucking funny. What are you even doing here?"

"I came to see you," he answers, unbothered by your reaction.

You stare at him incredulously through the glass. "You really couldn't wait ten minutes?"

Sergei just laughs. "Of course not. Who do you think I am?"

You let out a huff, unimpressed by his antics. "Okay, well, you've seen me. You can go now."

"Aw, don't send me away," he pouts. "Can't I join you?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Join me? Are you being serious?"

"Dead serious," he replies. "Please?"

You continue staring him down, but he disarms you with a charming smile. You groan. How could you say no when he's looking at you like that?

"Alright, fine," you say. "But this doesn't mean I forgive you."

Sergei nods, still smirking. He begins to undress, leaving his clothes piled on the floor. You turn to face the water again, ignoring the man and refocusing on washing yourself.

Meanwhile, Sergei remains fixated on you, finding your aloof demeanour amusing. Once he's unclothed, he steps into the shower behind you. Almost immediately, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs, as he presses his lips against your neck, "I missed you, that's all."

"That's a sorry excuse," you mutter in response.

He hums, smiling against your skin. "But it's true, baby. I've been thinking about you all day."

He continues peppering kisses on your neck. You try not to make a noise as he begins to caress your body. His large hands wander up to your breasts, and he starts kneading them while his fingers brush over your nipples. After a while, he spins you around to face him, smiling as he meets your gaze. He takes a moment to admire you.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he says.

You give him a pointed look. "Don't try to flatter me, Sergei."

"Oh, come on," he pulls you closer. "You know I wouldn't lie to you."

Before you can protest further, he leans in to kiss you. His lips are fervorous against yours. His beard tickles your skin, and his fingers squeeze your hips. Unable to stay annoyed, you loop your arms over his shoulders and kiss him back.

He holds you close, and you do the same, your bodies flush against each other. Your fingers play at the nape of his neck, and he moans into your mouth when you tug his hair. He deepens the kiss, brushing his tongue against yours.

He guides you towards the wall. The cold tiles press against your back, making you jump slightly. Sergei must have noticed because he smirks, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw.

"So beautiful," he whispers, repeating his earlier sentiment.

He starts moving lower, peppering more kisses down your neck and over your chest and stomach. You let out a sigh as you lean back, watching Sergei get on his knees.

Now situated on the shower floor, he grips your thighs and holds you steady against the wall. He kisses a trail along your hip, slowly moving towards your inner thigh. Carefully, he guides one of your legs to rest over his shoulder. He looks up at you as he places a gentle, teasing kiss over your sex. You gasp, hands finding their way back to Sergei's hair.

He grins at your reaction before moving in fully. Using his tongue, he parts your folds to reach your entrance and licks a stripe up to your clit. You moan as he lavishes attention on the bud, licking and sucking as if his life depended on it.

Sergei's euphoria matches yours. Engulfed by your sweet scent and surrounded by your soft skin, he knows this is where he belongs. On his knees, worshipping his goddess. He groans into you as you tighten your grip on his hair. Pressing one last kiss on your clit, he begins moving his mouth lower and teases your hole with his tongue.

A string of moans and curses leave your mouth, and Sergei relishes the sound of your pretty voice as he fucks you with his tongue. The bridge of his nose nestles against your clit, only adding to the overwhelming sensation of him making out with your pussy.

You squirm as the tension builds, and your legs start to tremble. Sergei holds onto you tighter, his mouth not letting up. Your breath becomes unsteady as you feel yourself become light-headed.

"Sergei, please," you whimper, barely able to form words.

"I'm here, baby," he murmurs. "I have you. Let go for me."

The last few words are all you need. You cry out as pleasure washes over you, consuming you in a moment of ecstasy. Sergei doesn't stop, letting you ride out your orgasm. He moans as you come on his tongue, eagerly tasting you.

As you start to come down from your high, Sergei slows his ministrations. He plants a few final kisses before gently placing your leg down and standing back up. His arms wrap around your waist again, and he holds you securely. You rest your weight against him as you catch your breath.

His cock, now rock-hard, nestles against your sensitive cunt, making you whimper. He's aching for you but needs to know you're feeling alright first. He brings a hand to cradle your face, coaxing you to look at him. Your unfocused gaze meets his, and he smiles as he looks over you.

You really are so very beautiful.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.

His question annoys you. You want to roll your eyes or hit him or fuck him, but you're still a bit out of it.

"No, of course not, you idiot," you mutter instead.

"Good," Sergei chuckles, kissing you on the cheek. "Come on then. I think we've showered enough. Let's take this to the bedroom."

➸

#sergei kravinoff #sergei kravinoff x reader #sergei kravinoff smut #kraven the hunter #kraven the hunter x reader #kraven the hunter smut #kraven #kraven x reader #kraven movie #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel smut #aaron taylor johnson #atj

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obsessivevoidkitten · 8 months ago

Text

Dear Brother

Kinktober Day 14: Incest Yandere brother x male reader CW: Incest, noncon, memory alteration, mind manipulation, possessive yandere, protective yandere, general yandere behavior, versatile reader, anal sex, drugging, sedatives, aphrodisiacs, collaring, murder, Stockholm syndrome, major character death, reader's own cum as lube, masturbation, discrimination against those without powers, dead dove: DO NOT EAT Word Count: 3.8k (This is dark. Sorry for any errors, I did not have it betaread. I hope there are some who will enjoy this.)

The meteor that crashed to the ground generations ago came with it a particularly invasive pathogen. A virus that infected all of humanity, changing the DNA of everyone on Earth, though a large portion of people remained asymptomatic with recessive changes.

Those with symptoms displayed mutations. They varied wildly from animal traits, elemental powers, enhanced strength, super speed, extra limbs, and many others.

Over many years, the DNA that the virus altered became increasingly prominent as mutations were inherited and compounded. Asymptomatics were rarer and rarer. Currently, they made up only 15 percent of the population.

A small portion of people used their extra human abilities for evil, and others became government sanctioned heroes to fight them.

The people who had mutations become highly sought after and fetishized. More laws came into effect to protect them from villains and criminals who would traffic them.

You were a mutationless nobody living in this society.

A brand new law had established a curfew for all people without strong enough mutations. They couldn't go out unless someone with a strong ability was with them.

Another law was that those with no abilities couldn't live alone.

Because of this, you became wholly dependent on your older brother, Drew.

Your older sibling was entirely fine with this arrangement. He had a love for you that wasn't entirely brotherly, though you didn't suspect anything. It seemed to you that his overprotective behavior was the product of being an older brother to someone without a mutation in a world that conditioned people to think of those like you as defenseless. You thought yourself fairly lucky. You weren't forced into an abusive or restrictive marriage or roommate situation because you had Drew. He was always happy to chaperone and escort you.

When he wasn't too busy with his work as a hero. Drew had moved the two of you to a small town due to a lower crime rate and desire to keep you safe and spend as much time with you as possible. It was also to isolate you from any potential suitors. But... you didn't really need to know about that... You had gotten too chummy with people online through various social media and dating websites who lived a bit too close for comfort in the large city you had lived in previously. It was getting burdensome finding them, intimidating them, burying more than one body when they wouldn't get the hint that you were spoken for. That had been rare, though.

If he really needed to, he could use a power no one knew he possessed. He could remove and replace memories. It was a tedious task, requiring a lot of time and energy, and not all minds were susceptible. Even if they were, it couldn't normally be used multiple times on the same person. Which is why he couldn't just make you forget or hate them. Luckily, most people were easily intimidated by Drew. He was tall and muscular, which was enough in some cases, but he also could move things with his mind and produce a psychic barrier around his skin to make him indestructible.

The quieter smaller town was kinda nice, but you were rather bored. Especially when Drew had to do his patrols. He made sure he worked more in the early morning and afternoon since you always liked to be up at night playing video games and going for walks at night with him. Sometimes, he'd take you out to eat at a 24/7 diner that the town had.

He thought of those outings as dates and considered himself to be courting his defenseless brother.

Your brother always ordered ice cream for you to share. Drew loved to watch you eat it, sometimes biting his lip as you so lewdly licked the cold confection from your spoon. It made his cock twitch in his pants. How he wished you were licking his manhood like that. Eager to get every drop of his cum.

The last time you were at the diner you had caught him staring at you with an odd expression.

"What's with that weird face?"

"Oh, uh... I just had a brain freeze."

You had chuckled at him and went back to eating. How he longed for the day when he could tell you how he really loved you. Hopefully it would be soon, but he just didn't know how to broach the topic.

He had let you walk in on him wanking a few times. But all it achieved was you turning red and scrambling out of the room with an immediate apology followed by you pretending that nothing had occurred. Nothing like the pornos.

The other day, you had been comfortable enough to fall asleep on the couch as the two of you watched a movie. He had been admiring your peacefully sleeping form when you slouched over and leaned on his shoulder. He could hear your breathing and felt your drool as it ran down his arm.

It gave him an instant hard-on that he had to address. You had been a busy bee and cleaned the whole house earlier before cooking dinner. You were totally wiped out. Though even on an easy day, you were known for sleeping deeply. Drew carefully shifted the shorts he had been wearing so his large cock was sticking out through the leg and cautiously jerked himself off while imaging you cuddling and clinging to him after a long day.

He had cum so hard that a bit had landed on your lips. He was worried you would wake up, but you remained out like a light as he gently massaged it into your lip like lip gloss.

After that, he had "accidentally" fallen asleep right beside you. He couldn't very well wake a sleeping angel by moving.

That had been well over a month ago, and his desire for you had only grown. He had taken to stealing your underwear and keeping a pair under his pillows so he could sniff them before bed and dream about you.

He knew one day soon he'd have you in every way.

But there was a setback.

His schedule had shifted temporarily while he was on an assignment to help take down a super villain coalition. For two weeks, he was barely home at all, and a vermin had slipped in.

He came home one day to find you on the porch chatting with some piece of absolute filth who kept brushing his hand against yours.

When he left and you came back inside, Drew was holding back serious rage. You had a look on your face that told him all you needed to know. He didn't even have to question you about who it was. You just kept gushing about him.

"That was Len! He's such a sweetie! He saw me on the porch a few days ago when he was walking by and noticed I was glum."

The way you swooned and gushed made Drew's stomach lurch.

"He's so cool! I'm sure you'll like him. He isn't a hero, but his mutation is awesome. He can spontaneously make fire."

Drew noticed you twiddling your fingers in the way you only did when you were brimming with joy. Would that piece of trash know details like that about you!?

Your brother immediately began planning for Len's demise. This was beyond intimidation, threats, and memory alteration. He lived far too close and touched your perfect weak hands with his disgusting grubby ones. Drew knew exactly how he'd do it. He'd infiltrate Len's home and use his telekinetic abilities to cause him to have a stroke. Then he'd burn the house down. It wasn't unheard of for people's mutations to run out of control.

On the night that Drew planned to end Len, you had been texting Len. Even though it was late, he had invited you over because he was playing a new game that he thought you might enjoy together. If you wanted, he'd leave the door unlocked so you could come in. He knew knocking and waiting made you anxious.

He was such a good listener. He would have come over and walked with you, but it was such a short walk, and you didn't want to wake up Drew. Besides, his house was just a few down from yours. If you ran, you could be there in under a minute. And, honestly, no one took these curfew laws seriously in small towns.

You rushed over as fast as you could and nervously opened the door and stepped inside.

"Dr-Drew? What are you-?"

The question was left unfinished as your gaze lowered to Len laying motionless at your brother's feet. Drew's eyes went wide, and his mouth agape when he noticed you. He obviously had not expected you to walk in on his activities. This was just like when you had just turned 20 and you had caught him killing your parents because they had wanted to convince you to go to an isolated island for the mutationless because they wanted you to feel normal.

He had wiped the events from your brain, made you think they had abandoned you both long ago, and finished by making you think he was the older brother so you'd accept him taking care of you a bit more easily when in reality he was a year younger.

But unlike last time, he couldn't erase Len or what you had witnessed. After doing it once, and so extensively, you were inoculated from it.

Your mind was reeling, struggling to piece together an explanation for what you were seeing. You took a few steps back, planning to just run away and hope you woke up from whatever awful nightmare this night was shaping into. But the door slammed shut before you could finish turning around.

"Y-you have to understand! He was going to steal you away... He didn't deserve you. No one does! Except me."

Drew used his abilities to make you slowly float towards him. The look on his face could only be described as deranged.

"I'm so sorry you had to see this. It was supposed to look like an accident..."

You squirmed in his psychic hold as you began sobbing. Your brain finally registered that your brother killed the man you had started to fall in love with. Nothing made sense.

Once his power brought you to him, he wrapped one arm around you tightly and used his free hand to pull a tiny spray capsule up to your face from his utility belt.

He spritzed you just once, and within a few seconds, you were fast asleep. With you taken care of for the moment, Drew could safely get back to the business at hand.

Your subconscious mind must have still been in denial because you found yourself in a dream pounding Len's muscular ass. He was riding you, and you found yourself bucking into his tight hot hole. In reality, your brother had been watching you sleep and decided to rub your crotch. He figured you needed the stress relief, and if you woke up, maybe the pleasure would prove he was just trying to make you happy.

It made sense in his warped mind.

He was originally just going to jerk you off, but when you got fully hard under his touch... he couldn't resist the urge to ride on it. Drew lubed it up and sank himself down on it. This was perfect, he thought. Your first official act as lovers. It would definitely make you forget about that sack of garbage he just took out.

The look on your face as you drooled in your sleep and let out little lewd gasps went straight to his dick and had him cumming in no time. He briefly lifted off of your cock long enough to smear his semen on it before lowering himself again.

You were fucking his cum into him and it would be mixed with your own once you climaxed. The thought made his stomach flutter as blush crept across his face.

Drew knew you were close, your moans had gotten louder and you had started bucking your hips into him. He was amazed you hadn't woken up yet. Though you had always been a deep sleeper and the stuff he sprayed you with was pretty heavy duty. Your eyes fluttered open as you shot your load inside him and moaned out the name Len.

L e n.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Your brother, who had never raised a hand to you, slapped you hard across the face.

"That loser is DEAD!! Len is a fucking corpse smoldering in the ashes of his house!"

You were shaking as you stared up at him, still confused about what was going on. Your brain was full of fog and struggled to piece together the events that transpired last night and the fact that your brother was on your dick and angrily yelling in your face.

When he realized the fear in your eyes, he got off of you and pulled you close.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it's not your fault. You're so innocent, and he wormed his way into your mind like the greedy parasite he was."

He kissed your cheek gently where he had struck you.

"Just... try not to say his name, okay? You gotta forget about him. It isn't healthy to linger on toxic people like that."

He got up and made his way to the bathroom connected to his room.

"I bet a bath will make us both feel a little more relaxed."

You were pretty sure that you would never be relaxed again for the rest of your life. Your brother was a villain and you had no idea what he was capable of doing to you. The sibling you had depended on killed Len, forced himself on you while you were sleeping, and slapped you.

Since he was busy making a bath, you thought you'd take the chance to leave. You pulled up your pants and crept past the bedroom door and down the stairs. When you reached the bottom, you stared in dismay at the blockade he had put in front of the door. There was no other choice but to turn around. But as you did so you slammed right into the chest of your sibling, who was staring down at you darkly.

"I just came downstairs for a sn-snack."

You were trembling and hoped he bought it. You knew he had when his face softened.

"Oh, well after our bath I'll make us a late night snack."

He grabbed you by the hand and led you back upstairs.

"This will be our first bath together! I'm really excited."

The last thing you wanted to do was to bathe with this monster. But there was no escaping it.

"Haha I guess I'm excited in more than one way!"

You glanced over and saw what he meant. His cock was fully erect.

"I-I'm too shy to bathe together!"

"Don't be silly! We're lovers now and we both really need this."

He picked you up like you weighed nothing and took you into the tub with him. He sat down and positioned you on his lap facing towards him. His erection jabbed at you from below. It made you cringe and curl in on yourself.

Despite the bubbles and warm water, you had never felt so filthy.

"You're still so tense, but big bro will make everything better~"

He groped and massaged your ass before starting to rub your hole. You flinched.

"You have to relax to make this easier."

Eventually, he pressed a finger into you.

"Please sto-"

You were cut off by involuntarily moaning as he hit a special spot inside you.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you? Made you sound so needy~"

As he kept attending to that place inside you, working his way up to three fingers, your mind got more clouded and distracted, and your body went limp and relaxed.

"Sto-ahhh AAAHHHH!!"

Your hole clenched tightly as you spilled your load on his chest.

Before you could catch your breath he slowly replaced his fingers with his cock. Careful not to hurt you as he slowly eased you down on his entire length.

You were already hard again despite being so sensitive. His hard cock entered you with a bit of pain despite the previous stretching.

For Drew, it was bliss. Heaven. His cock was wrapped in the warm paradise that was his beloved brother. Finally, he was with you in the way his heart yearned to be. He should have just done this the second the two of you had moved out here.

The slight bit of pain you had initially felt faded at the feeling of him battering your insides. His tip perfectly kissed that spot inside you, your resolve being fucked away with each thrust.

Drew moaned your name as he came in you all too soon.

"My cum is in you. My cum is in you. My cum is in you. Mycumisinyou."

He never lost his hard on and kept right on making love to you, his precious brother, without stopping for a second. As his movements intensified, the lavender scented water splashed against the two of you.

"I-I knew I could make it all better!"

You prattled on incoherently as drool pooled from the corner of your mouth.

"You're right. We should let our actions do the talking"

Drews lips dominated yours as he kissed you deeply, nibbling on your lower lip and licking up your drool as he made out with you. As both of you came once more, he slid his tongue into your mouth and rubbed it against yours.

He pulled away and kissed your forehead. Your brain was foggy, and your body was exhausted after all you had been made to endure.

"I guess I should clean us up before the water goes completely cold. Don't worry, we can do that some more after we've rested up, okay?"

You muttered something, but you didn't know what you were saying or even what you were responding to.

That didn't stop Drew from hearing whatever he wanted to though.

"Yeah, we can still make out in bed before we fall asleep!"

Drew cleaned you off then sat you down on his bed after dressing you. Then he ran downstairs and came back up with some cookies.

"You wanted a snack right?"

You nodded sheepishly and nibbled a few to maintain the lie you told earlier. When you finished you went to brush your teeth before bed.

You couldn't look at yourself in the mirror. You were ashamed you had let your brother violate you in such a manner. You were ashamed you were brushing your teeth like it was a normal night. Maybe you could escape or call for help when he was working. It was already early in the morning. His schedule had returned to normal, and he would be back to work in a few hours. You just had to play along and get into bed with him...

The trembling of your body didn't betray your fear, Drew just assumed you were cold and held you protectively under the blankets. He stroked your side gently. It would have been comforting before you knew he was a murderer. Now, it only made you tense. Though you did manage to grab a few moments of uneasy rest.

Upon waking, you realized you were oddly calm. Tranquil. When you had finally fallen asleep, he had sprayed you with another substance from his utility belt.

This time, it was just something heroes used to calm people down. Villains and sometimes people in shock. It was pretty harmless, so if he had to keep you mildly sedated with it, he could. Though he hoped he could adjust you to your new circumstances with it and then eventually wean you off. It made you a little calmer, happier, and more accepting of your situation.

You also found yourself collared. The inside was a soft fabric and the outside a rough material. It was locked to a long chain that was mounted to the wall. You could reach the restroom and the minifridge he had by his bed. A minifridge stocked with all your favorite snacks and cold meals, a mounted chain, a custom collar in your favorite color... How long had he planned for this possibility?

There was definitely anger and grief, but they felt much more muted than they should have been.

The first year or so as your brother's boyfriend was a bit messy. Despite the calming drug, you still had emotional outbursts and anxiety. But your brother understood. He wasn't going to abandon you just because you were a bit moody or said hurtful things sometimes.

He endured and the two of you got through. It didn't hurt that he had stockpiled illegal aphrodisiacs confiscated from human traffickers. They made a target especially horny for the first person who's DNA they were exposed to. Whenever he used it, you were hard and needy to the point of crying, and only his dick could make it any better.

It was a great breakthrough when your body finally got hard from his touch without the help of any drugs at all.

And then you started kissing him and leaning on your big strong brother whenever you got lonely from your isolation. He was the only person you were allowed to have any contact with, and the craving for touch became too unbearable.

Your broken mind slowly justified it and changed your perspective on how you saw Drew. The only other option was going insane.

He was just looking out for you and keeping you safe from evil people. It was all for your own good. He took care of all of your needs. Cuddled you, kept you safe, provided you with games and food, and he was always happy to give you his cock or hole whenever you needed it, even when he was tired from work. If you had trouble sleeping, he'd even gently slip his dick into you and rock you to sleep with the thrusts.

It had, at long last, gotten to the point where he could take you outside on dates again with no fear at all that you'd try to escape him. In fact, you'd cling to his arm for dear life no matter where you went.

Drew was so happy. Now everyone could see that you two were the perfect couple.

#yandere x reader #yandere boyfriend #male yandere #male reader #yandere scenario #yandere fic #yandere sibling #yandere brother #My OCs #My OC Len #My OC Drew #Male Yandere x Male reader #Kinktober #Kinktober 2024

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sunarryn · 2 months ago

Text

DP X Marvel #29

Jazz Fenton did not mean to become a Black Widow. It just kind of happened. One minute she was babysitting Danny’s mess because he decided to pick a fight with Kang the Conqueror (again), and the next she was knee-deep in S.H.I.E.L.D. files, covered in blood, and being hailed as “one of the most promising Red Room graduates they had ever seen.” Which was strange, considering Jazz had never been to the Red Room. Or Russia. Or… spy school at all. She was a licensed therapist. She had a degree. She paid taxes. She made salad. She was a normal woman, damn it!

“You killed fifteen HYDRA agents with a clipboard, Fenton,” Director Fury said, pinching the bridge of his nose as Maria Hill silently sipped her coffee and refused to make eye contact. “That’s not normal.”

Jazz folded her arms stubbornly. “In my defense, they attacked me first. And they insulted my handwriting.”

“You wrote ‘Your unresolved childhood trauma is not my problem’ on a sticky note and taped it to one of their foreheads.”

“And it wasn’t my problem.”

Across the room, Natasha Romanoff watched with the wide-eyed horror of someone seeing their own ghost. “She’s… she’s me,” Natasha whispered, pointing at Jazz. “But worse. Worse.”

Clint Barton leaned in. “I think I’m in love.”

“Shut up,” Natasha and Fury barked at the same time.

Things had spiraled out of control after that. Somewhere along the way, some Russian spy network got hold of a very blurry surveillance photo of Jazz decimating an entire mercenary squad with nothing but a heel, a pair of chopsticks, and a very aggressive therapy session. They promptly assumed Natasha had gone rogue (again), and put out a bounty. A very large bounty. The kind that made even the Winter Soldier raise an eyebrow and go, “Damn.”

Naturally, Danny found out.

Naturally, he panicked.

“JAZZ,” he screamed through the phone while flying upside down over Manhattan traffic, “WHY IS THERE A TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR BOUNTY ON YOUR HEAD?!”

“I don’t know!” Jazz screeched back. She was currently riding on the back of a stolen motorcycle with Deadpool (who thought she was Natasha and wouldn’t take no for an answer) while simultaneously answering frantic S.H.I.E.L.D. calls and rerouting an emergency therapy hotline. “ASK THE RUSSIANS!”

“WHICH RUSSIANS?!”

“YES!”

Meanwhile, Deadpool, wearing a T-shirt that said “I Heart Therapy,” shouted over the wind, “YOU’RE MY FAVORITE AVENGER NOW, NATASHA!”

“For the last time, I’m not Natasha—”

“I LOVE YOU TOO!”

Things escalated when Bucky Barnes appeared out of nowhere, tackled Jazz off the motorcycle midair, rolled into a perfect crouch, and then pinned her to the ground with a knife to her throat.

“I thought you were dead,” Bucky hissed, eyes wild.

Jazz blinked up at him. “Buddy, I don’t even know you.”

“That’s what you used to say before,” Bucky whispered, full of tragic anguish.

Deadpool sniffled loudly from behind them. “I love a good forbidden lovers-to-enemies-to-strangers-to-lovers again trope.”

Jazz kicked Bucky in the face and ran.

Within three hours, every major faction of Marvel’s expanded universe was hunting her down—S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, the Russians, Deadpool, Bucky, a very confused Peter Parker who thought he was supposed to save her, the X-Men (who thought she was a rogue mutant), and Kang the Conqueror (who thought she might be a time-displaced Natasha clone sent to assassinate him).

Thor, meanwhile, simply declared her “a most worthy warrior maiden” after she threw an entire food court table at Loki during a hostage situation.

“It’s about time Midgard produced more women of valor!” Thor bellowed, swinging Mjolnir with dangerous enthusiasm. “I SHALL TAKE HER TO ASGARD.”

“Get in line,” Deadpool snarled, adjusting his “I Heart Therapy” shirt.

Meanwhile, Natasha was trying to commit actual murder.

“I swear to GOD,” she growled, stalking down a S.H.I.E.L.D. hallway, “if one more person says I’m being so quirky today—”

“Natasha, babe,” Tony Stark said, popping out of a side door, “your emotional dysregulation is off the charts and honestly? It’s refreshing. You should get cloned more often.”

Natasha shot him a look so cold that even JARVIS’ firewalls froze.

Tony raised his hands. “Okay, okay, chill, Strawberry Shortcake. No need to murder me. Save that for—” he pointed dramatically— “your emotional support twin.”

“She is NOT my emotional support twin.”

“That’s not what the footage says.”

On a giant monitor, Jazz was currently choke-slamming Sabretooth into a dumpster while shouting, “YOU NEED TO LEARN HOW TO HANDLE REJECTION HEALTHILY!”

“Icon,” Clint whispered, wiping a tear.

Even Steve Rogers, paragon of old-fashioned dignity, was looking a little starry-eyed. “She’s very… efficient.”

“Efficient?” Natasha barked. “She’s deranged!”

“I like her,” Steve said firmly.

Jazz, blissfully unaware of the chaos she was causing, had holed up in a New York City bookstore, eating chocolate muffins and trying to finish her psychology notes while surrounded by six unconscious mercenaries she had “politely discouraged” from kidnapping her.

Danny phased through the ceiling with a pop and immediately tripped over one of the bodies.

“OH MY GOD, JAZZ!”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Danny,” Jazz said absently, underlining a particularly important point about cognitive-behavioral therapy.

“YOU’RE IN A BOOKSTORE FULL OF CORPSES.”

“They’re not corpses, they’re just resting. Violence-induced naps.”

“WHAT—”

“Keep your voice down, you’re disturbing the literature.”

Meanwhile, Nick Fury was in a meeting with the Avengers yelling so loud birds outside fell out of the sky.

“I WANT HER ON PAYROLL,” Fury shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “GET ME FENTON.”

“Already tried,” Maria Hill said wearily. “She hung up and said we needed therapy more than she needed a paycheck.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bruce Banner muttered.

Tony smirked. “I mean, I am kind of curious. What happens if we just… hire her?”

“World peace,” Clint said instantly.

“Or total annihilation,” Natasha said darkly.

“Either way, it’ll be entertaining,” Deadpool chimed in, somehow already sitting in one of the chairs with popcorn.

“WHO LET HIM IN HERE,” Fury bellowed.

In the bookstore, Jazz finally looked up from her notebook to find Deadpool holding out a bouquet of slightly singed daisies.

“For you, my queen,” he said solemnly.

“I will mace you,” Jazz promised.

“Just like Nat used to,” Deadpool said, sniffling again.

Peter Parker dropped down from the ceiling. “Hey, uh, hi, Miss Fenton? I don’t really know what’s happening but I think you’re amazing and could you maybe not kill me?”

“I don’t kill people,” Jazz said, affronted. “I help them confront their inner demons and process their suppressed trauma through intensive violence-based therapy.”

“That’s… oddly comforting,” Peter said.

It all came to a head when Kang, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension, opened a portal above the bookstore and tried to yoink Jazz into the timestream.

He succeeded.

Sort of.

Danny grabbed her ankle mid-yoink. Deadpool grabbed Danny’s ankle. Peter grabbed Deadpool’s ankle. Clint Barton, swinging from a grappling hook, grabbed Peter. Then Thor decided he wanted in and hurled Mjolnir into the pile for good measure. The portal overloaded with a sound like an air fryer exploding in a church.

When the dust cleared, Jazz was standing on top of Kang, holding his own dislocated arm in one hand and a muffin in the other.

“HOW?” Kang wheezed.

“You tried to abduct a woman during her muffin break,” Jazz said sweetly. “Actions have consequences.”

Thor roared with laughter. “TRULY A MAIDEN OF WORTH!”

Fury appeared, looking absolutely done with existence. “You’re hired.”

“I don’t want a job.”

“Too bad. You’re in.”

“Can I negotiate for dental?”

“You already have dental.”

“…Sold.”

And that’s how Jazz Fenton, licensed therapist, ghost expert, and once-proud civilian, accidentally became a Black Widow. She wasn’t trained. She wasn’t programmed. She wasn’t brainwashed.

She was just tired.

And honestly? That was worse.

By the time she got back to Amity Park, her parents had no idea why Nick Fury was sending them fruit baskets or why Deadpool kept showing up at their front door with mixtapes titled “For My Future Therapist Wife.”

Danny refused to speak to anyone for a week.

Tucker made it worse by posting “Jazz Fenton, New Black Widow” memes online. Sam bought Jazz a leather catsuit “for the aesthetic” and refused to take it back.

And Jazz… Jazz just made another cup of tea, put on a sheet mask, and scheduled herself a very long therapy session.

Because someone in the family had to be sane.

It just wasn’t going to be today.

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x marvel #danny phantom fanfiction #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fandom #crossover #danny phantom fandom #marvel #marvel fandom #marvel fanfic #jazz #jazz fenton #jasmine fenton #natasha romanoff #black widow

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rebeccathenaturalist · 9 months ago

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If you've ever shared "cute" pictures or videos from owl cafes, read this sobering reality check.

92 cafes across Japan hold over 1900 owls captive, simply for entertainment. This includes two species considered Near Threatened (Barred Eagle-owl Bubo sumatranus and Chaco Owl Strix chacoensis) and one Vulnerable species (Snowy Owl Bubo scandiacus). Moreover, there is a lack of transparency as to the origins of many of these owls, which may not all have been captive-bred. Species may have been mislabeled during import, and not all have paperwork showing they were legally imported, meaning there is a very good chance owl cafes feed into the illicit, non-sustainable wildlife trade.

What the article doesn't cover is how stressful these settings are for owls. They're bright, noisy, and confined, and the owls are exploited by the owners who allow untrained strangers to hold and pet them without consideration of the owl's well-being. The "break areas" where the owls can get away from direct contact are still within sight of patrons, meaning they are still subject to human contact.

Owls are not chickens. They are not domesticated birds that have spent thousands of years and thousands of generations in human company, being selectively bred for human-friendly, docile traits. Even a tame owl is still a wild animal with intact instincts that tell it it should be living a largely solitary life in a wide, open field or forest, not stuck in a small space with many other owls of assorted species and a bunch of people.

This also isn't a situation like falconry, where captive birds are given plenty of private space, and flown daily for physical and mental fitness. And a single cage may have dozens of owls, more than what limited staff can handle. Even if some of the birds are supposedly "rescues" (as at least one cafe's website claims), any reputable wildlife rescue is going to limit the contact between the animals and humans, and absolutely is not going to allow visitors to regularly take pictures with and handle the wildlife--even socialized, trained ambassador animals have very stringent limitations on direct contact.

So it's not at all unsurprising that an already highly unethical industry is likely contributing to the problem of questionable or illegal wildlife trade. This study is just one more piece of evidence suggesting that these cafes are anything but harmless, cute fun.

#owl cafe #owl cafes #owls #birds #birdblr #wildlife #wild animals #animal welfare #animal cruelty #wildlife trafficking #Japan #nature #animals #ecology #conservation #endangered species #wildlife rescue #wildlife rehab #not actually cute

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luvrodite · 9 months ago

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ᯓ★ ONE. OCTOBER 1 | FUCK OR DIE

GOT ME CALLING OUT FOR HELP (S-O-S) [3.8k]

in retrospect, it was only a matter of time before you got hit. you should consider yourself lucky — there are worse fates than being fucked like your life depends on it (it’s gotham. of course it does) or: you get hit and jason deals with the fallout

content warnings. f!reader, dubious consent due to intoxication, chemical aphrodisiac, established relationship, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, begging, unprotected sex, creampie, prevention of pulling out.

ⓘ minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked!

<< kinktober masterlist | week 2 >>

It goes like this:

On a monday evening, Pamela fucking Isley decides to take her quarrel with Gotham's newest weapons company – God, could they fucking give it a break? B had only busted the last one a few weeks ago before they'd brought the city down on everyone – to new heights.

Jason's sitting in traffic with a bag of groceries slung around the handle of his bike when he gets the call. He's eager to beat you home, ready to make you dinner and heavily intent on wining and dining you after a long weekend of missing each other.

His fingers tap against his thighs impatiently, impatience sitting beneath his skin like an itch. Spikes of activity during the week had meant his plans for Friday night – dinner and a deserved night off – had been pushed to the backburner. He'd returned home in the early stillness of dawn, unable to get more than a couple of hours with you before your phone had rung, a friend's emergency pulling you out of bed with an apologetic grimace and a promise to reschedule your date night.

The headset in his ear notifies him of an incoming call, the syllables of your name dulled by the clinical, robotic voice of his phone's intelligence system. His mouth curves up into a smile beneath his helmet.

"Hi, baby," he answers immediately. "I'm on my way home, you need anything? I just left the store but I can go back–"

You cut him off in a tight voice. Later, he'll be ashamed that the first thing that comes to mind is, not another fucking postponement. Now, his brows furrow at your tone, stomach dipping uncertainly when it becomes clear that this is something more serious.

Your voice wobbles, high-pitched and tearful. At the same time, the dash on his bike begins to flash in rapid succession, the paging system he'd installed for the bats to communicate with him glaring back at him, blood red.

ORACLE: CHEMICAL LEAK DOWNTOWN. BATS + R.ROBIN EN ROUTE. ALL UNITS STANDBY.

His dread plummets and for a moment his throat closes over. You're speaking to him but he struggles to make it out through the ringing in his ears.

"Jason, I'm – I'm home but I don't – I don't know what to do."

He bites back a curse and tries to swallow the lump in his throat, grappling for words of comfort.

"It's okay," he soothes, straining to keep his voice level. "Listen, sweetheart, can you go lock the door for me? I'm – shit – I'll be home soon, alright? It'll be okay. We'll fix it."

He doesn't give himself time to linger on the call after you confirm you've locked it, barking out a command to dial Oracle that his system fails to pick up twice, only registering after he steadies himself.

She picks up on the third ring. It irritates him how unfazed she sounds when he explains the situation to her. He hears the click of her keyboard in the background, the hum of her monitors. Each passing second as she patches through to Nightwing is agony and the slow crawl of traffic does little to help.

His leg has begun to jostle the bike with the weight of its shaking when she returns to their call.

"You're not going to like this," she says and he feels the bile rising in his throat.

"What." He grits it out through his teeth, unable to manage much more than that. He hears Oracle sigh.

"Looks like an aphrodisiac," she says clinically. "Her plan was to get them caught compromised enough to lose credit publicly."

"Oracle." She hears his growl for what it is – Tell me whether or not it's over.

"It's non-lethal," she affirms and he sighs harshly. The tightness in his chest loosens ever so slightly as she talks. "Ivy let it off near city hall because most of the shareholders were scheduled to hold a meeting – that's where your girl works, right? Alf's working on an antidote but she should be relatively fine until it's ready. Just – keep an eye on her."

Tim joins the line then and Jason startles at the sound of his voice in his ear.

"I don't know what the fuck she wanted to achieve," the boy grumbles. He's a little out of breath and in any other situation, Jason would have something to say about that. Tonight, he's not in the mood for jokes.

"Red," he barks out. The kid makes a distracted noise, and he can hear the sounds of a scuffle on the other end. "You tell Ivy if anything happens to my girl, I'll make sure she's next."

He doesn't wait to hear what's sure to be a non-committal answer at best, kicking off and veering between the lined up vehicles. There's an outroar from the drivers around him, laying on their car horns. Someone pokes their head out of their window to scream at him.

He hears none of it, the blood rushing in his ears keeping him single-minded.

This string that twines him to you isn't new. It wears signs of age, shows the years in the way his fingers reach for yours in the early moments of his day, the turn of your eyes to his in any room. He's seen a few summers with you at his side but the fear –

Blood, coagulating, the cold brush of death, splintered wood beneath nails and a haunting smile

– the fear never stagnates.

A bitter, resigned shard of him breathes out as he speeds through the streets. A veritable sword over his crown, this almost seems expected. Loathing colours the skyline and he, the fool, to think he could hold this one, precious, beloved thing unscathed.

He forgoes the groceries in his haste, leaving the bags in his haste to throw himself up the stairs and out of the parking garage. Pulse thundering in his ears, sweat coating his palms, he scrabbles with the key to your shared apartment.

The door flies open and a hand is grabbing him by the front of his shirt before he can slot it through the lock.

You, wild-eyed and frantic, pull him inside with a bitten off sob.

"Shh, shh, I'm here, come here."

He kicks the door shut, reaching behind him to flip the locks with one hand. The other curls you protectively to his chest, fingers splaying over your back. The sight of you calms him considerably and he chokes out a stuttered breath, the lump in his throat dissolving to give way for a flood of relief.

You're burning in his arms, the thin undershirt you've got on soaked through with sweat, face glowing with perspiration. Eyebrows knitted, you cling to him tighter and he finds himself making noises of comfort.

"Jason, I –"

"Shh. I know, honey, I know," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes are tearful, salt spilling over lashes and rolling down your cheeks. "Come on, let's get you to lie down."

"No," you whine, pitching miserably as he shuffles the both of you towards your bedroom, face creasing with every movement. "Hurts."

"I know," he whispers, hating the way his voice cracks. His eyes burn painfully. "'ll get you a towel, alright?"

You're deposited on the bed and he makes a turn for the bathroom, wetting a cloth. When he enters the bedroom again you've pushed yourself up, kneeling on the bed. You've shed the pants you'd worn earlier, left now in only and undershirt and your underwear. His name falls from your lips pitifully and he steps forward, lips turning down into a commiserating frown.

You shy away from the cloth when he presses it against your forehead, letting out a hiss as it makes contact with your burning skin. He brings a hand to the nape of your neck and you seem to like that much better, sighing under his touch. Jason takes advantage of this to keep you in place, mopping the sweat off your face and neck, trying his best not to give into your dissatisfied squirming.

"I know, I'm an asshole," he mutters, when you cry out his name, displeasure making itself clear on your face. "Get better so you can yell at me for it, alright?"

"Don't wanna – yell at you," you mumble, wetting your lips as they part.

He clocks the dilation of your pupils a little too late and shakes his head adamantly, trying to draw back but you've got a hold of his shirt, pulling him forward. He catches himself with a hand agains the headboard, a knee pressing into the mattress beneath him.

You stare up at him, mouth turning down into a pained grimace.

"C'mon honey," he mutters, pleading, feeling his face flood with warmth. "Don't do this to me. Be good, you'll be alright, okay? Any minute they're gonna call and tell me Alf's got an antidote ready – shit, maybe we should just drive you there now -"

"No," you sob, face crumpling under the weight of your tears again, pushing up on your knees to fling your arms around his shoulders. The effort of the movement makes you stutter out a gasp and he's forced to band an arm around your waist to steady the both of you.

Your tears wet the skin of his neck, your body pressed flush against his. He becomes aware, regrettably, of the skin beneath his fingers, your undershirt having ridden up to expose the softness of your lower back.

"Please," you hiccup into his shoulder. "Please, Jason – Please."

He'll have to ask Oracle later if second-hand exposure to the toxin is supposed to have an effect on him. At the touch of your chest to his, he feels himself warm all over, mouth drying when you begin to keen, arching up into his touch in an effort to get him to do something.

"Fuck," he curses. "Fuck. Alright, just – come here."

He kicks his shoes off, the sneakers clattering against the floor, and crawls onto the bed properly. Sat up against the headboard, he meets your baleful gaze with a raised brow and reaches for you.

Jason shakes his head when you go to straddle his lap, maneuvering you against his chest until your back rests against it. You let out a whimper, displeased, but he shakes his head.

"This is all you're getting, alright? Just – it'll tide you over until they call."

He spreads your legs until they hang over his own, your thighs bracketing his and leaving you open. His blood thunders in his ears, hand trembling as he reaches it up to your mouth, fingers prodding at the soft plush of your lips.

Your tongue laves at his digits, a muffled moan trapped in the recesses of your throat. One of your hands curls around his wrist, the other perching against his thigh, nails curling against the fabric of his jeans. He can feel you shift against him, hips canting ever so slightly over his own.

Awful, wretched, lecherous, he stiffens under the movement, jeans tightening. His free hand wraps around you hip with the intent of pinning you in place and stopping you. Somehow, he finds himself guiding you back and forth instead.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, baring the soft line of your throat as you drool around his fingers. He can feel the wetness pooling around his knuckles, the softness of your ass against him, separated only by a few layers. If he cranes his neck, he'll probably find your panties sticky with your need. The thought alone makes his eyes flutter.

The room is blanketed in muffled whimpers, the whispers of rustling sheets and his shaky breaths. You've quietened down some since he'd gotten his fingers in your mouth, but the heat seems to have returned with a vengeance when you begin to fuss in his lap again. Your fingers dig into his thigh and you whine, tugging at his wrist in an effort to push his hand where you need it most.

He hushes you with a squeeze to your hip and tips your face to meet his. Bleary eyed, silvery tracks smattered across your cheeks, you're struggling to hold on. He lowers his mouth to yours, a chaste kiss that deepens when you part your lips to lick into his mouth.

"Jason, come on."

"No, don't take it off," he whispers when your hands make to tug your underwear off. You whine and he hushes you again, "Shh, I'm going to take care of you, be patient for me, alright?"

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and watches you shudder at the first swipe. Similarly affected, he feels himself twitch when his fingers make contact with the soft slickness of your flesh, gliding against silken folds.

"Oh," you sigh, sagging slightly into him.

"There you go." He presses a kiss to your sweaty temple, trying to pretend this is just another night together and he's being a loving boyfriend, that you're not delirious with want just because of the toxin running through your bloodstream. "That's my girl."

He presses gentle circles against you, closing his eyes and ghosting his mouth over the curve of your shoulder. The smell of sex is thick in the air, that heady musk and sweat that he could drown in. Your breaths come in pants now as he works you open gently, thumb rolling over your centre.

"Just like that," he rumbles, straining to keep his head on straight. It's difficult, when you arch against him, his name spilling from your lips in adoration coloured mewls. Your arm raises, curling behind you to embrace his neck.

It doesn't take you very long to come, pent up and sensitive – he discovers this when his hand grazes over your chest to stroke your face and you keen so loud he fears he'll come in his pants at the sound, your mouth, bitten raw, dropping open as you moan. A few strokes against your centre and you come apart in his arms, hard. The tremors wrack your body long after the fact, your core pulsing around his fingers.

He, ever the fool, expects this to sate your hunger.

Whatever Ivy's put in her newest concoction is potent. You gather your breath quick enough and it becomes apparent that just the one isn't nearly enough. He's pushed back against the headboard, stunned into silence as you clamber onto his thigh, pawing at him like you can't get close enough.

You struggle with the fabric of his shirt before giving up and any questions he has sputter off into silence when you begin to rock back and forth on him. The denim of his jeans is unforgiving against the thin, sodden material of your underwear, providing a harsh friction that you lose yourself to. He watches, his heart racing, you taking your pleasure for yourself.

It isn't as though you've never done this in front of him – he remembers, blurry, the aftermath of a dinner date that had seen you riding his thigh on the couch, still in your dress.

But this… This feels different.

There's an urgency to this, a franticness running beneath your skin that pushes your hips down harder, more unforgiving. Your face screws up, salt misting your cheeks and neck.

For a moment, Jason almost feels as though he's the one that's been hit. You take on a blurry quality, smudged around the edges like wet paint, wanton, hazy. A gauzy film over his eyes, he blinks, and blinks.

When you come once more, it shatters and he's aware of the stain that's bled into the dark denim on his thigh, a stickiness that's smeared between your thighs. Your panties are ruined and he gulps when he drags his gaze up from between your legs to your face.

Quiet, hungry, you're already staring at him. Your chest heaves with exertion but you remain still otherwise, lips parting in invitation, eyes half-lidded.

"Baby–"

"You said you'd take care of me," you intone beseeching, voice affecting a trembling, delicate quality.

Fuck.

He's never been good at denying you much. Already, he feels the urge to take you into his arms and promise to make it better, but he forces his hand to stay, curling his fingers in the bedsheets.

You crawl forward, until your lips are ghosting over his, eyes swallowing his field of vision until all he can see are the stars in your irises. He feels the

"Jason, please, it still hurts," you whimper quietly, a wounded noise that carves him from the inside out, guilt and shame poisoning his every nerve. He's at war with himself, wanting to ease your pain – he feels responsible for it, in a way – and hesitating similarly. Is this right? Is it okay?

Before he can come up with an answer, you press your mouth to his.

The last of his inhibitions crumbles completely under the plush of your mouth.

He rolls the both of you over, relishing in the gasp you let out, the sight of you splayed against the mattress. He's quick to divest himself of his clothes, tugging his shirt off recklessly, not minding the sound of ripping fabric he vaguely registers hearing. The jeans go next, and his underwear in one, flung to some corner of the bedroom.

Your spit slick mouth curves up into a delighted, drunken smile when he crawls over you, body eclipsing yours with every intent of ravishing you.

Jason holds himself up with one hand, the other reaching to the bedside table and rummaging in the drawer for the box he keeps there. Only, he comes up short and dread dawns over him in a cold wave when he remembers –

He'd used the last of the condoms a few nights ago. It hadn't mattered in the last couple of days, the weekend too busy for the both of you to do much else but curl up next to each other, too exhausted to consider working up a sweat.

"Fuck," he whispers, shaking. "Fuck, baby, there aren't, um…"

Your eyes fill with tears at the unfinished sentence, a hiccuped sob stuttering out of your chest.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he tries to soothe you, a hand smoothing down your face. "I'll just – I'll run to the store, I'll be back before you know it."

"No, please, just–" Watery eyed and upset, you tug him closer as though fearing he'll take off. "I don't care, I don't, I just – I need you, Jason. Please."

He stares at you, heart thundering in his ears. "Fuck you without –"

"Need you now," you whimper, lips tugging down pitifully into a pout that cuts through his chest.

It isn't as though this is his first time fucking you raw –

Tipsy laughter, hushed whispers of it's fine, just once, we'll get the morning after pill.

– but still. This is different, another ballpark entirely.

You stare up at him, desperation in every crease and curve of your face, pleading with him. Too far gone to care, you beg him.

"I'll, um," he rasps out, throat dry, "I'll pull out."

You make some sort of noise that sounds like a vague affirmation, tugging him closer hastily. Poor, pretty girl. His chest aches at the sight of you, needy, looking to him to fix it.

"I'll fix it," he finds himself muttering, lining himself up with your entrance. You've similarly taken to murmuring under your breath, hands carding through his hair, devotion in your every touch.

"Need you so bad, please, please, baby."

The slick that smears against his head, the soft warmth of you, nearly makes his eyes roll back into his head. A drawn out whimper spills from your lips at the press of his hips, the first inches of him pushing into your tight heat.

You sink into the mattress as he notches himself further inside, mouth opening. You paint an obscene picture, your lips bitten raw, naked chest arched. He lowers his head to mouth at your nipples, teeth teasing at the sensitive points. You're warm, so warm beneath him – around him.

He's given only a moment to breathe before you push your hips up, impatient. Fucking yourself against him, your fingers dig into the muscle of his back for leverage, tucking him close enough to you that he brushes against your neck and tastes the salt on your skin.

Jason sets a harried pace, bucking forward against you. You begin to cry out again, every resounding slap of his skin against yours drawing out a moan that curls tight around him and presses down on his stomach. You exchange panted breaths between open mouthed kisses, tongues and teeth clashing messily, muffled pleas that beg for more, more, more.

Filthy, debauched, it doesn't take very long for you to approach your peak. Jason, lost in the wetness of your cunt, feels his own building and knows this is a dangerous game he's playing, toeing the line of recklessness.

"Close," he pants, feeling the tell-tale fluttering of you around him, your orgasm imminent. If he can just hold out until he's gotten you there –

Your legs wrap around him, hold so tight he's not able to do much more than rock against you in desperate, quick rolls of his hips.

"Inside," you warble. Your hands come to cradle his head, coaxing him down to kiss you, licking up into his mouth sweetly, teeth catching on his bottom lip. "Mmh, please, baby? Please? I – Jason – want it so bad, need you inside."

"Oh fuck," he gasps, voice hitching, breath stuttering. His face creases, overcome, and you grin, dazed, drunken, pulling him into another sloppy kiss. What's he to do?

You scream into his mouth at the same time that Jason comes. His vision whitens at the sensation of your pulsing heat, the unforgiving tightening that demands his orgasm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips, burying himself to the hilt and surrendering to your claim.

Warm and wet around him, the evidence of his debauchery coats the inside of your thighs and clings to the base of him. He's light-headed, a little winded, and it takes him a moment to gather his sensibilities. When he looks down, he finds you a boneless puddle beneath him, eyelids fluttering tiredly.

He should pull out. He knows he ought to – but he's broken so many rules, what's another? Jason gathers you in his arms and rolls over gently, tucking you against his chest, a hand skimming up and down the length of your spine comfortingly.

"Fuck," he whispers out into the air, and you murmur atop him. He glances down, meeting your bleary eyes. "Y'just had to go and get caught in that crossfire, huh?"

"N'my fault," you grumble, pressing your face back into his chest.

"Gonna give me a heart attack," he grumbles, dropping a kiss to your crown. Then, with a look over at the bedside table, he jostles you a bit. "Hey. Don't fall asleep. We still have to get you the antidote."

"Wake me when 's ready," is your answer, tone somehow managing a prissiness unexpected of someone who'd just been fucked to within an inch of their life, and he drops his head back into the pillows, incredulous.

This girl would be the death of him.

first kinktober 2024 fic let's go!! i genuinely didn't think i was going to be able to commit to kinktober this year (i'm still nervous about whether i'll be able to) because finals are literally just around the corner and i'm stressing. but hopefully you enjoyed the first installment to this year's kinktober and the coming ones don't disappoint, either!

#jasonsmirrorball #jay my heart #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd smut #x reader #x fem!reader #x female reader #jason todd fanfiction #kinktober 2024

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actuallyberriesarebananas · 1 month ago

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Just My Type

Anime/Manga: Blue Lock by Muneyuki Kaneshiro

Itoshi Rin x GN!Reader (they/them)

Word Count: 2k+399

Summary: During an approaching winter in Shibuya, the Blue Lock boys went to fetch Nagi at the arcade to enjoy their week deserved break. However, they have stumbled to see BL's manager waiting in the cold and these teenage boys had come up with some interesting theories on your type of lover.

A/N: Reader is referred as manager here. It felt odd seeing Y/N xD I can't take it seriously after the whole AOT Y/N thing.

Also, I'm not a Rin fan but I like his character and thought the plot idea suits him hehe

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Isagi thought the day at Shibuya would go by smoothly, in contrast with the incoming traffic flowing beside their walking lane.

What he didn't expect though is having a rowdy group of boys (himself included) hiding concernigly and inconspicuously behind almost transparent bushes and two tall vending machines which unfortunately didn't conceal much since Bachira and Otoya kept unintentionally nudging their heads against each other to peek at the victim who had caused this predicament.

The others did not offer much help at the situation either when Isagi dejected at the side, seeing the tallest members of the group hiding behind small bushes. "Forgive us" he muttered your name in pity.

It did not feel right to be hiding like this from Blue Lock's resident assistant manager, who is by the looks of it enjoying their time off work considering the slight smile etched on their tired face.

Heavy eye-bags evident that must be—Isagi hypothesize—the results of being assigned to handle 300 lively, troubling, and passionate strikers. As intense as he is when it comes to soccer, he commends their manager for their unwavering dedication.

"I thought we were picking up Nagi?" Isagi questioned to no one in particular as originally they were supposed to pick up their friend at an arcade.

Otoya gave a quick glance at Isagi and back at their target, "No can do! We must unravel this mystery."

"What mystery?" Isagi dropped a cold sweat.

"The person our manager is waiting for." A hand rested on his shoulder and red hair swayed softly as Chigiri's face came to Isagi's view that drew closer over his shoulder now, seemingly trying to get a better view.

"Wa-wait- you don't mean?" Isagi hitched a quick breath at the revelation.

Now everything clicked. The small and rare smiles he'd see back at Blue Lock as you tapped your phone. Sudden gifts like chocolates, flowers, and other trinkets that had now became questioningly downright romantic he'd see you hold around the base. A freshly prepared warm meal of ochazuke within your hands, a dish not commonly seen inside quarters.

When Isagi and Bachira approached you to ask about it, you simply dismissed it with a proud smirk "It's for a silly guy who overworked to sickness." You walked away after. Isagi dumbfounded at the shocking news of possible favoritism inside this establishment, and who—since the beginning—claimed to treat everyone fairly whether in the good or bad way.

Isagi wondered if Ego is even aware of this and already readied a number of complaints to be—not that he will—filed against his unfair daily natto treatment. Bachira's words came off from deaf ears as he said something of sort praying for—a name, Isagi didn't catch—full recovery.

Coming back from memory lane, his eyes landed back at you. Standing in front of a bus stop, and from his guess before you weren't finding a ride instead your behavior appeared to be waiting for someone.

Your lips pressed. A jittered hand fixing your hair from time to time even though it looked fine the way it was a second ago. A paper bag tightly held between you fingers and palm, your nails digging in to exude the cold from this upcoming winter weather.

Whoever is making you wait, Isagi assured in his mind with no offense, is kind of a douche for leaving you waiting during a time of low temp.

But it might not be a big problem for you when you still have that adoring grin that even seemed to twinkle at the wait partnered with a soft blush. Isagi is not sure if it was from the cold or a person in your mind.

Reo hummed with keen interest with the bush people "It's hasty to assume a lover." He rubbed his chin in contemplation "What if it's a friend?"

Karasu gave an abrupt laugh "Oh please, you are the last person I'd ask input about lovers and friends."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Reo incredulously looked at the crouched boy with full unidentified offense, but a gentle pat on his back from Yukimiya stopped his troubles who only exchanged a smile.

Tokimitsu at his other side added nervously, "Y-you'll get it soon, I'm s-sure."

"What-"

Yukimiya intercepted, "I truly wonder what he's like."

"Someone of superb glam if they had captured the heart of our oh so reserved manager!" Aryu theatrically posed.

"Someone shy and quiet like them?" Isagi contributed.

Reo interjected in front of Isagi, "No, no! Same attributes don't go well. It's gotta be an opposites attract thing." Isagi drooped down at his rejected assumption. Guess his puzzle piece didn't fit right.

"Of course you're into the opposites attract shit." Karasu rolled his eyes in mock, then smirked.

"I don't know what you are trying to insinuate here, but if you keep that up I'll—"

"I heard from others back at Blue Lock that manager likes short guys. Take it with a grain of salt though." Yukimiya added to Reo's claim which the violet head huffed at the support.

Reo glanced complacent at Karasu who replied in an expression of disagreeance.

"Oooh, I do see them chatting with Kurona often." Bachira tapped a finger on his chin, but a smirk crossed his face, "But actually, I know full well of their height preference. Manager is a tall guy enjoyer!" The dual haired boy exclaimed proudly with his finger raised up in confidence.

Isagi jumped at the sudden raise of volume, he bended a bit near Bachira to whisper "Bachira! Tone it down, they'll hear us." He sighed at his usual energetic friend, "What makes you sure of that anyway?"

"Huh? I told you before Isagi! Manager likes—" a smooth hand interrupted Bachira.

"Well, I think he has good personality. I asked manager about it one time and they said, they admire a guy who's patient and understanding through the highs and lows in a relationship." Chigiri gave a lopsided smile with his answer backed up from the original source. Bachira mumbled against his palm to retaliate.

Tokimitsu slumped his shoulders at this, "How did you get that info out of them?"

This instance made everyone turn their heads toward Blue Lock's princess, his hand on his hip standing as proudly as he would feel kicking a skilled goal, "With the power of hair products."

Aryu stretched out his long skinny fingers, "So manager is interested in the opposites attract trope, has a preference for someone taller than them, prefers open-communication, and patience in a lover." He pushed his index finger on his opposite as he finished enumerating all their jumbled guesses into one, "Good taste, I say."

"Oops, you caught me guys. My bad." Otoya huffed out a smug, patting his chest with both hands as if he won something, "Sorry for not letting you guys know sooner. Bae, wanted to keep it on the down low—"

Otoya shrieked when an unexpected fist hit his head "And did I forget they also said they value loyalty!" Chigiri tsked.

As hushed commotion started to incur, Isagi heard a heightened squeak of wheels. He averted his eyes towards the bus stop and his body came to a stop catching their manager's eyes widened in anticipation. Their body straightened and their hold on the bag gripped harder. Their face blooming with longing and oh no this only meant...

"Sshhh! Quiet." Isagi whispered but loud enough for everyone to hear. "He's coming."

Hearing this, the ensemble of strikers scrambled back behind their cover. Swears and complaints muttered at each other, trying to squeeze in as much invisibility they can create. Emphasize on can.

The coverage proved to be pointless anyway, when everyone poked their heads a little to observe the awaited scene. Their hearts beated expectantly. Their breaths moved in and out readying theirselves. Just who is the man that had caught a captivating grasp around the reverent heart of their reliable and caring manager. What allure did he have for you to fall deep on the flowerbed of blossoming passion of pure gentle admiration that is too complex to explain with only those words they call—love.

With beated silence, the man in mystery had came out. They assume to be the man in mystery when he stepped out of the bus and your face turned bright and jumped slightly towards him. You carefully touched his arm and your lips moved to greet.

Isagi discerned the moment in front of him quickly, similar to how he would in a match. Black slacks. Matching black leather jacket which shined from the enveloping glow of the setting sun. The guy's posture showed strong resolve that towered the other passengers exiting the bus. Striped turtle neck of white and cyan that he concluded to be quite tacky if not for the jacket. As his gaze landed to identify his identity, his eyes opened widely like saucers.

Thick bottom lashes.

Teal eyes. The same color that would pierce his soul everytime.

Dark cyan hair.

That indifferent expression.

No fucking way.

How could someone who looks so sweet end up with someone so, so—

BITTER.

Wait no, not bitter. Because the face he had now was not familiar at all.

Itoshi Rin. The Itoshi Rin is—smiling.

To what counts as a smile from him anyway. His lips was still in a thin line with only a few centimeters curved upwards. If you really paid close attention, and Isagi means close attention, it looks kinda like a smile.

In honor of Karasu, he provided the ice breaker "I'm seeing what I'm seeing right?" His confirmation only made Isagi's observation positive.

"You know. I'm actually not really surprised." Yukimiya still in kneeling position, had his arm on his chest and his other perched up by the elbow. His hand against his chin.

"They suit each other." He further said, while Rin slided a quick cheek rub then moved to push back strands of hair at the side of your head.

Otoya whistled, "Didn't know Mr. Top One had game in and out of the field."

Bachira pumped his fist in the air, "Hell yeah! See? I was right!" then inched beside Reo punching his bicep "Reo! Reo! You owe me five mil'!"

"I didn't bet you shit!"

"Aahh, my prochecy prevailed! They are absolutely the glam couple."

"I th-think they look great!"

"Hmm, not bad." Chigiri hummed your name seeming content with the reveal (Isagi corrects reveal to eavesdropping, but Chigiri only swatted him away). "However, seeing that smile unnerves me. I didn't think it'd be possible."

"This makes me feel that if our manager can make Rin smile like that. We can win World Cup." Isagi sighed with a smile of his own and Chigiri laughed as he nudged his shoulder to agree.

"Anything is possible, eh, isn't that right Nagi? Haha, wait—huh? Nagi!?" Chigiri shook his head baffled, a loud scream erupted from him at the sudden appearance causing another man crouching in front of him to trip on his hand as a bright flash dawned.

The bedhead lad grumbled in between words as he munched on some chips "Reo texted y'all were picking me up." He hung his head low as if standing was already taxing work, "It's been an hour. I got worried."

"Um, guys..." Otoya sweatdropped his phone in hand while looking dead straight in front of him.

All the boys changed their view back at the whole reason of why they were hiding behind dirty bushes and supposed discreet vending machines.

Their manager only sighed exasperatingly which funnily enough, sounded like a laugh. They patted Rin's arm to soothe the other. Unfortunately, it wasn't helping.

A cold, deep, dead stare returned at them. The embodiment of if looks can kill.

"Who took that?"

And if actions can kill then the stance Rin was giving obviously indicated that they should probably run now. (Hiding is definitely out of the options, Isagi accepted.)

A rush of wind breezed beside Isagi as Otoya leaped away first, phone clutched like it's pearls. "Ninja escape!"

"Otoya, you traitor!" Karasu screamed in betrayal, but hypocritically followed.

On instinct, Isagi grabbed a hold of Bachira and Chigiri. Determined to make a run for it. The latter two got the message, grinned, and started sprinting ahead.

"Congrats! Rin-chan!" Bachira yelled back with a wave.

"Goodness." Yukimiya could only exhale at the expected as he ran after.

Aryu jumped twirling and finger guns at the two while slowly anchoring his speed, leaving not before saying "Glam, glam!"

Tokimitsu already screeched ten steps in front of him.

As a newcomer, Nagi was about to comment to Rin and their manager when his weight shifted quickly. His steps began to walk. Reo holding him tight.

"Nagi, let's go! We can't lose to them!" Reo started to sprint pointing at their other friends way far ahead.

This unexpected hold as familiar as it can be, he never thought he'd experience it again after everything. "Okay. I'll follow you, Reo." Nagi ran.

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Additional Time!

A ping ringed in your phone. Your eyes opened out of dreamland as the sound erupted you from your thoughts.

You opened the popped out message, a glint forming in your eyes. Clicking the surface you read,

—Are you there?

You body trembled from the current cold of winter breeze as if confirming, nonetheless you closed your body for warmth in order to type.

—Yeah, I'm waiting

A notification sound rose up.

—Sorry, house got busy.

You were about to type out another reply when,

—Sae just left.

Your movements paused for a second. At the mention of his brother, you didn't know what to say that might not trigger him. You instead thought to change the course.

—I understand and stay safe : )

—Ok. You too.

—But get here soon though!

You directed your eyes to the side. Only your peripheral vision needed to see what you thought before was the cold getting to you. You sillily reminded yourself that bushes can't move on its own and vending machines don't grow heads. You grinned and chuckled.

—I think our soccer team is stalking me.

A minute passed after you sent it. You were expecting a reaction, so you shrugged it off thinking he turned off his phone for the meantime. A buzzed vibrated on your fingers.

—I'll be there in a minute.

You heaved out a quiet laugh.

His house is ten minutes from here though.

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dedeinthewild · 1 month ago

Text

lando norris x reader, early stages

-“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,”

summary : he bought the tickets "for her." she wore his shirt. tate sang sports car. he knew all the words. but no, he definitely doesn’t stream her on spotify.

As soon as they got in the car, she had connected her phone and, while Lando drove toward the arena, she sang along to every song on her playlist, wearing that rugby shirt she’d stolen from him and flashing the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

Even if he would never admit it, the idea of going to that concert had been his. After talking to other drivers and some friends, he found out about the tour of the singer she always talked about—and he hadn’t hesitated to go back to Monaco, set his laptop on the table, and buy two tickets.

Lando had always pretended—with his usual smug arrogance—that the trending pop music of the moment was way beneath his musical tastes, never missing a chance to remind her of that.

“That’s lame white girl music,” he’d tease her while she slid on her blue light glasses and sat next to him, peeking at everything he was doing on screen.

But deep down, he liked it.

Just like he liked when his team texted him after the release of her new album, so full of imagery about a boy so handsome he was almost dangerous, driving a sports car that seemed just a little too much like him.

Then would come a cheeky comment, a few lyrics whistled intentionally in the paddock, but he’d never really considered going to one of her concerts—mostly to avoid worsening his groupie situation. They’d probably sell their souls to see him in the crowd at something like that.

But she had been enough.

She had chosen to wear one of the old merch t-shirts she found in his apartment in Monaco and had left all the decisions to him, barely hiding her excitement at the idea of flashing those tickets at the entrance of The O2 Arena.

“Tate McRae,” he let the singer’s name roll off his lips as they queued for the parking spot he’d reserved, his right hand on the lower part of the steering wheel, elbow resting out the window, soaking in the early summer breeze of London.

“Yes,” she replied, unable to hold back a smile as she looked out at the arena, nervously running a hand through her soft, fragrant hair.

“Maybe I should’ve brought tissues,” he said, giving her one of his signature infuriating smirks, while the car engine rumbled in idle, waiting to finally be parked.

“No,” she shot back, “but you should’ve brought a mirror.” Teasing him, knowing full well how he secretly loved those songs like they’d been written just for him—in every lyric and chorus, like they were soaked in the same scent he sprayed on himself just to watch her wrinkle her nose.

“What?” he feigned innocence, following the car ahead.

She shook her head playfully, already feeling the adrenaline of what she knew would be a special night—the kind of thrill that comes from seeing the artist you listen to every morning in the car, every afternoon walk, every evening while cooking.

Lando was good at pretending he didn’t care, like he’d done all this just to make her happy. As if he didn’t know their photos would be all over the internet in two hours, and a night that felt like a dream for them would become one for thousands of fans too.

Once inside, they realized how massive the arena was—it had even hosted the F1 pre-season gala earlier that year, where he’d been one of twenty stars, standing on the very stage where Tate would soon perform. The standing area was already packed, while some sections of seats were still waiting for people to arrive, stuck in London’s nightly traffic.

Thanks to one of his contacts, Lando had bought some of the priciest tickets, in a separate section that gave them the thrill of the crowd but with seats and a near front-row view—just as Charles had suggested after attending another popstar’s tour.

“Still time to leave,” he whispered in her ear, standing behind her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he’d chosen, his shoulders straight in a black shirt that clung to his torso in a way that could easily be considered illegal.

“Still time to admit you secretly stream her on your Spotify,” she grinned, turning to him, catching the way he couldn’t wipe off that teasing little smirk he reserved for when he was winding her up—or realizing how easily he could charm whoever stood in front of him.

“Only ‘cause you made me a playlist,” he shot back, thinking of the long summer drives in his Audi, aimless, with the playlist he made almost blowing the speakers.

“Because I knew you’d relate.”

“To what? Being emotionally damaged and hot?” he laughed, adjusting the mullet he’d grown back after months of clean fades—on her gentle request, the same girl who had dragged him to the place where everyone wanted him to be.

“Exactly,” she said, grinning, as the tech crew finished setting the stage. The lighting matched the album colors—orange and soft neon—which lit up her face as she wore that same color.

He was curious, cautious, already tapping a rhythm on his thigh.

It was one of those moments girls dream about—sending outfit pics to friends, burning every second of a moment into memory instead of a phone video. Some were already sitting, phones in hand, while others kept their hands on their girlfriends’ shoulders, softly singing along to the pre-show songs. And some—like Lando—just stole the scene.

But that was the last thing he wanted. Because even if he loved attention, tonight was for her—even if he wouldn’t admit it. She had told him many times she’d never been to a concert before, or that she’d missed out on tickets. So this one—it was her concert.

“She’s not even out yet—”

The entire arena erupted into a scream that made her wrinkle her nose, tilting her head slightly toward Lando, who had rested his chin on her shoulder, scanning the crowd—spotting a few actors and footballers, but not caring much.

“That’s the point,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Pre-scream.”

“You dragged me here for this?” he complained, grinning wider than she’d ever seen.

“You’re going to love it,” she laughed, shooting him a sideways glance, “even if it’s just lame white girl music.”

As the lights dimmed, he stood straight, his arm brushing hers as they looked at the wave of teens and girls with glittered cheeks and hairdos that had clearly taken hours.

It was hot, but the frenzy felt like cold air breathing down their necks, a thrill buzzing with anticipation.

Tate’s first songs rang out, met with the crowd’s loud approval. Lando vibed to the bass, hands in pockets, his wristband contrasting against his tan forearm, opposite his Richard Mille watch. He watched her sing every word, wearing his shirt tucked into her pants, with that wide smile showing she was having the time of her life—likely something she’d talk about for months.

And it made him smile too. Until the tension crept in—the weight of their undefined situation.

They’d been “something” for months now—joking like old friends, then flirting with an undertone they never named. Their “friendly” outings had him wearing his nicest shirts and asking for as many paddock passes as possible just to have her travel with him.

When Sports Car came on, his chest was lightly pressed against her back, hands high enough to graze her waist but not touch, his eyes fixed on the stage from above, savoring every word sung by the crowd.

It was his song now. Everyone said so.

"I think you know what this is I think you wanna uh No, you ain't got no Mrs. Oh, but you got a sports car"

He smiled—that smug, charming grin that somehow never made him unlikeable—as he stood there, muscles peeking through his shirt, those piercing green eyes glowing even more under the lights.

As the show went on, she realized the joy of being there was now sharing space with the awareness that she was there with Lando Norris—and with every word Tate sang, he claimed a little more of her space without ever feeling intrusive.

“Oh, don’t start,” he said as the beat dropped, chin slightly lifted.

“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,” she teased, biting her lip to hide a grin full of tension and butterflies. Lando was so close—to her, and no one else. And he never missed a chance to tease her.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. She’s good.”

She turned, savoring those five minutes that marked the last third of the concert—time had flown between lights and confetti.

His chain lay against his collarbones, creating a crease in his shirt that highlighted his chest and arms—always growing stronger from the effort he poured into reaching the top of his career.

He looked down at her, eyes locked, the kind of smile she wanted to steal right off his face. His skin smooth from the shave he remembered to do that morning—when she woke him up with the smell of pancakes.

“Maybe it’s the company,” he added, finally making her melt.

"I just want your two hands on me at all times, baby If you let go (I want your two hands) Better put 'em right back, fast Want your two hands on me like my life needs savin' Let 'em all know (I want your two hands) Can you do it like that? Yeah"

Lando had embraced the vibe—singing with her, helping a few girls take pictures with the venue behind them, showing that sweet, kind side of him she adored so much.

He looked fully in his element—hands up, taking photos for people, handing phones back gently, then leaning against the barricades and moving with the beat. Watching her like she wasn’t just some beautiful girl, but his.

“Think you can handle that?” he teased again, quoting the lyrics as she leaned closer, their elbows touching, trading warmth and that faint London humidity that kissed their skin.

“That’s a challenge?” she replied, her usual blush hidden by the pink lights.

Lando looked at his hands, licking his lips.

"Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain Take the pleasure out of my pain Take the way he'd used to say I love you Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed Take away the way I still might want to"

She pulled out her phone and started a new note, jotting down all the songs that caught Lando’s attention the most. He watched her, amused—and in a way, thankful he came with her, doing one of his press-friendly fashion moves and giving her a perfect night.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you a playlist with a horrible title,” she smiled, like the song they’d just heard hadn’t been full of innuendos.

“You’re horrible,” he laughed, taking her hand, still leaning on the barricade.

“And yet you love me.”

Lando paused, looked into her eyes, then slightly down at her lips, still a little damp from singing—but instead of thinking about kissing them, he focused on that happy smile.

“I might,” he said softly. “You make it really hard not to.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. Not when the concert ended, as they took a few photos and joined in chanting for the singer before she left the stage. Not even as people started filing out, chasing a bit of fresh air after the heat of the night.

When she was ready to go and turn the night into a memory, he started walking toward the exit, her smaller hand still in his large driver’s hand—the one she’d always wanted to hold but never dared to, afraid it would ruin things.

Her eyes were locked on him, on how confidently he walked, the black shirt hugging his back and hinting at the return of that mullet that made him look even more stylish than he already was. How he’d turn and glance at her, pointing out small details they’d missed, keeping her close in the gentlest, most genuine way.

He stroked her palm. He knew she was behind him. That everyone knew he was there. That the gorgeous, seemingly unattainable Formula 1 driver—the one everyone said Tate McRae’s songs were about—had come to her concert. And he’d come with a girl.

“You’re kind of the hot boyfriend everyone wants right now,” she said once outside, as he sat on a concrete cylinder, arms resting on his knees with that post-concert calm she’d always dreamed of. Some girls walked past, still singing, snapping their final photos.

“Kind of?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Well, I’m still deciding,” she smirked, as he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, locking eyes with her again.

“Decide now,” he said, wetting his lips. “You dragged me here just to roast me with pop music. And now you’re getting soft on me?”

“You liked the pop music.”

“I loved it.”

“And the lyrics?” she asked, burying her hands in his hair, still stunned that someone so impossibly handsome could be so impossibly hers.

“Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a country concert.”

She rolled her eyes.

Knowing it was just the first of many concerts. And the start of a beautiful, messy, perfect unfolding.

guess whose birthday is it? if your lucky guess was me, then yeah, I'll gift you this little lando x reader 'cause you were right! I have been pondering for days if I should get tickets to tate or not, and the obvious answer is that I should but I've spent way too much lately...

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marvelstoriesepic · 8 months ago

Text

Angstober (day 16)

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky x Shield!Reader

Prompt: No one else to turn to

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, fainting

Author’s note: I'm a little behind with the fics but I'm trying my best! Hope you enjoy :)

Angstober Masterlist

This is ironic, really.

Downright absurd. Laughable.

You’re just not in the position to laugh, or even crack the semblance of a smile. Your face feels stiff, evidently held together by a fragile patchwork of cuts and bruises that might split open at the slightest twitch. Not that you’d want to smile, even if you could.

You had assured Sam that you’d be fine to drive yourself back home after landing back on base about 25 minutes before. There actually had been a genuine belief that you’d be able to make it, so you told him all you needed was a hot shower to wash away all the blood and some rest, ignoring the wary looks of Sam as he watched you drive off.

Well, turns out it was a bad idea.

A terrible idea, considering the door you find yourself standing in front of right now. You don’t even know if he’s home. For all you know, he could be drowning whatever’s left of his sanity in some bar, down some street.

And even if he is here, he has every right to slam this door right back in your face. Perhaps after giving you the I told you so speech.

But in your defense, you really thought this mission would be simple. Sam and you both had thought so. It was supposed to be one of those in-and-out deals. But of course, it’s always those easy missions that turn ugly in a matter of seconds, spiraling into a slaughter that neither of you was ready for.

But hell, you even guessed Bucky saw that coming. Maybe that’s why he was so determined to join you two, but Sam and you declined immediately, insisting on sparing him the confrontation. After all, it was supposed to be a quick cleanup. Hydra remnants scattered like dust, nothing worth dragging Bucky back into that mess for.

So, Sam and you both figured he’d be better off staying behind, working with Torres on whatever else needed doing.

You’re glad you held back the comment about him hindering you on this mission by perhaps a disturbing memory or some shit. That wouldn’t have helped your current situation at all. And you did think it would have been a little harsh. Even for the bickering kind of relationship the two of you have.

Bucky wasn’t having any of that. He was ready to suit up and follow you into the fray, whether you wanted him there or not. Though, Sam and you took off before he could even strap on his gear. Simple, clean.

Predictably, that would definitely leave him in a foul mood. But to be real, grumpy isn’t new for Bucky. Actually, you only ever saw his expression soften when he was lost in thought, so lost he didn’t even notice you watching him. Or perhaps in that moment he really didn’t care.

Still, that irritable look seems to be his default setting. And, to be honest, perhaps he doesn’t even care enough to even be mad. You aren’t friends. Hell, you wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance.

You two are more like tolerated inconveniences for each other, sparse conversations always laced with sarcasm and banter. You doubt he sees you as anything other than a nuisance - someone always getting under his skin with your remarks.

So, you are well aware you really don’t have any business standing in front of his door, blood drying on your skin, looking like death warmed over.

But that’s the problem. You don’t have a choice. Because there is no way you’re making the 20 minutes to your apartment. You also won’t make it back to the base. Not to mention that driving in this state will not only endanger you, but rather the traffic around you. You're already feeling the blackness that tries to seep into your irises, pulling at your consciousness, threatening to drag you under, making you pass out before you’d even hit the halfway mark. And you don’t have anyone to blame but your stubborn self.

Bucky is your only option and you also start running out of time, the longer you linger outside his apartment, scared to knock. Terrified to do anything. You begin to sway on your feet. The longer you hesitate, the harder it gets to stay upright, and passing out on his doorstep for him to find you is perhaps even more embarrassing than this already is.

With trembling muscles, you try to lift your hand. Knocking on a door shouldn’t take this much effort, but it feels like it’s costing you everything. You’re burning energy you don’t have, and it’s starting to show.

Your hesitation seems to have been for nothing since there’s no answer after your knock. The only thing you hear is the blood rushing through your ears and your heartbeat loudly pounding against your ribcage, almost like a warning.

Another knock. It saps what little strength you have left. Your breathing grows heavier, more ragged, each inhale feeling like a sharp stab. There is a tightness in your chest that could be an indication something inside you might have torn, making it impossible to get in enough air.

The apartment behind the door is still silent.

You lean your forehead against the rough wood, the coolness grounding you for a moment. It’s as close to a third knock as you can manage. Your eyes slip closed for just a second too long.

“Barnes?” He surely wouldn’t be able to pick that up without his enhanced hearing. “It’s me.”

You’re not even sure what to say; not sure what you can say that will get him to open the door. But your thoughts are starting to slow, each one taking longer to form than the last. The blood loss is getting to you, causing every joint to feel like it’s rusting over.

“Are you home?” you murmur, a faint laugh caught in your throat at how stupid it sounds.

For a moment you think you hear something, perhaps a faint shuffle from the other side of the door. But your brain is swimming in exhaustion and pain, and it could easily be your mind playing tricks on you, teasing you with false hope. Maybe you didn’t even give him enough time to get to the door. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here - standing might be too strong of a term by now.

Time is slippery in moments like these, hard to grasp, impossible to track.

A heavy and burning sigh falls from your lips, dragging your chest down with it. You push yourself off the door with a struggle that tears at your skin, shaking your head at your own stupidity. You’re not sure if your head even followed through with the movement.

You shouldn’t have believed for a second that he’d be around, or that he’d care if he was.

You attempt to step away, aiming for the staircase, but it seems your body isn’t in the mood to listen to any signal from your brain at all. Your foot catches on itself, and before you know it, you stumble, crashing into the wall beside his door with a loud thud. A pained groan forces its way out of you, the impact shooting excruciating vibrations through your body, curling into every nerve like they’re planning to stay. You press a hand to your side, movements not entirely your own, but it does nothing to soothe the ache.

You curse under your breath, or at least you think you do, eyes fluttering dangerously. You’re not sure how much longer your feet will carry you. Are you even still standing at all?

Muffled curses break through the rushing sound in your ears, blending into the tumultuous pulse of your own blood pounding in your head. They don’t seem to come from you though.

“Fucking hell, Y/n.”

All you can manage in response is another weak groan.

Before you can fully process what’s happening and where that frustrated voice came from, you feel strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly into the air. Insanely enough, a surge of exhilaration bubbles in your belly and you feel weightless for a moment, like you’re floating in some strange void that’s just barely tethering you to reality but still keeping a strong grasp on you.

The sensation is short-lived and you almost let out a whine. Not at all from the pain. You’re lowered onto something softer than you guessed the floor would feel like, cushions beneath your back. You try to wrap your head around how that could have happened.

That weight returns. The hands around you, however, don’t leave you. Your thoughts are sluggish and trying to focus on anything is an effort you’re not able to keep up with. Your vision is a spinning blur, dizzy head trying to make sense of your situation, but you can feel the tender press of the back of a hand on your forehead, checking for something you can’t quite grasp.

Blue. That’s the first thing your mind manages to hang on to. A vivid, piercing shade of blue. But it’s not just color. It’s wrapped up in something deeper. Emotions, swirling and twirling, so heavy it almost hurts to look at. The sight alone drags another groan out of you, low and pained.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. Just hold tight, you hear me? I got you.”

Wait.

You know that voice. Rough around the edges, always carrying a certain weight, but now laced with something you don’t recognize. Those eyes on you - the blue ones - you know those, too. Of course, you do. But there is something new, something like panic flooding them, you never thought you’d see in Bucky Barnes.

“Barnes?” The word barely falls from your lips, more of a croak than anything, but it’s enough. He was home. He heard you. He carried you inside.

There is something stirring inside of you, a warmth threading through the pain. Relief, maybe, or something close to it. You know Bucky and you have your problems sometimes but hell you never doubted him being the good man he is.

“Yes, it’s me,” he murmurs, so soft, you want to lay in it. Bathing in the gentleness of his voice, getting rid of the blood and pain your body holds. “Try not to talk, alright? There are some nasty bruises around your neck. You gotta go easy on your voice.”

You hum in response, the sound barely more than a soft but uncomfortable vibration in your throat. His words slide through your mind like shadows, half-formed and hard to grasp, but you understand enough.

There’s the sound of clattering around you, hurried shuffling of hands working beside you, perhaps on you, somewhere nearby. But instead of jarring you, it’s comforting, like white noise. It lulls you deeper into the fog.

Suddenly, his voice cuts through it all, sharp and urgent.

“Hey!”

It startles you. Your eyes snap open - you didn’t know they closed in the first place - body jerking from the force of his tone.

His face looms closer, those blue eyes boring into yours, pinning you down with an intensity you can’t ignore.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, but you have to keep your eyes open. You hear me?” His voice trembles in a way you never heard, and that - more than anything - forces your mind back to the surface, your eyes clearing just enough to make him out.

It’s disorienting, seeing Bucky like this. Surprising. He moves in a way that almost associates incoordination, a frantic energy surrounding him. There is something off about the way he handles himself, the way his hands fumble with supplies, clattering objects that should have stayed silent. It’s startling, unsettling even. Bucky Barnes is a man in control. Just not right now.

His hands return to your body, his touch firm and still tender, but there is a shakiness in them as his fingers skim over your torn-up skin.

He’s pressing gently where he can, wincing as if it’s him in pain every time you flinch. The fabric of your slightly torn suit sticks to your body, and he curses softly under his breath, grabbing a pair of scissors from somewhere beside him. With a few quick, jagged snips, he cuts away parts of the fabric of your suit to get a better view of your torso, revealing the bruises that litter your skin, darkening it in a sickening way.

He apologizes for every hiss, groan, and whimper you can’t suppress at the sharp sting that slices through the dull ache due to the antiseptic he uses on your skin.

His brow is furrowed deeply as he wipes the blood away with almost erratic strokes, trying to clean the area but moving a little too fast for his usual precision. The cloth is stained dark in no time, and he tosses it aside, reaching for gauze, fumbling with the tape as if he’s forgotten how to use it for a moment.

Every breath feels heavier as he continues to work on your wounds, pain pulsing with every fresh inhale.

Bucky’s eyes keep darting between your face and the wounds as if he’s checking not only for your injuries but for something else - for a sign that you’re still with him, still conscious, still breathing.

His hand moves back to your forehead, brushing some strands of hair aside with so much gentleness as he checks your temperature again. His face is tight, his jaw clenched.

It is odd, almost comforting in a way you haven’t expected. Bucky Barnes, always so composed, now seems to have trouble holding it together. And somehow, seeing him this unfiltered, this human, makes your earlier doubts vanish. Those persistent thoughts, that he wouldn’t care if you showed up on his doorstep battered and bleeding, that he’d turn away, turn you away, or doesn’t even open the door in the first place - they all but disappear.

He does care. More than you ever thought possible, more than you imagined he even knew how to. You can feel it in the way his hands linger on your skin, urgent yet careful, and in the way his curses are filled with so much apprehension and frustration.

The same Bucky you thought might not give a damn is now fighting some battle with himself as if his sheer will could hold you here.

And for some reason, that knowledge eases something inside you, delightfully loosening that knot of tension in your chest. Again, your body starts to feel like it’s floating, somewhere in the air but instead it’s sinking deeper into the cushions beneath you, slowly letting go. It’s not your body that’s floating this time, it’s your mind. As if it decided to detach itself from the pain, from the reality of your wounds and your situation, and simply drifted away. It’s weightless, flying through a space just beyond your reach. It’s almost surreal, like you’re suspended in air but you know, somehow, that you’re still lying on that couch.

And Bucky’s here.

His hands are on you. His voice is in your ears but none of it feels quite real anymore.

You don’t have it in you to fight it anymore. Your body is letting go, surrendering, and you can’t muster the strength to resist.

Bucky’s voice sounds closer, much more than you thought it had been, but it seems distant too. It’s rough, desperate; words coming out with a crack. He’s pleading with you, urging you to stay with him, to keep your eyes open.

But you can’t. You’re slipping. Still, you feel like smiling if your face would have allowed it.

Bucky is here. And although you stopped listening to his words, losing the sense of his presence, you know he will stay.

You’re in good hands.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

#angstober2024 #angstober 2024 #day 16 #marvel mcu #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #tfatws #tfatws!bucky

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fluentmoviequoter · 1 year ago

Text

Devastation

Requested Here by @newobsessionweekly!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: You leave Tim because he takes out his frustration about a long day on you. The next day, everyone in the station can tell you're both miserable. A surprise calls sends Tim into a devastated spiral as he wonders if what he said was worth it.

Warnings: ANGST, arguments, break up, death, mentions of execution, brief fluff at the end bc Tim deserves a break

Word Count: 3.4k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Los Angeles is seeing an intense spike in crime rates.”

“The Los Angeles Police Department has received more calls today than in the last two months combined.”

“A new, temporary emergency line has been announced. In case of emergency and busy 9-1-1 lines, please call…”

“Nearly 5,000 police officers are on the streets of Los Angeles city limits, with more dispatched throughout the county.”

As residents lock themselves into their homes in an attempt to be protected by the crime spike, you respond to call after call with no break in between. Some of the stops you’ve made were false alarms, but you’ve also been shot at, yelled at, and engaged in two fights between those pointless stops. Though overtime was approved, you’re nearing the end of your sixteenth hour in the shop and need a break. Grey called the officers from this morning to return to the station before heading home. You only get eight hours off before you have to come back, but you’ll take what you can get.

Tim’s place is closer to the station, so you plan to go there rather than your home on the other side of the city. The more time you can find to sleep, the better. You’re sure everyone is just as tired and in need of rest, so you would like to do something special for them in the morning. If you can wake up in time, that is.

“Hi,” you greet when Tim opens his door.

He is obviously surprised to see you but invites you in any way. You thank him as you walk toward the couch.

“Can I crash here tonight? It’s closer and I’m exhausted.”

Tim scoffs before he nods. He returns to the kitchen and continues cooking as you set your bag down.

“How was your day?” you ask. “I had endless calls, so I can’t imagine how hectic it was for you.”

“Of course you can’t,” Tim replies without looking up. “Considering you’re just a glorified meter maid.”

Tim is tired and stressed, you remind yourself, but the words still cut through you like the knife in his hand. You were in dangerous situations for most of the day, and though you haven’t been a cop as long as Tim, your job is still important. And you’re good at it.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you ask after a tense moment of silence.

“What I said. I do more than you, but if you’re so exhausted that you can’t even drive home-“

“Tim, that’s-”

Tim finally looks up as he cuts you off to say, “You barely passed your rookie exam, you haven’t made a decent-sized arrest in months, and you think they attached you to any decent calls? This city is ripping at the seams right now and trust me when I say you are chasing garden fluff because no one trusts you to do any more. You’re lucky they were desperate enough to bring you up from writing traffic tickets. We just needed help and you were there.”

Tim’s jaw clenches as he steps toward you, and you try to remember that he is just emotional from a long day. You are, too, but you’re not taking it out on him.

“I don’t want to fight with you about this,” you offer.

“Well, sure. Because it can’t be your fault, right?” Tim asks.

His voice is rising, and only the couch separates you. His eyes are dark, and though you don’t want to give him an excuse to keep going, you refuse to be treated like this.

“Why does everything have to be about who is at fault with you?” you demand. “Are you aware that things just happen sometimes?”

“Not to you, though.”

“If you think my life is so perfect, why do you insist on worrying about me so often? No one asked you to do any of this! You could have just asked me to go home if you were this upset about a bad day.”

“You don’t even know what a bad day is! What did you do today? Respond to all of the scared housewives in gated communities?”

You could tell him the truth, that you were inches away from a bullet intended to kill you, but you think he’d somehow find a way to blame you. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and though you want to stop fighting, you also need to remind Tim that you’re not a rookie he can walk all over you and blame for every little thing that goes wrong in his life.

“If that’s what you think I do, I can’t change your mind,” you reply.

“Well, those of us who actually acted like cops today went through more than you’ve seen in your career. You’re a bad cop, which makes it harder on the rest of us, to carry your weight, but no one admits it after they see your pretty smile,” Tim snaps loudly.

“I’m done, Tim!” you yell.

You’re surprised by the volume of your statement, but it gets Tim to fall silent, if only for a moment.

“With what?” he asks.

“This! I am done coming back to you every day just for you to pick fights over nothing!”

“Oh, so now it’s nothing? You can complain about your day, but I can’t?”

“That’s the difference, Tim! You’re not complaining about a long day to share something and ask for comfort. You’re tearing me apart because you can’t handle your own emotions. I love you, but these fights aren’t worth it.”

“You love me but I’m not worth it,” Tim says with a sarcastic shrug and set jaw.

“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”

“Well maybe I’m just as stupid about emotions and relationships as you are about police work.”

You pick up your bag and pull it onto your shoulder quickly. As you brush past Tim, you murmur, “I’m not doing this anymore.” The door slams behind you as you leave and severs the connection you and Tim had.

After you leave, Tim sits in his anger for a while. He blames you, picks apart everything you said, and misremembers your words to make you seem like the bad guy. Suddenly, though, Tim hears your genuine I love you, but these fights aren’t worth it. He remembers the look in your eyes as he yelled at you. You never wanted to fight; you asked to stop because you just wanted to relax before returning to work. Yet Tim treated you as an emotional punching bag, something he promised himself he would never do.

Tim drops his head into his hands and sighs. He needs to apologize but can’t take back a word he said. You said you weren’t doing it – your relationship, he presumes – anymore, so Tim gives you room. The clock ticks slowly as he thinks about you, but his next shift grows nearer quickly. He texts you an apology, knowing it’s less than the least he can do. You deserve a grand gesture, a middle-of-the-night, in-person apology from the heart. But with an early morning shift, Tim knows you and he both need the break Wade sent you home to take. So, he sends a few simple words before sitting back in his misery.

In your room, you sit alone to wallow. Your phone buzzes, and you read Tim’s apology before you toss your phone to the side. It’s not enough to forgive or forget everything he said, and you can’t return to that environment yet. So, you don’t answer.

You fall asleep at the same time as Tim, though far away from the comfort you craved, with only a few hours before you’ll be forced to see each other again. Maybe another seemingly endless shift will distract you from your sadness.

Walking into the Mid-Wilshire station the morning after your fight with Tim, your injured pride and broken heart go nearly undetected. You attribute this in part to the specialty donuts you brought in; you couldn’t sleep anyway, so you left before your alarm went off to try to make everyone else’s day better than yours. Lucy talks to you in the locker room like it’s just another morning, even though you are heartbroken. Tim, however, is the talk of the station. His visible devastation and misery draw the attention of every officer in the building. When you step out and unintentionally make eye contact with him, the people closest to you can see what you’re hiding a little better.

“I should have seen it before,” Lucy tells Angela. “She was acting a little different, but I thought she was just tired.”

“I’ve never seen Tim like this before. He is miserable,” Angela says. “And he will take it out on you.”

“That’s fine. But… will they be okay?”

Angela shrugs. “I wish I could say yes, Lucy.”

Wade notices you and Tim sitting on opposite sides of the room during roll call, and he’s the last of them to be pulled into your shared misery. Now that you have seen Tim, your misery is just as obvious, and even the people who don’t know you or Tim well can see the difference.

“Nolan,” Wade calls before he instructs John to ride with you for the day. You’re unsure if it’s because of you and Tim or something else you don’t know about. Regardless, it’s because your emotions play a role in your ability to be a good cop… but maybe you were never one of those, to begin with, like Tim said.

At least I won’t have to talk. Nolan can carry the conversation for both of us, you think.

“What’s up with Tim today?” Nolan asks.

“We’re not talking about Officer Bradford,” you reply quickly.

“Okay. Then what’s up with you? The donuts were nice, but I assume you had the time to get them for a reason.”

“Nolan, we’re not having this conversation,” you snap. “We’re cops, not friends.”

“Sounds like I’m with Bradford,” Nolan mumbles.

“You have no idea,” you reply.

Meanwhile, Tim and Lucy are stuck at the station doing paperwork. Today is slower, and there’s a lot to catch up on from the chaos yesterday. Lucy knows better than to pry after spending so much time with Tim, but she can see that something is weighing on him. More than whatever invisible burden he’s carrying, Tim is devastated. She has seen it before, briefly when one of Tim’s former partners passed away, but this is different.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lucy offers.

“No,” Tim replies immediately.

Lucy nods before her phone chimes. It only makes noise when another cop contacts her, and she rushes to read the message.

“Tim, Nolan said he needs us to meet them. He just said they’re trapped and it’s really dangerous,” she relays.

“Let’s go.”

Tim runs through the station to reach his shop, and his mind races with every step. Tim lost you last night, but he refuses to lose you forever. If – when you both get to the other side of this, Tim will give you the apology you deserve, he tells himself. And he will never be in this position again.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Nolan asks over the nearby gunfire.

You’re a bad cop, Tim says in your mind.

“I- I don’t know what to do, Nolan,” you admit. “I can’t do this.”

Nolan’s eyes widen. He knew you were acting differently, but your sudden and complete lack of confidence shocks him. Both of you are pinned in the corner of a warehouse, in danger of being tortured, executed, or some sick combination of worse things. You know you need to act, but your pride and your abilities are shot, thanks to Tim. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get shot, too.

“You can do this,” Nolan assures you. “You have to. Whoever said-“

“Move!” you demand.

Nolan ducks, and you fire through a nearby doorway. It draws attention to you and Nolan, and your confidence takes another hit as three men aim rifles at your chest. The red dots form a perfect triangle around your heart. Things could have been so different if you had just gone home last night instead of giving into your never-ending craving for Tim’s comfort.

“Tim,” Angela calls when he and Lucy arrive. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“Yes, I do,” he replies.

She pushes a hand against his chest and shakes her head. Despite Tim’s grumbling, he trusts Angela as a friend and a fellow cop.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

Angela looks to her right, and Tim follows her line of sight. Your shop is standing wide open as CSU combs through it. The windshield is shattered, and the interior is riddled with bullet holes. Tim’s attention catches on the blood coating everything. No one could have survived that blood loss.

“Where is she?” Tim demands.

“We don’t know,” Angela admits. “She wasn’t here when we arrived. Neither was Nolan.”

“Let me help.”

Angela looks around before she whispers, “You’re too emotional.”

“She left me last night, Angela. It was all my fault, and I didn’t even get to apologize! So, I am helping, whether you want it or not.”

Angela nods as Lucy returns to Tim’s side. He looks back to your shop and knows. He knows he is too late. That realization changes everything.

“You’re right,” he tells Angela. “I’m too close; I shouldn’t help.”

“Timothy,” she begins.

“No, I- she’s gone. We both know that. And I can’t do this, not knowing that she died out here thinking that I didn’t love her. That I didn’t fight for her.”

“Let me know if that changes, Tim.”

Angela walks away to continue investigating the scene. Lucy lays her hand on Tim’s back to provide some comfort, but he shakes her hand off before he moves toward the shop. Crime doesn’t stop just because Tim’s world ends, and if throwing himself into his work will distract him, he’ll let it. But being busy and tired will never get between you and him again.

“Snipers,” Lucy whispers as she reads something on her phone.

“What about them?” Tim inquires.

“Oh, uh, just something Angela sent me.”

“About her?”

“Yeah.”

Tim nods, and his knuckles grow white as he grips the steering wheel. “There were snipers?”

“Three of them, from what they can tell. A gun left behind matched the ballistics of the bullets in her shop. It seems like… like someone was executed in her shop.”

“Let’s take another call, Chen.”

Lucy nods and requests dispatch to begin sending them calls again. The first is a bank robbery in process, and Tim only hopes that adrenaline and devastation mix well.

“Gun!” Lucy yells before ducking behind the armored personnel carrier outside the bank.

Tim doesn’t hesitate to raise his arms and shoot. The sniper falls backward, and Tim wills his mind not to wonder how different things would be if he’d been with you instead of Nolan. Snipers took you from him, but this taste of retribution doesn’t help Tim. He walks away as soon as the bank is cleared. He wants to punch something, yell, cry, and maybe do it all at once, but it won’t bring you back. Nothing short of an apology that he can’t give will.

Tim sits on his couch in the dark because it’s as close to peace as he can get. If he closes his eyes too long, he sees you standing on the other side of the room, defending yourself from his emotional outburst. The argument was pointless, and you wanted to stop it, but Tim kept pushing. The more he thinks about it, the more he starts to turn his sadness into self-hatred because he acted like his father. He drops his head into his hands and asks himself why he allowed himself to be driven so far. Despite how he treated you and the horrible, untrue things he said, you told Tim you loved him. He loves you more than anything but didn’t return the sentiment in the heat of the moment. And now he never can.

“I love you,” Tim whispers now. “I’m so sorry.”

Someone knocks on his door, fast raps with no break between them. Tim rubs his face as he stands and walks around the couch-turned-fighting ring to answer it.

“Tim,” Angela says quickly. “We found something. We know where they were an hour ago.”

Tim looks over his shoulder to the cruiser at the end of his driveway. The lights are on, and Nyla is inside, ready to go.

“I wanted to extend the invite,” Angela adds.

Tim nods as he yanks his keys from the table by his door. He doesn’t bother to check if the door locks behind him as he races toward the car, toward you. Nyla drives quickly and parks outside an abandoned house less than fifteen minutes later. While Tim looks at the house, he sees someone move in the window.

“Somebody’s inside,” he alerts.

Nyla nods and instructs Tim to wait while she and Angela approach the house. Before they exit the car, the person walks out of the front door with their hands up. Tim throws the door open and sprints across the yard before anyone says anything.

“Nolan,” he calls.

“What happened here?” Nyla asks.

Her tone makes Tim look around, and he counts at least eight bodies in the front yard. Most are covered, and the desperation, dread, misery, and heartbreak churn in his stomach as he wonders if any of them are you.

“We walked into an ambush. She got one of them down, but we were cornered, surrounded. They dragged their ‘failure’ to the shop and finished him off before they brought us here.” After he explains, Nolan turns to Tim and says, “She asked me to give you this.”

He pulls a bloody piece of paper from his pocket and passes it to Tim, who accepts it wordlessly.

“Where…” is she? Tim wants to say, but he can’t finish the question.

“Uh, she’s inside,” Nolan answers.

Tim hears confirmation that you’re here and runs through the carnage-covered yard and house to find you. He grips the letter tightly as he navigates through the dark house. Tim stops when he sees your badge lying in a corner, and squats to retrieve it. It’s scuffed and bloody, but Tim can’t leave any piece of you behind. He tucks your letter into his pocket to hold your badge.

“Officer Bradford?”

Tim turns quickly and nearly trips over a bloody hammer. He would recognize that voice anywhere. When his eyes finish adjusting in the darkness, and he sees you slumped in the opposite corner, propped up behind the door, he crosses the room in the time it takes you to blink. Tim’s hands cup your face gently as he leans closer to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Save it,” you reply. “This isn’t over yet. He said he was coming back.”

“Where’d he go?” Tim asks, effortlessly switching back to cop mode.

You smile, and Tim swallows harshly as your injured lip splits and produces a fresh bead of blood. “To rob a bank. As if you weren’t busy enough, right?”

The sniper at the bank, Tim remembers. “He’s gone,” he says quickly. “We got him.”

“You got him?” you clarify.

Tim shakes his head, and you raise your hands to his sides as you lean toward him.

“I could never do this alone. I can’t do any of this without you.”

“Did you read my letter?”

Tim pulls the paper from his back pocket and shakes his head as he reads the two short sentences.

“I forgive you. I love you,” you say as Tim reads the same words.

“It won’t happen again,” Tim promises.

“It might. We have hard jobs, but we can get through it. Right?”

Tim’s reply is a careful kiss to your forehead before he yells for a paramedic. Nolan leads Angela and Nyla inside a moment later, and they enter the door beside you.

“You could’ve mentioned she was alive,” Tim tells Nolan.

“You ran in before I said, ‘she’d like to see your face first, considering she almost died and you were the only thing she talked about,’” Nolan answers.

“Shut up,” you and Tim say together.

“This is the thanks,” Nolan mumbles.

“Can I crash at your place?” you ask Tim. “Without the argument?”

“Wouldn’t let you go anywhere else. The best cop I know deserves some comfort.”

“I thought I was the best cop you knew,” Angela teases.

“I love you,” you tell Tim.

“I love you,” he answers. After he looks into your eyes and smiles, he yells, “Where is the ambulance?”

#hanna writes✯#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford angst #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #requests

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