#How To Store Ammo

[goliathindustries]

Basics of Ammo: A Professional’s Quick Guide

Get a quick, professional overview of ammunition basics, including different types, calibers, and essential safety tips.

[frostbitfun]

@easterpookan cont

❅— if he had a nickle for every time a fellow guardian stuck their hands in his mouth he'd have two nickles. which isn't much, really, and not of any use to the winter spirit especially considering Tooth used quarters not nickles, but it was interesting that it has happened twice now. twice! he was going to have to file a complaint with The Moon if he had it happen again.

but before he could even begin to come up with some snarky sounding protest to having something shoved into his mouth, he realized it was not in fact just a furry paw but a piece of chocolate. he thinks. he's pretty sure it's chocolate, but it didn't taste like anything he remembered having before. he takes a moment to savor the flavor, licking at the little sample with his tongue and actually taking his new task seriously. " is that... is that fruit in it? is this mango? " he asks, trying to place the flavor. " it's really good. " he adds, remembering the original question tasked to him as his eyes now are focused on the plate full of hopefully more samples for him to test. " did you make that yourself? "

[buckysleftbicep]

swipe right 𐙚 b.b

pairing: grumpy!tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: just fluff 💌

summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

word count: 2.9k

author's note: hi loves, i really enjoyed writing this fic and i hope you'll enjoy it! based on this request | requests are open!

The sky was turning the colour of old peaches—that soft, late-summer blend of pink and orange that washed everything in warmth but didn’t hide how tired the day had become. 

It was the kind of light that settled low on your skin, not burning, just clinging. The kind that said the hard part was over but didn’t promise peace.

The boat creaked as it shifted against the dock, rocked by the lazy rhythm of the tide below. Everything moved slow—the air, the water, even time itself. 

Somewhere deeper in the trees, cicadas droned with that steady, hypnotic buzz that made talking feel like too much effort. But Sam had never been one to leave quiet alone when it started to feel too comfortable.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that looked like it had already been through three summers too many. Tossed it over his shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky.

The man hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. Sitting near the stern on a crate that creaked under his weight, arms resting on his knees, jaw tight. Staring at the water like it had something to answer for, the kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, just full of something waiting.

“You’ve got that look again,” Sam said, twisting off the cap of a beer with a soft hiss.

Bucky didn’t move. “What look?”

“Like something’s been bothering you for a while and you’re pretending it hasn’t.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re brooding.”

A pause. Bucky exhaled through his nose, low and flat. “You want me to smile or something?”

“God, no.” Sam took a sip, then nodded at him. “That’d be worse.”

It wasn’t mean. It was easy. Familiar. They’d gotten used to this—talking without saying much, sitting in silence like it was some kind of truce.

The water lapped gently against the side of the hull. A breeze rolled off the bayou, lifting the heat just enough to breathe again. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and the damp underside of the dock. 

Everything slowed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sam spoke again, voice casual like he wasn’t aiming for anything. “You ever think about dating?”

Bucky glanced at him, not sharply—just slow and skeptical, like he was checking if he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I mean—do you?”

Bucky shrugged, more a shift of weight than anything. “Not lately.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You suggesting I go flirt with someone at the grocery store?”

“No,” Sam said, half-smirking. “I’m suggesting you try talking to someone who doesn’t know what kind of ammo you carry.”

Bucky turned his head fully this time, giving Sam a look so dry it could’ve sanded wood. “You’ve got a real romantic pitch.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said, setting the bottle down beside him. “You don’t even talk to people unless they’re on the team or from your past. That’s not living, man. That’s just waiting.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked back at the water, but his jaw tightened, a little pulse at the side of it, quick then gone. Whatever was under that silence, it was old. And heavy. And still too close to the surface.

Sam didn’t press, not right away. Just let the quiet breathe a little before nudging again. “There’s apps for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“You ever try one?”

Bucky shook his head once. “That stuff’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Bucky said. “And I don’t really want to explain... all of this.”

The pause after that wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”

He picked at the label on his beer for a second, thoughtful, before adding, “Still doesn’t mean you don’t get to try.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m not built for that kind of thing.”

Sam leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to be built for it. You just have to show up.”

That was the thing with Bucky—he never said no right away. 

He just let silence stretch out until it either hardened into a wall or softened into maybe. 

This one softened.

Another beat passed. Then, low, almost under his breath—“I’ll ask her.”

Sam looked over, surprised but not shocked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t turn. “You know who.”

Sam studied him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before he spoke. “She’d be honest with you.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said.

He stood without another word, like the decision had been waiting in him for a while and now it just had a direction. Boots thudded quietly against the dock as he walked toward the edge of the light.

Sam watched him go as he took another sip from his bottle. 

He shook his head to himself, almost a laugh.

“About damn time.”

The sun’s lower now, bleeding into the bayou in streaks of amber and rose. It stretches long shadows across the dock, paints the water in color that looks like it shouldn’t belong to this world, too soft, too still. 

You’re sitting near the edge, back leaned against a weather-worn piling, drink balanced loosely in your hand. Your bare feet nudge the warm planks absently. 

It’s the first stillness you’ve had all day, and you’re not ready to let it go yet.

You hear him before you see him, the solid rhythm of boots on wood, measured and familiar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just Bucky, moving like he always does, deliberate, quiet and steady.

He sits beside you without a word. 

Just drops down next to you, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed straight out at the water like it might eventually give him an answer if he stares long enough.

You wait. You’ve known him long enough to know he only speaks when he means to.

Finally, he says, low,

“Sam thinks I should try dating apps.”

You glance over, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitches. “I said the same thing” He huffs. “Apparently he thinks I’m too emotionally repressed to function without external help.”

You snort, tipping your head back to take in the sky, already turning violet at the edges. “Sounds like Sam.”

“He showed me one,” Bucky says. “Said I needed to ‘get back out there.’ Like I was ever out there to begin with.”

You hum, dragging your finger down the side of your bottle to catch a trail of condensation. “Did he show you Tinder?”

“I think so. There were… bios. And pictures. A lot of pictures.”

You take a slow sip. The drink’s warm now, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then yeah. That’s Tinder.”

There’s a pause, one of those long, Southern summer silences that stretches without needing to be filled. The heat sits heavy on your skin. Everything is golden and slow.

Then—

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Not skeptical. Just curious, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. Like he’s asking about a world he doesn’t belong to.

You turn your head toward him slightly. “You actually want to know?”

He nods once, eyes still out on the water. 

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You lean back again, voice dry. “They’re like vending machines. If vending machines were full of unhinged men who think a selfie in a lifted truck is an acceptable substitute for a personality.”

Bucky lets out the barest huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

You keep going. “I’ve had guys open with ‘hey beautiful’ and follow it up with a dick pic. No hello, not even a name. Just bam, in your face."

That gets him. His head jerks a little like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide, blinking, then immediately looks away again. “Jesus.”

“Right?” you say, half-laughing despite yourself. “One guy put his venmo in his bio. Said I could ‘tip the talent.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth. “That’s real?”

“Very.”

Another pause. He doesn’t speak, and you let the quiet fill in the spaces between sentences. It’s not awkward, just mutual disbelief settling across both of you like the heat.

You glance over. 

“That’s the nice end of the spectrum. The ones who act normal? Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“There was one guy who said I ‘seemed cool’ and then launched into a rant about how feminism ruined dating. Claimed women used to appreciate a ‘real man’ who ordered for them at dinner.”

Bucky mutters under his breath, “That’s one way to die on a hill.”

You grin. “Exactly. I unmatched. But not before he sent me a voice note calling me ungrateful.”

That draws a small breath out of him, you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or just disbelief. Maybe both.

“So this is what people are doing now.”

“Apparently.” You nudge the bottle against your knee. “It’s bleak out there, Buck.

He looks down at his hands, his vibranium fingers flexing once—a small, absent motion like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite say.

“Sam made it sound like people meet that way all the time.”

“They do,” you admit. “But most of them walk away with trust issues and a weird story about someone who brought their mom to the first date.”

His head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“Swear on it.” You pause. “You ever think about trying it?”

His expression tightens—not visibly, not in an obvious way. Just in the way his shoulders shift, his mouth presses slightly flatter.

“No.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing anything about me,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t really have a profile worth putting out there.”

“That’s what Sam’s for,” you mumbled. “He’d probably write something dramatic. ‘Ex-assassin looking for redemption and someone to eat pancakes with.’”

That gets a breath out of him, small and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit as close to funny as it did. 

You glance at him and catch it, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not really. Just something close.

You watch him a moment longer. “You’re not sold.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I was meant for that kind of thing,” he says simply. “Not after everything.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You study him for a beat. The way he still holds himself like he’s bracing, even when he’s sitting still.

“Maybe you weren’t,” you say softly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

That makes him look over. Really look. His eyes catch yours, not sharp, not guarded. Just… tired. A little older, like the fight’s still in him, but so is the weight of carrying it.

“You really think there’s people out there who’d sign up for all this?”

He doesn’t need to explain what this means. The metal arm, the red in his ledger, the quiet rage, that name.

You tilt your head. “You’re asking the wrong people.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then,

“Who should I ask?”

You smile, small, steady. Like it’s already obvious.

“Ask someone who already knows you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Then he shifts, not away, just forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. His eyes stay fixed on the water, but his whole body reads different now.

Less guarded. Less armoured.

The air is thick with the smell of wood warmed by the sun, brine, and something else you can’t name. The heat hasn’t broken. There’s no wind, no relief—just the weight of what’s been left unsaid between the two of you.

Then, without looking at you, voice low,

“What about you?”

You glance over. “What about me?”

“What are you looking for?”

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s just conversation. But you hear the shift in his voice—the hesitation, the careful way he keeps his tone level. 

You catch the way his fingers tap once against the dock before going still again. He wants to know. Not because he expects anything. 

Because part of him is terrified to hope.

You breathe in. Let the silence stretch, but not too long. Then,

“I don’t know,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t need to be anyone else. Who’s not trying to sell a version of himself just to get picked.”

You’re not really looking at him when you say it. You’re looking past the water, past the trees. Somewhere further off. But you feel him — how still he’s gotten. How present.

You pause, let the words settle in your chest.

“Someone who’s real. Who doesn’t run when things get hard.”

There’s something brittle in your voice when you say that. Not cracked, just lived-in.

“Someone who carries things, but still shows up anyway.”

You glance at him now. And you mean it when you say,

“I think that narrows it down pretty fast.”

It’s soft and uncomplicated, but it hangs there like a match waiting to strike.

And maybe that’s the moment it lands.

Maybe not all at once—but enough.

Because now he’s turning his head, slow and unsure, like he’s still giving himself time to pretend it’s not what it sounds like.

“You talking about me?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cocky. It’s quiet. Raw. Like he’s afraid you’ll say no, but needs you to say yes.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”

It’s simple. Not a performance. Not something meant to fix him. Just truth.

His eyes drop, lashes casting half-shadows. Then he looks back out over the water—not avoiding you, just... trying to breathe with it.

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that. You let it happen.

Because this is the part where people rush it. Where they try to fill the air. But not with him. Not now.

Eventually, voice low:

“I’m not... easy.”

“I know.”

He shifts again. Barely.

“I don’t have much to offer.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Maybe not to you.”

You go still at that.

His tone isn’t bitter. It’s not sad, either. It’s just matter-of-fact. Like it’s something he’s repeated to himself long enough to accept as reality.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, not looking at you. “I’ve messed up a lot of things I can’t fix. I don’t sleep much. I get angry. I disappear when it gets too loud. Some days I don’t feel like a person. Some days I don’t want to.”

Your chest pulls, tight and quiet. But you don’t interrupt him.

“And I know I’m not easy to be around,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “But I don’t want to lie about that. I can’t.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes.

“You don’t need to.”

He finally looks at you—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

His eyes are still that same unrelenting shade of blue, something between steel and storm, edged in shadow from the way the light hits.

Cerulean, maybe, if you wanted to get poetic—but the kind of blue that feels lived-in, exhausted, quiet. Tired in a way that most people never notice, and steady in a way that somehow always holds.

You’ve seen them angry. You’ve seen them distant. You’ve seen them blank, shut down so completely they didn’t feel like eyes at all.

But now?

Now they stay. Now they’re looking at you like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s letting someone actually stay.

“I’d still pick you,” you say, voice even. “I know what I’m saying. I know who I’m saying it to.”

And something in him breaks open—not shattered, not messy. Just exposed. In a way he hasn’t let himself be in a long, long time.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing something he didn’t think he was allowed to want—it’s enough.

You can see it, how hard he’s trying to stay still. Like if he moves, even slightly, it’ll break whatever fragile thread just opened between you.

The water laps soft against the dock. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. A dog barks. The world doesn’t know that something quiet and impossible is unfolding in the silence between two people who didn’t think this would happen.

Finally, carefully,

“If I asked…”

He trails off.

It’s not hesitation. It’s vulnerability, stripped down to bone. Not even a full question, just the offer of one.

You let him say it the way he needs to. And you don’t make him say it twice.

You answer without hesitation. Without softness-for-show. 

“Yes. I would.”

That lands, you see it in the way his shoulders shift. Just a little. Like he’s trying to let the weight down slowly, afraid it might hit too hard if he drops it all at once.

So you keep going. Gentle. Honest.

“I’d date you in a heartbeat, Bucky.”

You pause, “you’re not your past. You’re not the burden it left on you. You’re the man who lived through it and kept going. That matters more.”

He looks down for a second, like the words are too much to hold eye contact through. Then back up, slower this time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

The breeze moves past, soft through the trees. Neither of you speak for a long minute.

But something’s changed. Something settled. You feel it in the quiet, the kind that doesn’t need fixing.

When he looks at you again, it’s not with hesitation or doubt. 

There’s no shift in his posture, just a quiet steadiness, like he’s finally stopped running from it, like he’s letting himself want this, want you, without pulling it apart or looking for all the reasons he shouldn’t.

[killerplink]

OVERTIME

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: Jason ignores you for hours, so you get on your knees and make him pay for it. With your mouth, your hands, and a smile he should've known meant trouble.

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted Jason try to gather intel while the reader is busy being cheeky and giving him head under the desk 🏃🏻‍♀️

Jason's in the living room, hunched ever so slightly over the big ass desk he set up in the far corner like some kind of broody Batcave satellite station. It started as just a place for him to "do some light recon", but you both knew that he was full of shit.

Fast forward two years and the man's basically turned it into a full blown command center—monitors glowing low in the dim light, shelves stacked with case files and scattered ammo boxes, that drawer he swears is "organized" but you're pretty sure is just where he dumps all the flash drives and burner phones.

And the desk? It's massive. Solid oak. You had to help him carry it in—well, he actually carried it, you mostly complained about the splinters—but the thing is perfect for him. Tall enough for him to sit comfortably and big enough to fit those thick ass thighs when he's planted in that expensive ergonomic chair he won't admit is actually from a gaming store.

You, on the other hand? You're draped across the couch like human roadkill, legs tossed over one armrest, head dangling off from the middle of the couch. There's a bad movie playing on the screen, some half melted latex creature growling at a screaming woman, but you're not really paying attention.

You thought he'd be done two hours ago—shit, you even brought him coffee and snacks to help speed it along—but it's pushing four now and he hasn't moved except to mutter "motherfucker" under his breath at whatever asshole he's currently after. And yeah, you get it. Intel, crime, important shit.

But you're also horny. And the way he's sitting there all focused, forearms flexing, tapping away at that keyboard with his pretty mouth pursed in concentration? He's really not helping himself.

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. He grunts, but doesn't even flinch. So you do it again, dragging out the exhale like some dying Victorian ghost hoping to be asked what's wrong. This time it's louder, with more flair. Nothing.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, and peek over the backrest of the couch like a nosy cat. Just to check. Just to see. And the second your eyes land on him, all annoyance flies out the window, replaced by a sudden throb between your thighs that makes you swallow a soft sound.

When did he take his shirt off? Because now you're just staring at him—his broad, sculpted back flexing with every precise move, every tap of his fingers against the keyboard. The muscles in his shoulders bunch when he leans in to squint at something on the monitor, that thick line of his spine dipping down to the soft slope of his waist before it vanishes into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Your brain short circuits for a second. Just a second. You blink, trying to remember why you were mad. Oh, right. Four hours of being ignored.

God, you love this man. You really do. With your whole fucking heart. You love the way he brings you snacks in bed without being asked, how he buys fluffy socks because you're always cold, how he kisses your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

Yeah, sure, you also love his stupid jokes and the way he buys you chocolate when you're mad at him, and how he talks about you like you hung the damn moon. You love the way he always insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, the way he holds your hand without thinking, the way he says your name like it means something.

You love how his scary ass reputation melts into soft eyes and dry humor around you. But let's be real, you also love his stupidly hot body. Those muscles he barely even acknowledges like he's just naturally this stacked and still thinks he's "average". The V-line, the thighs, that back. It's actually a hate crime at this point.

You pout like a little brat, voice all whiny and needy, "Jay, when are you gonna finish there?"

At first, you think he's ignoring you. But then, after a beat, long enough to make you think he might not answer at all, you hear him murmur, "Just a few more minutes, doll."

Oh, hell no. You know that tone. That was a delayed response. The kind of half assed "don't bother me" answer you've heard way too many times when he's elbows deep in intel. That man's not getting up anytime soon, and you know it.

You flop back onto the couch with a groan, legs still hanging off one armrest like a bratty display of boredom, staring at the ceiling like it just personally offended you. Your brain starts working overtime, trying to figure out how to unglue your very sexy, very distracted boyfriend from that goddamn desk.

You consider stripping. Just walking over there, butt booty naked, maybe doing a little stretch in the doorway to "relieve tension". But honestly, you could stand there doing jumping jacks with your tits out and he'd probably just glance up, nod, and say "lookin' good, baby" before going back to his files.

Sitting in his lap and playing with his hair? Been there, didn't work. He just kissed your forehead and kept working.

You even think about searching for a bad porno, maybe cranking the volume, hoping the awful moaning would lure him away from his screens. He'd probably laugh and ask if the acting has improved.

Or maybe you should just outright watch it and make sure he hears every fucking second. But even then, you're not sure that'd snap him out of his recon tunnel vision. Stupid sexy vigilante and his stupid crime obsession.

And that's when it hits you. No, not the regular route. Not teasing, not stripping, not throwing yourself at him. Something better. Something cheeky. You sit up slowly, a smile creeping over your lips. The kind of smile he never sees coming until it's too late. Maybe it's time to make him feel the consequences of ignoring you.

You move quietly, your steps light as you pad across the room, and Jason doesn't even look up when you come behind him. He's too wrapped up in whatever mission file he's neck deep in. But the second you drape yourself over his back—arms wrapped around his shoulders, chest flush to him, cheek smushed against the side of his neck—he softens just a little.

His hand comes up, fingers grazing along your forearm in a slow, absentminded rub like muscle memory.

"You okay, baby?"

You hum, lips brushing the warm skin at his neck. "Mhmm."

You start slow, lazy, like you're just being clingy and sweet. But your mouth is on his skin, lips parting slightly to kiss just below his jaw, and you lick a slow line up to his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth and biting down, a little amused huff slipping from his chest.

"Don't be a little brat. I'll be done in a bit."

Another "Mhmm" is all he gets, this one a little more smug. Because your hands are already trailing down his chest, slipping over the broad stretch of his pecs, brushing lower—slow and teasing—until your fingers graze over his abs and down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips.

And yep, he's already half hard. The twitch of his dick beneath your palm is proof enough that all this patience you've been clinging to is not one sided.

You palm his cock through the fabric, just enough pressure to make him grunt, and God, that sound alone makes your thighs squeeze together. You rub him slow, almost affectionate, like you're not trying to be the worst kind of distraction imaginable.

He groans, hips shifting slightly, but then his hand wraps around your wrist, gently stopping you. "C'mon, baby," he says, voice strained. "Be a little patient for me."

You pout into his neck. Full on, lip jutting, pathetic pout. "I've been patient for the past few hours."

Jason snorts, "So you can wait another few minutes, pretty girl."

That tone? Casual, teasing, a little condescending, even. And it seals his fucking fate. You huff, and he hears it, but doesn't really register it for what it really is.

For a second, Jason thinks you're going to pull away. Maybe stomp back to the couch or go sulk in bed with the passive aggressive energy of the chaos gremlin he's so stupidly in love with. He's so deep into his recon shit that it doesn't even occur to him that you've never been exactly good at taking no for an answer.

But he should've known better. That huff? That tiny, dramatic sound? That was a warning shot. And the moment he hears the soft shuffle of movement, feels your body slipping down and out of his hold, it clicks too late. Because now you're dropping to your knees, sliding under the desk, and his brain short circuits like a system override.

Jason snorts. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft huff, "Nothing," you murmur, way too casual for what you're about to do. "Just do your thing, Jay."

And before he can argue, your hands are on him, smoothing up his thighs, trailing closer and closer to the thick bulge straining under the soft grey fabric of his sweats.

You lean in, pressing soft, warm kisses along the outline of his cock. Up the length of it, over the head, nuzzling your cheek against the bulge like you missed it since last night. His head drops back against the chair with a quiet thunk, hand twitching on the mouse like he's still trying to work, but he already knows where this is going and he's powerless to stop it.

"Jesus..." he mutters, voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" you hum innocently against his cock, mouthing over the head again before pressing your kisses down to the base just to tease him through the fabric, feeling him jerk slightly in response.

You smile against his dick as you press another kiss, then another, slow, teasing, trailing up along the heavy ridge until your nose brushes the waistband of his sweats before your fingers hook under it.

He lifts his hips when you tug, obedient without even realizing it, and lets you peel both the sweats and his boxers down to his thighs. His cock springs free—thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip—and your mouth waters at the sight.

"God, you're so hard, baby," you whisper, grinning up at him.

Your hand wraps around the base of his dick, warm and firm, just the way he likes, and you start with a kiss right against the thick vein along the underside of his shaft. Then another at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking a little drop of precum, and when you look up at him, he's watching you. Eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving.

You lick a slow, wet circle around the swollen head of his cock, tongue flicking just under the ridge, then gliding over the top again, warm and soft and teasing. He's already so sensitive there, and you know it, which is why you take your sweet fucking time. Then you do it again, this time slower, messier.

You keep your eyes on him as your tongue circles the head of his cock, teasing him in slow, lazy swirls like you're just tasting him, like you're enjoying this more than anything on earth. And you kind of are.

He's flushed and leaking, thick drops of precum painting your tongue, and you lap it up with small licks, moaning a little just from the taste, but then you get mean with it.

You press the very tip of your tongue right into the slit—soft, deliberate pressure—and he chokes on a groan above you, hips jerking as his hand shoots down and tangles in your hair. Not tugging, not even guiding, just holding, fist curling tight like if he lets go, he'll fucking lose it.

"Shit—fuck, baby, you're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice rough and so deep you feel it in your clit.

And when you finally wrap your lips around the tip slow and teasing, being a just little mean about it, Jason lets out a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His cock twitches in your hand, already pulsing like he can't decide between fucking your throat or falling apart right there.

You moan around him—soft, needy—and the vibrations make him hiss through his teeth. Your spit slicks him up easy, sliding down past your knuckles as your lips glide further, taking him deeper inch by inch. Your throat stretches around the thickness, your jaw aching in that good way, hand stroking the base in messy, desperate pumps.

You suck harder, cheeks hollowing with wet slurps, loud and unashamed. You want him to hear it, want him to feel it, and fuck, he does.

His hips twitch, the muscles in his thighs flex, and he grits out, "God, baby—your fuckin' mouth—"

You don't stop. Just sink down slow, then pull back with a little pop of your lips, only to sink again, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Your chin is soaked, spit webbing between your fingers and his shaft, dribbling down your wrist, your throat working every time he hits the back of it.

He's panting above you, trying to keep still, but that hand in your hair? He's got a death grip on it. His fingers are tangled in your soft strands, his thumb pressing just behind your ear like he's grounding himself, like he might lose it if you go any deeper.

But you want him to. You want to ruin him with your mouth. So you look up at him through your lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock, and suck him down harder, deeper.

He lets out a broken noise, hips bucking, and groans, "Fuck—fuck, I'm not gonna last, baby—"

And you just hum around him like that's exactly what you want. Because it is. You don't ease up, not even close. You fuck him with your mouth like you've got something to prove, like you need to make a point with every wet glide of your tongue and every sharp suck around the head.

But you are still annoyed with him, after all. He thinks he can get away with pissing you off and then sitting pretty like this? Not a chance. Not without you using that dick like it's yours to play with. And it fucking is.

You grip the base tighter, letting your spit drip down because it doesn't matter how messy you get. Your jaw works, mouth hot and greedy, bobbing up and down as you take him again and again. A twist of your wrist, a roll of your tongue just underneath the head, right on that sensitive spot that makes him twitch. He jerks, breath stuttering, and you moan around him with a smile.

God, you love this. Love how this big, scary, brutal man—Red Hood himself—melts under your mouth like this. He's all muscle and grit, scars and guns and growls, but right now? Right now he's fucking trembling. His thighs are tight, his abs clenching, one hand fisted in your hair like he's praying you don't stop, the other digging into the edge of the desk like he knows better than to touch you without permission.

And his head is spinning. Jason's trying to hold it together, but fuck, it's hard. You know exactly how to suck his dick. You're not just sucking it, you're devouring him. Tongue flicking under the crown, lips wrapped tight, cheek hollowing just enough for that perfect pressure. Every time he thinks he's about to get a breath, you take him deeper, sloppier, wetter.

His thoughts are scrambled as hell. He can't even form a full sentence in his head anymore, not with the way your throat clenches around him like you want him to lose it. And God, he is losing it. Fast.

He grunts, rough and ragged, his voice raw. "Baby—fuck, I'm close, I'm—"

And that's exactly when you stop. You pull off with a wet pop, spit glistening on your chin, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Your hand stays on his dick, stroking just enough to keep him there, but not enough to push him over.

"Ah-ah," you hum, licking the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to cum yet."

Jason makes this wrecked noise—half growl, half desperate moan—and his cock twitches in your fist, so painfully hard and so fucking close. His chest is rising fast, muscles taut, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you like he doesn't know whether to beg or curse you out.

You blink up at him from under the desk, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, like you're sweet and innocent. Like you didn't just edge him to the brink and snatch it away like it was nothing. Like your mouth isn't still glistening with spit and precum, lips shiny and swollen from how deep you took him.

And Jason? Jason's stunned. He's got that shell shocked look, like you just short circuited the last few working brain cells he had left. His mouth is slightly open, breathing shallow, brow drawn tight. His dick is still throbbing in your grip, soaked in spit and precum, and your hand—fuck, your hand just keeps moving. Slow, deliberate strokes that make squelching noises in the silence, slick and lewd because you want him to hear every wet slide of your palm over his shaft.

He's not used to this. He's used to being the one in control, used to having you begging, whining, melting under his touch while he teases you until you're crying for it.

His brain is a mess. Fuck—she's never like this—what the fuck—what did I—Jesus, she's so hot like this—look at her—holy fuck, I'm not gonna survive this shit. What did I do? What the hell did I—

You lean in closer, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, lips curled into the tiniest smirk as your fist strokes him—tight at the base, twisting when you reach the slick, sensitive tip.

"You ignored me for four hours, Jay."

Your voice is sweet, pouty, dangerous and he flinches like the words physically hit him.

He stumbles for an excuse, lashes fluttering, "I didn't—baby, I wasn't—"

But then you twist your wrist right at the head, and his hips jerk forward with a grunt. The sound he makes is raw, desperate, and he chokes on whatever half assed excuse he was about to offer and swallows it back down with a harsh breath.

You tilt your head, all faux sweetness. "No?"

He shakes his head immediately, eyes wide, lips parted like he wants to speak but can't. He's quiet for once, but not by choice, more like every word has been knocked out of him, replaced by nothing but the ache between his legs and the way your hand keeps pumping him slow and steady.

And you—God, you grin like you've already won. Without warning, you lean in again and take all of him in one smooth motion, your lips parting, your throat stretching, your jaw flexing around his dick until your nose nearly brushes his skin. He lets out this choked sound, one hand flying to the underside of the desk for balance, the other trembling where it's still tangled in your hair.

You slide off just as slowly, letting your tongue drag the whole way, spit connecting your mouth to his skin until it breaks with a wet string when you pull off.

You tilt your head just a little, voice all sweet and syrupy like you're not holding him by the fucking balls right now.

"You wanna cum, baby?"

His breath hitches, chest rising and falling fast as he nods, eyes glassy, completely at your mercy. "Y-yeah."

You hum like you're thinking about it, hand still working him slow and mean as your thumb brushes right over the slick head, teasing the slit. He twitches in your fist, and his abs clench like he's trying to keep himself from bucking up again.

"Yeah?" you repeat, all fake sympathy and sugar. "Why would I make you cum, huh?"

And fuck, the look on his face is priceless.

Jason stares at you like you just asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn't speak. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just another choked little sound as your thumb circles the head again, catching on the mess of precum that's already smeared everywhere.

He's got no idea what the fuck to even say. Because this? This is new. You never tease like this. Never leave him speechless like some desperate, trembling mess. That's usually his job.

You can't help but grin. Because seeing him like this—so fucked out, so helpless—is better than any orgasm you could've given him right now. Usually, even half awake after a long patrol, hair a mess, still in his suit, he's got that smug little smirk and some bullshit line ready to go. He always has a comeback. But right now? He's fucking silent. And God, you live for it.

Your panties are sticking to your soaked cunt, clinging to your folds like a second skin. You don't even know if it's the taste of him on your tongue or the sight of him—Jason Todd, Red Hood, this big, grunting, gun slinging menace—reduced to this that's got you dripping. Probably both. Definitely both.

You don't even let him think too hard about it. You lean right back in like you've made your decision, but really, you're just not done ruining him.

You take him deep, no hesitation. Your lips seal tight around his cock, and you slide down all the way until your nose brushes the base, throat stretched wide, swallowing around him like your only mission in life is to make him lose it. Your hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth works him, wet and sloppy, drool sliding down your chin.

Loud, slick squelches fill the room, his dick gliding in and out of your mouth, your tongue working every inch you can reach, humming low just to feel him twitch.

Jason chokes on a moan, hips jerking forward like he needs more, like he's gonna fuck your mouth if you don't give it to him, so you stop. Again. You slide off with another wet pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock as he gasps, completely wrecked.

He looks ruined, and you haven't even let him cum, but he already looks like he has.

You lean in close, so close your breath ghosts over the flushed head of his cock and you press a single, featherlight kiss right to the tip. Just a little peck, all sweet and innocent, like you're not the reason he's trembling in that chair right now, leaking and desperate.

He lets out this strangled noise from the back of his throat, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thump, eyes fluttering shut. His thighs are twitching, muscles flexing like he's trying to hold still, trying not to fuck up into your hand. But his cock throbs helplessly in your grip, and you know—oh, you know—he's suffering.

And you love it.

Your hand keeps pumping him slow, slick sounds filling the quiet space between you. His dick is soaked—your spit, his precum, it's all smeared over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, sticky and warm. Every stroke is just enough to keep him on the edge, just enough to make his legs shake.

Then you lean in again and lick that fat bead of precum right from his slit, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip like it's your favorite treat. You do it again, lapping at him with slow, teasing licks, until you feel him start to tremble under your touch.

"Beg, baby," you murmur, voice low and smug.

His head snaps up so fast it's almost dizzying. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing what's left of that pretty blue, and he stares at you like he can't fucking believe what you just said. Like he's not sure if you're serious or if this is some cruel joke.

"Doll—" he says it like a warning, but there's nothing sharp about it.

It comes out broken. Wrecked. Like a man on the edge, like a man barely holding on. His voice cracks halfway through, and you feel his cock twitch again in your hand.

You smile. So innocent. So fucking mean.

"You've been so mean, Jay," you coo, placing another soft kiss on the underside of his tip, just to watch him shiver. "Ignored me for hours. I mean, the least you can do is beg for me to make you cum."

And your hand doesn't stop, not even close.

Your strokes stay slow, mean, teasing, obscene with how wet his dick is. It squelches under your palm, your thumb smearing the precum over the flushed skin as you drag it back down.

He makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a grunt—and his hips twitch again like he's right at the edge, body taut, straining for release that you refuse to give. He's panting, jaw clenched, veins in his neck standing out as he tries so fucking hard not to just break.

"Please."

It's soft, almost inaudible, murmured like it physically hurts him to say it. His eyes flutter shut like if he doesn't look at you, it'll be easier. Like it won't strip every last ounce of pride from his bones.

But you're not letting him off that easy.

Your grip stays steady, tight and slow around the base of his cock, thumb pressing into the underside every time you stroke upward.

He's leaking, throbbing in your hand, so hard it has to ache, but you just smile and coo, "What was that, baby?"

He lets out a shaky breath, head falling back against the chair again. "Please," he rasps. "Please let me cum."

"Hmmm," you murmur like you're thinking real hard about it. Your hand never stops moving. You just switch up the rhythm—faster for a second, then dragging your palm down just slow enough to knock the edge out from under him again. "Didn't hear that, Jay."

He grunts, biting back a groan, and then he laughs. A short, breathless thing that's more frustration than humor. "Jesus Christ, you're a fuckin' menace, aren't you?"

You hum sweetly, unbothered, still jerking him off in that same torturous rhythm. His thighs are flexed so hard they're shaking, abs tight like he's doing everything he can not to lose it.

Then, quieter this time, full of rough desperation: "Please, pretty girl. Let me cum. I'll do anything you want."

That makes you giggle, sweet and dangerous. You slow your strokes just enough to let your thumb drag across the head again, watching his breath catch in his throat.

"Anything, Jay?"

He nods instantly, like the word yes is the only thing left in his vocabulary. "Yeah. Please," he pants, hips twitching uselessly into your hand. "Just—just let me cum."

“Will you fuck me after?” you murmur, voice low, breathy, filthy, like the words themselves are enough to make him burst.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to taste him again, just a soft, slow lick right across the tip because you know how sensitive he is right now. You swirl your tongue lazily, then pull back just enough for your breath to tease him again, warm and cruel.

Jason groans loud. His hand flies to the desk, like he needs something to hold onto or he's gonna break. He looks down at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, and that cheeky fucking smile you're giving him?

He hates how much he loves it. He fucking hates it. But deep down? You both know it fucks him up.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck—anything you want, baby. Just lemme cum."

"Good boy," you murmur, soft and syrupy, the praise sliding off your tongue like sin.

And then you're on him again, no warning, no teasing, just your lips parting, mouth stretching around the flushed, aching head of his cock like you've been starving for it.

You take him deep, your throat working around the thick length of him like you need it, greedy and unrelenting, spit already bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you sink down, swallowing more and more. Your hand wraps tight at the base, guiding what your throat can't handle yet—slick, obscene, absolutely fucking devoted.

Jason loses it. His hips jerk up with a ragged curse, and you let him, his dick sliding deeper into your throat as you choke around it, eyes watering, nose brushing the base. He growls, the sound scraping low from his chest like it was dragged out of him, raw and ruined.

You're not even mad. You knew this was coming. You keep sucking him with that same hungry little desperation, tongue swirling when you pull back, cheeks hollowing when you go down again, throat stretching every time he thrusts up into you like he can't help himself. You're gagging a little, drool dripping down your chin, clinging to your fingers where you still stroke what you can't take, but you don't care.

You like it messy. Because nothing compares to the way Jason sounds when he's right there, when he's got no snark, no self control, just that tight, needy edge in his voice as he pants your name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, fuck, your mouth—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not rough, not painful, just possessive. Desperate. Like he's two seconds from completely falling apart and you're the only thing holding him together. And really, he's not wrong.

You moan around him and the vibration makes his hips stutter, his thighs trembling. His dick is a mess, broken gasps and little shaky groans leaving him as he keeps fucking into your mouth, deeper, harder, chasing the edge.

And yeah, okay, you're definitely gonna regret teasing him this long. But fuck, isn't it worth it? Because God, you're fucking soaked.

Not just wet, you're dripping. Your panties are clinging to your cunt, hot and slick, the mess between your thighs getting worse every time he groans, every time his cock hits the back of your throat. You shift your hips against the floor without even meaning to, chasing the tiniest bit of friction, but it's useless. Nothing compares to this.

Your nipples ache where they press against the thin fabric of your tank top, hard and swollen, rubbing against it with every breath you take. You're flushed all over, body buzzing, and the taste of him—the weight of his dick on your tongue, the heat and stretch in your mouth—has you right there, right on the fucking edge. You could probably cum just from this. Just from sucking his cock like this.

Jason's a fucking mess. You feel the change first, the way his thigh tenses beneath your hand, the way his breathing shortens into ragged, panting little shudders. The way his hips twitch, losing rhythm, like he's barely holding on.

"F-fuck, I'm—baby, I'm gonna—"

And then he does. His whole body jerks, head tipping back as a low, broken moan punches out of him, chest heaving like he's been holding it in for hours. His cock throbs on your tongue, thick and hot, and then he cums. Hard.

Floods your mouth with it—thick, salty spurts that coat your tongue, fill your throat. You don't pull back. You take it, swallowing fast, lips still wrapped around him as your hand slows, stroking his base while your mouth does the rest.

You suck him through it, gentler, with slow, rhythmic pulls, tongue cradling the head as he trembles under you. His hand is shaking in your hair, fingers flexing like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and he's moaning, soft and breathless, a constant little stream of praise tumbling out between gasps.

"Fuck, doll—God, that mouth—s'good, you're so good, shit—"

You don't stop until you're sure you've got every drop. You lick him clean, spit slick and still twitching in your mouth as your tongue runs slow over the head, careful, delicate. Your eyes water from how deep you'd taken him, lashes damp as you blink up at him, still sucking, soft and sweet.

And Jason? His mind is wrecked. You're so fucking beautiful like this. On your knees, eyes glossy, mouth wrapped around his dick like you own him—because you do. You really, truly do.

No one's ever done this to him before. No one's ever ruined him so gently. So thoroughly. You tease, you torment, you push him to the edge, but you know how far to take it. You know how to bring him back.

He's had flings, hookups, girls who wanted the Red Hood for the story. But this? You?

You're it. And God, he never thought he'd get this. Never thought he'd deserve it. But looking down at you—lips still wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he's been holding you—he's never been more sure of anything in his life.

You finally—finally—give him a break. You know he's way too sensitive, dick still twitching in your mouth, so you ease off with a soft little pop and kiss the flushed, swollen head, all slow and sweet.

Jason twitches. "Fuuuck—" he groans like the sound was dragged out of him.

And then he's moving, his chair rolling back just enough before you can even blink, and his hands are on you before you can breathe.

"Baby—" you yelp as he hauls you out from under the desk and right into his lap, landing with a little bounce, your thighs straddling him, the thick press of his dick snug right up against your soaked pussy.

Your tank top is a mess, your panties are ruined, and you're breathless from the sudden shift, but you don't get another word out. One hand settles rough and sure on your ass, the other tangling in the back of your hair, and he doesn't even bother saying anything before he kisses you.

And fuck, he kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's hungry. Wet and messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate moans swallowed between gasps. He kisses you like he's trying to make up for the four hours he left you wanting with just his mouth alone, tongue pushing into your mouth without hesitation, licking into you like he needs to taste himself on your tongue. And it's there, the sharp, salty taste of his cum still clinging to your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and he moans into it like he's losing his fucking mind.

It's all greed and spit and the kind of desperate, breathless kisses that feel more like gasps than anything else. He breaks away for a second, groaning into your mouth, just to dive right back in, tilting your head with a rough hand in your hair, licking deeper, slower.

You whimper into him, hips rocking down against his, instinctive and needy, and his hand squeezes your ass in response. His other one doesn't let go of your hair, holding you close, still tasting himself off your tongue like he doesn't care how filthy it is—no, he likes it. Loves it. Wants it all.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice wrecked and low,

"Fuckin' knew you'd ruin me, pretty girl."

You lick into his mouth one more time, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling back with a breathy little gasp, smirking as you murmur, "Your turn, Jay."

And oh, that fucking gets him. He hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide with heat, the grip on your ass tightening for a second before his hand slides lower—fingers trailing between your thighs from behind, right over that embarrassingly wet patch of your panties.

"Fuck," he mutters, lips brushing your jaw as he grins against your skin. "You're soaked, baby. You this wet just from suckin' my dick?"

You whimper, breath hitching when he pushes your panties aside with two thick fingers, brushing the bare, sticky heat of your cunt. His fingers slide through the mess and God, you're dripping for him.

His hands slip under your thighs, lifting them effortlessly as he spreads your legs wide over the arms of his chair. Pinned open, soaked, squirming—he's got you just how he wants you, and he knows it. You grab his shoulders instinctively, nails digging in for some kind of grounding because you already know what's coming.

"Jay—"

He slaps your ass. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan, and the sound of it echoes filthy and perfect in the quiet room.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" he growls, cocky and breathless, dragging the head of his dick through your slippery folds, teasing you just enough to make your hips twitch.

You nod fast, needy, thoughtless. "Yes—yes, please, just—fuck me, Jay, I want it—"

He scoots just a little, lining himself up, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press right against your hole before he pushes in.

Fuck. You shudder, mouth falling open, nails pressing into his shoulders as he slides in so easily. Your walls stretch around him without resistance, just soaked and swollen and ready to take every inch. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks deeper until his hips are flush with yours and you can feel him throb inside you.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs, voice wrecked already. "Took me like you've been waitin' for this all evening."

And you have. God, you fucking have. You barely have time to adjust to how deep he is, your body still fluttering around the stretch when Jason yanks your tank top down in one quick, rough motion. The fabric strains before it slips beneath your tits, baring them to the air—and to him. His mouth is on you in seconds, hot and hungry, groaning as he buries his face right between your tits.

You let out a breathless little moan, your hands braced on his broad shoulders as you start to move. The position is perfect—you're spread open over the chair, anchored by his grip and the way his thighs are planted beneath yours, and it gives you leverage.

You roll your hips first, then start to bounce, each slick slide down making you gasp. His cock fills you just right, hard and pulsing, stretching you perfectly as you fuck yourself on him.

He groans against your skin, cupping both your tits with those big, rough hands, squeezing just hard enough to make your back arch. "Goddamn, baby, these fuckin' tits..."

And then he's licking you. Everywhere. His tongue drags between your nipples, slow and wet, before he sucks one into his mouth, lips wrapping tight around it as his tongue flicks and rolls. You whine, hips stuttering, and he doesn't stop—switches to the other nipple like he can't pick a favorite, sucking it hard enough to make you gasp again.

"You ride me so good," he mutters, voice all fucked out, his hands kneading your tits like he owns them. "Bouncin' on my dick like a good fuckin' girl."

Your breath catches as he pulls back, his mouth slick with spit, and you don't even get a second to adjust before his hands are on your ass. One rough grip on each cheek, and he slams you down, holding you there, pinning you as he starts fucking up into you.

Your head falls back with a whimper, the wet sounds between your legs growing louder every time he slams into you. Your arousal coats him, slick and messy and everywhere, and you can feel it. The way it clings to his skin and your folds, shiny and sticky. And Jason? He's watching all of it. Losing it.

"Look at this pussy," he groans, hips snapping up fast and hard. "Look at how you take me—fuckin' swallowin' my dick."

He fucks you like he means it. No holding back, no teasing. Just deep, hungry thrusts that stretch your soaked pussy wide every time he buries himself inside you. Your thighs twitch, muscles straining as he slams up into you with enough force to make the chair creak underneath you both, and all you can do is hold on.

You feel full, stuffed to the hilt, every inch of him hitting so deep, like he's fucking your pleasure into the deepest part of your pussy. Your tits bounce with every snap of his hips, heavy and slick from his spit, and he watches them like a man obsessed.

"Touch your pretty little clit," he pants, voice wrecked with how hard he's breathing, how tight your pussy is squeezing him. "C'mon, baby, rub that messy little thing for me."

And you obey without thinking, how could you fucking not? You slide one trembling hand between your thighs and find your swollen clit instantly, already throbbing and slippery with your arousal. You rub it in fast, messy circles, breath stuttering from the pleasure overload of it all—your soaked cunt getting pounded, your clit aching from how worked up you are, his dick splitting you open so perfectly.

"That's it," Jason growls, his hands gripping your ass. "Look at you—ridin' my dick, rubbin' that sweet little clit like a good girl. You're fuckin' perfect, baby."

And you fucking break. Your body shudders once, then again, your voice catching in your throat before a moan punches out of you, high and desperate. Your fingers never stop moving, and neither does he, fucking you through it, even as your legs seize up and your back arches.

And then it happens. You squirt, just like that. Your orgasm crashes through you in wet, pulsing waves, hot and intense, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock as fluid gushes out of you. It soaks your fingers, his dick, his lap—everything—your slick arousal spraying out with each deep, perfect thrust. Your hand is drenched, your thighs are dripping, and Jason moans so loud, head falling back as he watches you come completely undone.

"Holy fuck," he hisses, fucking up into you harder, rougher. "So goddamn pretty when you make a mess, baby."

You tremble, panting, overwhelmed and wrecked, barely able to moan out a soft, broken "Don't stop, Jay—please—" even as your walls keep pulsing from aftershocks.

You lean in, still trembling from your orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him, and Jason doesn't even wait. His hand flies up to the back of your neck, rough and greedy, and he pulls you down into a kiss like he needs your mouth just as much as your pussy.

It's messy, all spit and panting breaths, tongues sliding together in a wet tangle. He groans into your mouth like he's starving for you, and you swallow the sound greedily, hips rolling as his dick keeps driving up into your soaked cunt.

You moan into him, the slick drag of his cock inside you still hitting every swollen, overstimulated nerve, your pussy fluttering around him. You're still so fucking wet, everything between your legs an absolute mess, your arousal smeared all over his cock and clinging to your thighs, pooling under your ass with every grind of your hips.

His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he can't fucking help himself, and you kiss him back just as hungrily, both of you panting into each other's mouths as your bodies slap together, wet and obscene. You can feel the way his hips jerk every time your walls clench down, hear the little grunts he makes when your nails dig into his skin.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, helpless pants, and Jason's eyes are blown wide when he looks at you—wet mouth, flushed face, tits bouncing every time he drives into you.

"Fuck," he grits, hips stuttering just for a second. "You kiss me like that while I'm inside this pussy, I'm not gonna last."

But that doesn't stop him. He licks into your mouth again, sloppy and hot, like he can't get enough, and he doesn't stop fucking you even for a second, your cunt sucking him back in again and again.

But then he stops. Just fucking stops, cock buried deep and throbbing, and your whole body twitches when he stills, when that perfect stretch suddenly halts, and all you can do is let out this desperate, broken little whimper against his mouth.

Jason grins. That smug, shit eating, cocky little smirk that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder all at once.

"Oh, you didn't think I'd let you finish me off like that, did you?"

Before you can even beg, his hands are under your thighs, and he fucking stands with you still on his dick. You gasp, clinging to him as he lifts you, and then, with a little thud, your ass hits the cool surface of his desk.

"Jason—"

Papers scatter. A pen clatters to the floor. His cock slips out for the briefest, aching second, but he's already lining up again, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift your leg, the other grabbing your neck.

You moan sharp and high, head falling back as his dick drags in deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot again and again, every thrust brutal and wet and perfect. Your pussy squeezes him tight—too tight—and he groans, deep and ragged, his hips stuttering just a little.

"Shit—yeah. Just like that. Fuckin' stranglin' my dick—"

His hand around your neck squeezes just enough to make your pussy clench hard, and that makes him pause just a second as your walls squeeze his dick like a fucking vice.

"Jesus—fuckin'—Christ," he groans, eyes flicking down to where he's buried in you.

And God, it's filthy. Your pussy is drooling around him, soaking his dick and his desk and your thighs, the slick wet sounds echoing with every thrust as he rails you, fast and deep, making the desk creak. You cry out when his thumb suddenly slides down between your legs, rubbing tight little circles over your clit—slippery and fast, making your thighs tremble where they hang off the desk. Your whole body twitches, hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing that pressure even as he fucks you.

"Yeah?" he pants, circling it hard and fast, smirking at the way you squirm. "That what you needed, baby?"

You nod, frantic, breathless, clutching at his biceps while he ruins you, rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles as he keeps fucking you, every thrust sending wet heat sparking down your spine.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty when I touch you," he grits, watching how your face crumples with every swipe of his thumb. "Wanna see you cum again. Wanna feel this little pussy soak my dick."

And the way he says it? Low and wrecked and hungry? You know you're not gonna last long.

"J-Jay," you whine, voice high and ragged, words tumbling between shaky breaths, "T-too much, baby, I can't—"

But he shuts you up with a kiss, rough and hot and wet, mouths mashing together like he's trying to taste every moan you're too wrecked to hold back. His tongue licks into your mouth, greedy and slow, and it's all spit and gasps and his quiet groan when your lips cling to his like you're starved. Which, you are. You always are.

"Yeah, you can, doll," he murmurs between kisses, words rumbling against your tongue. "C'mon, give it to me."

And you try—God, you try—but your thoughts are fucking gone. Just a mess of heat and Jay and the stretch of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, over and over again. You haven't even cum more than once, but you're already seeing stars. Truth is, you were pent up before you even dropped to your knees under his desk—fuming, needy, aching.

So now, with his dick hitting just right, his hand tightening a little more around your throat, his thumb still teasing your soaked, swollen clit? You fucking shatter.

Your mouth drops open, a choked little moan spilling out as your pussy clamps down hard, gushing around his dick in a hot, wet rush. You tremble against him, thighs shaking where they're pinned open, and all you can do is feel—your cunt clenching, fluttering around his cock, your soaked skin sticking to the desk, the way his thumb never lets up.

"Fuuuck—that's it, baby," he groans, watching it all, voice all heat and adoration, worshiping the way your cunt flutters around him, "Jesus, look at you. So perfect. So good for me."

He slows down just a little—not stopping, no—but just enough to feel every squeeze of your pussy, every twitch. Jason doesn't even say anything, just presses one last kiss to your lips before he straightens up and gently pushes you down onto your back. Files and papers scatter everywhere as he clears the space with a sweep of his arm, but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, drunk on the sight of you laid out for him, pussy wet and glistening and taking him so fucking good.

And when he starts moving again? It's deep. Deep enough that your toes curl and your hands claw at the edge of the desk. Deep enough that you gasp his name like a prayer, like you've already forgotten how to breathe.

Jason's thoughts are fried. All he can think about is this. You, flat on your back, eyes all glassy, tits bouncing with every hard thrust, that tiny little bulge low in your belly when he bottoms out. He's obsessed. Addicted, even. No one's ever looked this good on his cock. No one's ever taken him like you do, like your pussy was made for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, leaning over you, bracing his forearm beside your head. "You feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good."

His mouth is back on your tits like he missed them, like he can't stand being away for more than a second. He licks up the slick curve of one, all heat and filthy little groans like he's getting drunk off the taste of your skin. And he kind of is. He sucks your nipple into his mouth with this greedy little noise in the back of his throat—deep, wet, messy—while his cock keeps fucking into you.

Your back arches off the desk the second his teeth so much as graze you, and he fucking smirks against your skin, the asshole. He switches to the other, tongue flicking lazy little circles before he sucks hard. One of his hands slides up to hold your breast, big and warm and possessive, while the other stays locked on your thigh, pinning you down so he can keep pounding into you.

Your fingers slide into his hair without even thinking, tangling tight at the roots because you need him right there, mouth locked around your nipple while he fucks you deep enough to make your toes curl. And he doesn't complain. He groans when you tug, hips stuttering for half a second like it gets him off, like he likes being kept there, held in place with your hand in his hair and your thighs starting to shake around his waist.

His hands drag down your sides slow, palms hot and possessive like he's trying to feel all of you, like he wants to memorize the way your body trembles under his. Jason grabs under your thighs and lifts, just enough to tilt your hips, to fold you open a little more for him, and then he's fucking into you harder.

Like full body, desk rattling, brain melting hard. You gasp—loud, messy—arms wrapping around his neck as the desk underneath you starts to groan with every deep, punishing thrust. It's all slick skin and filthy moans, your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, one of them still wet from his mouth. You can feel him grinding deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, his breath hot against your chest, jaw tight, barely holding himself back.

And that's how you know he's close, when he gets like this. When his rhythm goes from slow and controlled to desperate, deep, rough enough to shake the furniture.

Every thrust punches a whimper out of you, every grind of his hips drags a broken moan from your throat, and all you can do is babble—slurred, fucked out praise spilling from your lips without a single filter.

"Just like that, Jay," you breathe, voice all high and wrecked, like it's getting fucked right out of you. Your nails are digging into his shoulders now, legs trembling where they're hooked over his arms, and your head falls back with a broken little cry as his dick slams into you hard. "Fuck—fuck, you feel so good, baby—don't stop—don't stop, please—"

You're barely making sense, the praise through mixing with every breathless moan because your brain has gone fuzzy from how deep he's hitting. And it works—God, it always works. You know exactly what it does to him when you talk like that, when you gasp his name and whimper about how good he fills you up like you need it to breathe.

"Fuck, baby—God, you sound so pretty when I fuck you like this—"

Then he loses it. His rhythm stutters, gets all rough and desperate, and then he's muttering something low under his breath as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shit—gonna cum—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

He slams his dick into you deep, so deep it punches the air out of your lungs, and then he's there, hips jerking as he cums hard, cock pulsing deep inside you while he moans against your skin, low and wrecked and so goddamn gone.

You feel the heat of it the second he lets go, thick and hot, spilling into you in long, desperate pulses that make your whole body jolt. He's buried as deep as he can go, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and fuck, it's so much—you can feel it flooding you, pooling deep in your cunt, so warm it makes your toes curl.

It's messy and raw, the way it leaks out around the base of his cock with every little grind of his hips, like your pussy is too full to take all of it, but you want to. You're clutching at him like you need to be filled, like you ache for it, moaning brokenly into the side of his neck as your walls clamp down, greedy and pulsing, your pussy desperately trying to drag every last drop out of him.

And that's it. That's what sends you over. Your back arches off the desk with a cry, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm crashes over you—hot and blinding, slick and overwhelming. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight and messy you feel him groan deep in his chest, his hips giving one more slow, grinding thrust just to fuck it deeper. You're gushing around him, wet and desperate, your whole body shaking as you cum so hard it almost hurts, like every nerve has been set on fire.

And all the while, you can feel him still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around his cock and dripping down onto the desk under you, warm and slippery and so much it makes you whimper. He stays there, buried deep, panting into your neck, and you both just hold onto each other, sweaty and shaking and so fucked out you can barely remember your own name.

Your walls are still twitching around him, little aftershocks rolling through your belly while his cock stays buried deep, keeping all that warmth right where he left it. You're both still breathing hard, your legs loose around his waist, one of your hands threaded in his hair while the other just rests over his heart like you're trying to steady the way it's still pounding.

And then he starts kissing you.

Soft, slow, sweet, like he's making up for every hard thrust with something gentle. His lips drag over your throat first, right where he'd been moaning your name seconds ago. Then your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone—he presses messy little kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, warm and lazy and full of affection, even as your pussy still flutters faintly around his dick.

By the time he reaches your lips, you're already tilting your chin up for him, mouth parting instinctively like it's muscle memory, like you're wired to kiss him the second he gets close.

And God, when he kisses you? It's everything. It's hot and deep and messy, more tongue than precision, like neither of you care about finesse, just the feel of it. His lips press to yours with this greedy, aching sweetness, like he missed your mouth even though he's been wrecking you for the past half an hour.

His tongue licks into your mouth slow, lazy and possessive, tasting every moan you don't even mean to let out. You whimper into it, walls tightening again with oversensitive need, and he feels that too—groans into your mouth and presses his hips a little deeper, just to feel your pussy squeeze down around him.

You kiss him back wet and open and hungry, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his in a way that says please don't stop. And he doesn't. He kisses you until you're breathless, until your thighs twitch around his waist, until he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dick still pulsing faintly inside your soaked, aching cunt.

Jason chuckles against your lips, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling like he's just barely gotten it under control again. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, still not soft, still hot and hard and so deep, and it's got you grinning already, even before he speaks.

"Jesus, doll," he mutters, voice rough and warm and fucked out. "You're such a fuckin'—"

You squeeze around him. On purpose.

"You little—" he huffs, trying to sound pissed.

But then you giggle. That soft, sweet little sound you make when you know exactly what you're doing, when you're all pleased with yourself and looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

And he can't even be fucking mad at you. He wants to be. He should be. But your eyes are sparkling and your smile is too damn pretty and your skin is still flushed and glowing and sticky with sweat and sex, and all he can think is fuck, I love my girl.

You smile up at him, all smug and satisfied, knowing exactly what you just did. You know he won't say it—he won't admit it out loud—but you know. You know he's ruined for you, and you wear it like a crown.

You sigh, soft and happy, still full of him, still stretched wide around his cock and completely fucked out.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he's exasperated, but his mouth is curved just a little too much to sell it. "Happy now, you gremlin?"

You brush your nose against his, still smiling like you just won the damn lottery. "So happy, Jay."

He just looks at you for a second like he's trying to memorize the stupid, blissed out little smile on your face. Then his lips are back on yours, and it's slow this time. Lazy. Tender. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl even though you're already fucked out and cock drunk and full of him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you moan into it without meaning to—soft and breathy—because fuck, he's still inside you. Still warm and thick and deep, and every tiny shift of his hips just rubs the right way, dragging over that raw, overstimulated spot that makes your whole body jolt.

He groans into the kiss like he feels it too, like your moan goes straight to his cock. And maybe it does, because it twitches inside you again, and your hips shift instinctively, chasing the friction even if it makes you whimper from how sensitive you are.

By the time he pulls back, you're dazed all over again, lips swollen and slick, eyes fluttering open like you're trying to remember where the hell you even are.

Then he kisses your nose. Just a quick, sweet little peck right on the tip of it, and you giggle like an actual, honest to God giggle. Completely, helplessly dick drunk.

He grins, because he knows exactly what kind of mess you are right now, and then his big hands slide under your ass and he lifts you off the desk.

You squeak, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, your legs instinctively tightening around his waist to keep him close, cock still buried deep inside you and dragging deliciously against your walls with the motion. Your head falls to his shoulder with a breathless little moan, and you feel him chuckle like he loves every second of it. Because he does.

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and still a little hoarse. "Let's get you cleaned up, doll."

You sigh, all dreamy and content, arms still looped around his neck like you've got no intention of letting go anytime soon. He carries you through the apartment with that same casual strength he always has—like you weigh nothing, like he wants you in his arms. And you just bury your face in his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to his skin as you go. Right under his jaw, just beneath his ear. He smells like sweat and sex and a little bit of cologne, and it makes your head spin.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, the warm light hits your skin and you start to come back to yourself a little right up until he pulls out.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, thighs twitching as his cum starts to leak out of you in a slow, sticky trickle. Jason curses under his breath, eyes flicking down between your legs, watching the mess drip down your thighs, and his grip on you tightens instinctively.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..."

He presses you against his chest again like he knows your legs won't hold up and yeah, he's right. You're limp as a ragdoll, legs jelly, brain soup, and you don't even pretend to argue. You just lean into him, face pressed to his chest, nose brushing over his skin while his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

He reaches into the shower with one hand to turn the water on, testing the temperature like he's done it a hundred times before, and you just stay where you are, warm and safe and so thoroughly used you feel like you're floating.

Once the water is going, he shifts his grip, easing you down to your feet—barely, just enough to start tugging at your soaked panties. They cling to your thighs, damp with sweat and slick and the mess he left inside you, and he peels them down slow, steady, not saying a word.

Then comes your tank top, and he helps you out of that too, his fingers brushing your sides as he eases it over your head, careful not to jostle you too much. Both pieces of clothing go straight into the washing machine with zero hesitation. You hear the soft thunk of the lid closing while he checks the shower one more time, then turns back to you.

Naked, warm, and still kind of wrecked, standing in the soft light with your thighs sticky and your chest rising and falling—his girl. And you just look up at him, dazed and smiling, because you'd let him do it all over again if he asked.

The shower is warm, steam curling around both your bodies as he pulls you in with him, keeping you close, keeping you safe. You sigh into it, forehead resting against his chest, arms draped around his waist.

He grabs the body wash and works up a slow, soapy lather between his palms, then starts to run his hands over your skin, so gentle even though those hands were gripping your hips and fucking you into the desk not even fifteen minutes ago. He washes you carefully, like you're fragile, like he's undoing every rough touch with something soft and slow now.

His fingers slide down your back, over your thighs, across your belly, lingering just a little between your legs, wiping away what's still dripping out of you with careful swipes.

You moan softly at the touch, even if there's no heat behind it, just sensitivity and love and the way his hands feel like home.

He presses kisses wherever he can reach while he works—your shoulder, the side of your neck, that spot right under your ear that always makes you sigh. You tilt your head up to meet his mouth when he leans in, and the kiss he gives you is slow and sweet and deep. Just tongues brushing lazily, mouths open and soft because you're both too blissed out to care about anything but the taste of each other.

When you pull back, you're both smiling. Dumbly. Lovingly. Pure adoration in his eyes. Like he's still a little wrecked from the way you clung to him back on the desk, like he can't believe he gets to touch you like this, kiss you like this, love you like this.

By the time you're rinsed off and clean and completely melted into him, he shuts off the water and helps you out, holding your hand like you might tip over on the bath mat if he doesn't. You probably would.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around your body first, tucking it tight under your arms, and you can’t help the little shiver that runs through you when his knuckles graze your skin. Then he grabs another for himself, slinging it low around his waist and raking a hand through his wet hair before turning back to you.

"Don't move, doll," he says, soft and amused.

And you don't. You just stand there in your towel, still warm and a little pink from the water, watching him disappear into the bedroom like some kind of domestic dream.

He's back less than a minute later with exactly what you knew he’d bring. A clean pair of panties and one of his t-shirts, big and soft and worn thin in all the right places. You snort a little when you see it.

"Didn't even bother with my clothes, huh?"

Jason just smirks, holding them out for you. "Why waste the effort when I know you're just gonna end up in this anyway?"

You roll your eyes but your heart melts, and he looks so smug about it you almost want to kiss him again.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, grabs some soft drawstring shorts from the dresser, and slips them on low on his hips, still damp, hair messy, towel slung over one shoulder as he moves around like a man with a mission. The second those towels are tossed in the bin, he turns back to you with that warm, post shower glow and holds out a hand.

"C'mon, gremlin."

You giggle as he helps you back out to the living room, and yeah, you are kinda shuffling like a little creature in his oversized shirt, clean and soft and half asleep on your feet. He settles you on the couch with way too much care, like you're some fragile thing that might tip over if he lets go for too long, tucks a blanket around your legs even though it's not cold.

Then he leans down, kisses your forehead and says, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

You hum, content, watching him as he turns and walks off and, naturally, the moment he's out of reach, you flop over and twist to rest your chin on the backrest just in time to see him stomping toward his desk. Like full blown damage control mode.

You watch as he shuts the monitors with a bit more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath, probably about how the fuck am I supposed to get work done when you keep doing shit like that, and then starts stacking the files you so rudely distracted him from. You can't even pretend to feel bad.

Especially not when he looks down at the mess on the surface—your handprint, the faint fog of sweat, and probably a little bit of cum—and lets out this put upon little sigh like he's not absolutely delighted with himself.

He wipes it down quick, grabs his phone, and you hear the soft beep of him opening his food app. Because yeah, no one's cooking after that. Dinner shows up faster than you expect, and Jason's already halfway through pretending he's not gonna baby you tonight.

"You could've gotten up to get the door," he grumbles, grabbing the bags and carrying them into the living room like he didn't just tuck you into the couch ten minutes ago. "Y'got legs."

"Jelly legs," you remind him sweetly, stretching like a cat under his shirt, bare thighs peeking out. "Your fault."

He shoots you a look but it's useless. His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and before he can stop himself, he's nudging your legs apart and pulling them into his lap as he sits beside you.

"You little shit," he mutters under his breath.

But then he's opening the containers, poking around for your favorites, and feeding you bites between kisses to the top of your head. Like fucking clockwork. You hum after every one, leaning into him, basking in the warmth of his lap, and he gives up the fake grumpiness entirely once you nuzzle against his chest like the clingy little menace you are.

Eventually, dinner's forgotten somewhere on the coffee table, TV flickering in the background while you’re curled up half on, half under him, both of you pretending to watch.

It starts small, your fingers absently toying with the hem of his shorts, his hand smoothing down your spine in slow, lazy strokes. Then your nose brushes his jaw. Then your lips do. And then he turns toward you, and it just happens. Slow. Drowsy. Addictive.

His lips press to yours, soft and easy, and it's like you both breathe out at the same time, sinking into each other without thinking. Your mouths move together like you've done this a thousand times before, wet and slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with this teasing little flick that makes you whine into his mouth.

Jason groans low in his throat, one hand slipping under his shirt, palm warm and rough on your bare waist. You gasp into the next kiss, thighs shifting on either side of him, and that sound—that needy little noise you make—has him chasing your mouth like he can't get enough.

There's no rush. No angle. Just the quiet slide of lips and tongues and soft gasps between kisses that get deeper, longer, messier. You tug at his hair and he huffs a laugh against your mouth, pulling you tighter to him, completely wrecked by how much he wants you even now.

But eventually, your mouths slow down. Kisses taper off into soft little pecks. Your breathing evens out. His fingers stroke along your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut, head tucked under his chin like you've found your home and you're not leaving it.

Jason exhales like he's never been more relaxed in his life. "Needy little gremlin," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it, just affection, worn in and real.

You smile sleepily against his chest. "I love you too, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, like he's pretending to be over it but his arms tighten around you all the same.

You don't say anything back, too far gone already. Your breathing has gone slow and even, face squished into his chest, lashes fluttering against his skin. And then it happens, that first soft snore.

Barely there, just a tiny little puff of air through your nose, but Jason hears it. He always does. And he can't help it—his chest shakes with the little laugh he tries to smother.

Because you swear you don't snore. Every time he brings it up you're like "no I don't, Jay, you're lying, I sleep like a princess", and maybe you do. But you're also snoring like a baby animal, and it's the fucking cutest thing he's ever heard.

He looks down at you, completely dead asleep on him in his shirt, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there, and honestly, those files on the desk can rot. He knows he's not done, knows he should've closed out those reports or replied to that one message before knocking off for the night. But all that can wait.

Because right now, you're laying on top of him, breathing slow and even, little snores puffing against his chest, and he's got one hand tangled in your hair and the other cradling the soft curve of your thigh, and he couldn't give a single shit about anything else.

There's always tomorrow.

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter seven

⭐︎ Fall back into place. Fall back...

Warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of sex, mentions of sex toys, post apocalypse au, mentions of death, mentions of cheating (past relationships), grumpy x sunshine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Your first solo trip with Steve goes a little wrong and yet it pushes you closer... much closer than ever before.

Word count: 10.6k+

Author's note: Things are heating up y'all, we're getting closer and closer to the good stuff hehe. give @hellfire--cult some loving she deserves it, she helped and wrote a lot here !!!!

series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter ⭐︎ next chapter

☀︎

“There’s a gun store about two miles from here. If we go now, we can make it back before it gets dark.” Eddie explains as he points his finger at the map, tracing the road on it to the required destination. “If not then we gotta find shelter for the night but we’re definitely not getting through that with the RV.” The look on his face is skeptical as he looks up at the blocked highway. Time froze here just like it did in most places. Cars and trucks litter the highway, making it impossible to find a passageway in between. 

Nancy’s eyebrows are furrowed as she looks down anxiously. 

“Can’t we just try our luck somewhere else?” She asks knowing that you can’t all go together, someone will have to stay back with the RV. 

Steve shakes his head at her. 

“We need the ammo, we have barely any left and who knows what we’ll run into out here.”

“Yeah and we got a long wasteland ahead of us,” you mumble as you fidget with your fingers. 

“Who says we’ll get lucky?” Nancy questions, looking between you and Steve before her eyes fixate on Eddie. “The store might be empty and the town might be crawling with infected.” 

“We have to try, Nancy. We’re also low on food, it’s been weeks since we found anything.” 

You are surviving off your savings now. You’re not sure how many cans of food you got left in the cabinets of the RV. The last time you got lucky was the day you taught them how to successfully kill the infected. You’re just glad that you were able to find water and gas and stock up on that since then. 

But you need more, more gas, more food, more ammo, more guns or else you won’t survive this winter – or barely. The moment you find your way back on the highway with miles and miles of no towns ahead of you, you will be doomed, all of you. You have no option but to try your luck in the nearest small town. 

Nancy sighs, looking up again, she looks between you all before nodding. 

“Fuck. Yeah, yeah okay.” 

A small smile appears on your face and you nod at her, bringing your hand up to her shoulder. 

“Who knows, maybe we’ll find some gas,” you shrug, glancing at the abandoned cars on the road. “I’m sure there’s plenty in the tanks. We’ll just siphon it.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows at you, his brown eyes flashing with curiosity as Steve eyes you up and down. 

“And what do you know about siphoning, sweetheart?” He smirks a little. “You ever done it before?”

You shake your head, chuckling softly as your eyes meet the curious ones of Steve. He opens his water bottle and brings it up to his lips. 

“Nope. Can’t be too hard though right?” You shrug as you begin to make your way back inside the RV to get your backpack ready. “Just need a hose and do some sucking, easy peasy.”

Steve nearly chokes on his water when Eddie looks at him suggestively after those words leave your lips. His cheeks flush red as the metalhead wiggles his eyebrows at him. 

In the past few weeks, Steve has suffered relentless teasing from him and it’s starting to get on his nerves. Not only do his comments make him feel flustered, they also make him blush… constantly. Ever since he saw you stuffing those panties into your backpack, his body had been acting weird. His stomach constantly flutters, his cheeks heat up when he sees more of your skin than he should, when his eyes unwillingly fall onto your butt whenever you bend over to tie your shoelaces or to pick something up. 

Steve knows that he is deprived. That his body craves to feel the touch of another, to feel the warmth of someone else, to feel the touch of gentle hands on his skin. You happen to be the only option around he can fixate himself on in this way. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

By the way Eddie’s lips curl into an evil smirk, Steve just knows that something dirty is about to fall from his mouth. 

“Bet she knows a lot about that,” he cackles as he folds the map and presses it against Steve’s chest, forcing him to take it. “Who knows, maybe you’ll find out.” Eddie shrugs. 

Steve huffs at the metalhead, shaking his head in annoyance. Though his cheeks still flush a deep red. 

Nancy rolls her eyes at them both, uncrossing her arms, she walks away from them both and follows you inside. 

“Guess it’s me and her then?” Steve murmurs, avoiding the teasing eyes of his friend. 

Eddie hums, still smirking. 

“Yep, you and sunshine,” he chuckles as he taps his shoulder. He looks up into the sky, noting the dark clouds. “And you better not waste any time, looks like luck isn’t on our side today.”

Steve furrows his eyebrows, and he tilts his head up. A frown appears on his face, the grey sky indicates incoming rain. The gust of wind that hits him is cold, icy. 

“Alright,” Steve nods, having hope that you will make it to the town and back before it starts to rain. “We better get going then.”

Eddie nods. 

“We’ll park the RV behind the trees over there and wait there until you get back,” Eddie points out to the nearby forest. 

Steve looks to where he’s pointing at and he nods. 

“We might have to set up camp somewhere else if it starts raining… or worse storming.” Steve mumbles, not feeling very fond of the idea to spend a night with you alone. 

When he turns back to Eddie, he finds him smirking yet again, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Oh, I’m sure that’s gonna be such a problem, man. Forced proximity with a hot girl? That’s awful. Hopefully your clothes stay on.” 

Steve wants to hit him. He wants to hit him so badly. For teasing him the way that he is. For calling you hot. 

Eddie chuckles at the glare that is directed at him. He is enjoying this more than he probably should. 

He slaps Steve’s shoulder, pushing him back towards the RV. 

“Come on, grab your protection, you’ll need it.” Eddie mumbles, trying not to smirk at his own words. He feels Steve’s eyes on him and when he tilts his head at him, he finds him glaring harder than before. 

Eddie lifts his shoulders innocently, “what? I was talking about your gear. Get your mind out of the gutter, King Steve. Jeez.” 

Steve huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“Mhmm sure you were, Munson.” 

Nancy arms are crossed, her back pressed against the wall beside the window as she watches you. You seem unfazed, fastening your thigh holster and securing the gun inside before you reach for your jacket. A leather jacket Eddie had found in an abandoned car a few days ago, claiming that it was made for you. 

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” 

You turn around to face Nancy, instantly noticing the worried look in her eyes – she tries not to show it but it’s there. You know the worry is mostly reserved for Steve. 

“We have to.” 

You throw your backpack on and step closer to her, placing your hand on her shoulder. 

“I’m used to scavenging. I’ve survived big cities before. This is nothing,” you shrug, smiling at her. “And don’t worry about Steve, I’ll bring him back in one piece.” 

Nancy tilts her head to the side, furrowing her eyebrows. 

It’s not just him she worries about. 

“I want both of you back in one piece.” She frowns, shaking her head a little as she uncrosses her arms. “I don’t like it when you go out there.” 

Your eyes soften. A comfortable feeling spreads inside of you, something warm. 

Nancy is confused by the look of surprise in your features. You’re eying her like you don’t understand why she is so worried about you. 

She doesn’t know that no one ever did, no one except your family. 

You shrug and slowly back away, smiling reassuringly. 

“I always come back.” You grab onto the straps of your backpack. “Nothing can get me.” 

“That…” Nancy hesitates, frowning even deeper than before. “That doesn’t comfort me in any way.” 

A chuckle falls from your lips as you start to make your way out of the RV. Walking down the steps, you look over your shoulder. 

“The glass is always half empty for you isn’t it? Have a little faith in me, Nancy.” 

She rolls her eyes at you, though she can’t hold back the smile. 

“I do.” 

Eddie’s chuckle grabs your attention. You turn towards him to find him whispering something into Steve’s ear. The latter pushes him away, rolling his eyes and scoffing loudly before he walks away from him and past you, mumbling something about grabbing his stuff. 

Normally, you would have thought nothing of it but the flushed cheeks and the embarrassed look in his eyes reminds you of the day when he walked into the half naked mannequins. 

Both your eyes and Nancy’s follow his figure until he disappears into the RV. 

Nancy looks amused as she turns to Eddie, whose grin is wide and his eyes are filled with mischief. 

You raise your eyebrows at the metalhead, questioning him with your eyes but he only shrugs at you. 

“What…” 

“Ready?” Steve comes back out with a backpack slung over his shoulder, his nailed bat tucked into it. He fixes the strap on his rifle as he stops beside you. 

You nod, trying to look into his eyes though he avoids your gaze. You notice how flushed his cheeks still are. You know that whatever Eddie had said to him, flustered him and you wondered what it could probably be. 

You breathe in slowly and take another look at the smug metalhead. He winks at you, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively which only makes you more confused, especially when Steve scoffs again. 

“Uh… yeah, I’m ready.” 

“Alright,” Steve murmurs under his breath. He nods at Nancy and then at Eddie but not without rolling his eyes at him once more. He taps your back two times, nodding at the road ahead of you. 

“Let’s do this.” 

-

Another house, another disappointment. Even the stores are almost empty, except for a few cans and bottles here and there. You haven’t made it to the gun store yet but you already know that Steve lost hope already, he didn’t say it but you can see it in his eyes and how the hope slowly fades after walking out of yet another building with empty hands and an unfilled backpack. 

You’re strolling through empty streets, of something that once used to be a busy town – you can tell by the many stores on the main street. Broken windows and messes litter the little shops that once were neat and pretty to look at. Cars are parked in front of the stores, windows broken and doors left open. 

There is nothing here. 

It’s a ghost town, just like any other you have come across. 

The sound of your footsteps and Steve’s heavy sighs are the only sign of life here. Not even monsters or infected seem to be around. 

You tighten the grip on your machete, still looking around, trying to spot something that could be of importance.

“I hate to admit it,” you pause and take a deep breath. You avoid his eyes when you feel them on you. “But maybe Nancy was right.” 

To your surprise, Steve chuckles and shrugs. 

“Don’t tell her that, she’ll say ‘I told you so’ with that annoying smug look on her face.”

A soft laugh falls from your lips, and you nod. 

He looks under the cars to make sure that nothing won’t crawl out from under there. The two lines between his eyebrows are prominent. His shoulders are tense, his whole body is. 

There is a shop on the far end of the street, right next to something that once used to be a liquor store. It peaks your interest. You furrow your brows and squint your eyes, trying to see better. 

“Let’s check this out,” you murmur and lift up your machete, pointing at the shop with the sharp end of your blade. 

Steve’s eyes follow where you’re pointing, and he can’t tell what it is from this distance. His sight is getting blurry every time he tries to look far ahead. Consequences of the many concussions he probably had through the years.

“Lead the way,” he states and quickly comes to regret it when only a few steps later, you both halt before the shop. It takes him a minute or two to realize what you have led him to. His cheeks warm at the sight of things displayed on the showcase. The red colors, the fuzzy material, the… toys. He blinks a few times, trying to swallow the embarrassment creeping up inside of him as he looks up at the sign that once used to glow in the night; Girls, Girls, Girls. Adult Store.

A giggle falls from your lips, pulling him out of his thoughts. He tilts his head down and looks at you. He doesn’t know why but the sight before him feels a little unexpected. He didn’t think that your eyes would shine at the sight of… well… that. He also didn’t think that you would react so calmly to something like this, especially compared to him. 

He doesn’t have to look at his own reflection to know that his cheeks are a furious red. 

And it’s not that he’s a stranger to… sexual things but he has also become very timid as he got older. The past few years have also changed for him, he can’t even remember the last time he touched someone or even thought about touching someone. 

As he stares at you, at the mischievous look on your face, the sparkling eyes and the teasing grin that begins to form on your lips, he wonders about you. He wonders about the experiences you had before this world or even after. He wonders what you have been like and what kind of things you have been up to. If you had been dating around, if you had something serious going on or if you preferred casual. 

He never asked himself these things before and with good reason but now he can’t help but wonder and let his mind race.

He always deemed you as shy, maybe even innocent. 

But it doesn’t seem like it now, quite the opposite. 

“We should go inside–”

He opens his mouth to speak, wanting to protest and stop you from making his case even more awkward but he doesn’t even get the chance to. You grab your crowbar from your backpack, putting your machete away, you easily pick the lock. 

Steve brings his hand up to the back of his neck, scratching it awkwardly as he looks around. He clears his throat as he tries to sound casual, nonchalant, when he is anything but. 

“W-What’d you want in there, sunshine?” He asks and almost cringes at himself for the shakiness in his voice. 

You open the door with ease and step inside after taking a peek first, making sure that it’s not infested with something. You look over your shoulder, grinning widely as you wiggle your eyebrows. 

“I don’t know but the dildo section is funny.” You say before you walk inside, leaving him in the doorway stunned. 

His eyes are wide as he stares at your back, bouncing back and forth on his feet as something flushes deeply through him. 

So this isn’t your first time visiting one of these shops. 

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shaking his head. 

“We’re wasting time here… or are you trying to take out infected with dildos in the future?” 

Your giggle sounds through the store, making his own lips curl slightly, easing the tension within him. 

“It’s worth a try! Now come inside, Steve!” You call out to him. “Please…!”

This is insane. This is crazy. Not even before all this, before the world went to shit, did Steve step foot inside a sex shop. He can’t lie though, it always made him a little curious. 

He sighs and takes another look around before he decides to step inside. 

“Fine..” He murmurs under his breath and closes the door behind him. He clears his throat as he follows the sound of your footsteps. “Where are you…?”

His cheeks are still flushed, heating up more and more after each step that he takes. Toys, whips and chains are all across the store. A variety of handcuffs hang on the walls. A section of roleplay outfits are on his left. This seems to be the only store untouched. 

“Guess sex shops aren’t a hit in the apocalypse,” Steve mumbles quietly, though loud enough for you to hear. 

“Not many freaks around… or at least those kinds of freaks.” 

He follows the sound of your voice and your laugh. 

The fact that you even suggested trying your luck here tells him that you are one of those freaks left in this world. Not in a bad way. 

Steve halts in his tracks when he finds you in the little adult movies section – it’s similar to the one back in Hawkins in Family Video, minus the red curtain. You already grabbed one of the cowboy hats from the roleplay section and put it on your head. Steve would have laughed if he didn’t feel so flustered about this whole situation. 

“Everyone I did last summer.” 

Steve furrows his eyebrows as he stares at the back of your head. 

With a giggle you turn around to look at the man behind you, holding up the tape in your head, showing him the title. 

“Is that your movie?” 

Steve’s face falls into a glare, his head falls to the side as a humorless laugh escapes his mouth, “ha ha.” 

Your eyes crinkle and you laugh again, turning back around. 

He places his hands on his hips and sighs. He can’t remember the last time he did someone, certainly not this year or last. 

“The Sperminator,” you snort. 

Steve looks up at the ceiling, huffing. “Jesus Christ.” 

“The Bone Ranger–”

“Sunshine, we’re wasting our time here!”

You turn around with a frown on your face, pouting softly at him, “take it easy, cowboy. You need a little laugh.”

His eyes fall to your lips for a second before he looks into your eyes. Mistake number one.

“Do you hear me laughing?” 

You shrug and step closer to him, raising your hand up to the pink cowboy hat. You take it off and take another step closer to him. You don’t notice how his breathing hitches or how his eyes widen slightly at the sudden closeness. You rise to your tippy toes and place the hat on his head. 

For a second and only for a second, he lets himself look at you from up close. He takes in the color of your eyes, the dimple on your right cheek, the frown between your eyebrows, the softness of your skin. He digs his nails into his palms and takes a deep breath without meaning to breathe your soft scent in. He doesn’t know how but you always smell good, even without the luxury of every day showers, you always smell good. Sweet and floral – intoxicating. Mistake number two.

“There,” you smile sweetly before you take a step back, pulling him out of his little trance. “Cowboy.” 

He raises his eyebrows at the adoring look on your face and the tension slowly eases in him when he notices how you cower back slowly the longer you look at him. The smile slowly fades and your eyes shine with something different, no longer displaying the mischief from before. You are starting to look… flustered. 

Oh. 

Oh…

“You know what, sunshine?” He murmurs as his lips now curl into a smirk. “I’m starting to think you have a thing for cowboys.”

Your wide eyes and your parted lips are the giveaway. Your throat bobs when you swallow and you stutter, unable to form a sentence. 

“I…” You mumble and turn around, trying not to show your blushing face. “I don’t.” You walk away faster than you did after you walked in on him after his shower and it’s amusing to say the least. He can’t even help but chuckle… loudly. 

A part of him wants to follow you and tease you about it but he pushes his mean side away… for now. The smile still stays on his face and he continues to chuckle even as he turns in the other direction to look for the storage room in hopes of finding something valuable. Though he doubts that he will find anything of importance for this world in here. 

But to his surprise he ends up finding some snacks, some that probably belonged to the staff in here. Pringles and expired chocolate bars along with some cans of soda – it can’t get better than this. Wrong. He also finds batteries, probably for all the sex toys. He stuffs them all into his backpack. He checks out a few more shelves and cabinets before he walks back into the store to look for you. 

He finds you crouching down before your backpack, stuffing something inside that he can’t see. 

“You’re not packing whips and chains are you?” Steve asks, startling you. 

You look over your shoulder, surprised to see him still wearing the hat. You shake your head at him, holding back your chuckle. 

“No. Believe it or not but I found normal clothes – well, as normal as they can get for here.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, “you don’t say?”

You shrug and pull a pair of shorts out, showing them to him. The color reminds him of something he owned once. 

“Are these for me?”

You draw back and tilt your head to the side, chuckling. “No, silly! These are too small!”

“Oh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Uh… they just reminded me of my school shorts.”

“Primary?” You ask as you put them back into your backpack. 

Steve blinks at you, not answering the question. 

“...Middle?”

Silence. 

Your jaw drops and your eyes widen. “Holy shit, Steve! Don’t tell me they made you wear these shorts in high school!” 

Steve shrugs, chuckling awkwardly. 

“Now that I think about it, it’s kind of creepy.” 

You nod with wide eyes. You push yourself off the floor and throw the backpack on. Not saying anything for a moment as you look at him. Your mind unwillingly conjures up images of him in those green shorts, short and tight. You can’t help but giggle, which makes him frown in confusion. 

“I kinda wanna see how they look on you.” 

His wide eyes make you giggle even louder. 

“Uh yeah, that’s not happening!” 

“Why not?” You pout again, making him shake his head harder. 

“Don’t do this.” He points at you. 

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t pout at me like that.”

You pout even deeper and bat your eyelashes at him, “why, is it working?”

Steve huffs, trying to glare into your eyes. He opens his mouth to protest but you tilt your head even further and you look over his shoulder with furrowed eyebrows. 

You push past him and he turns around curiously. 

“Holy shit, this thing is huge!” 

Steve almost chokes on his spit when you grab one of the toys, a dildo. Your hand wrapped around it tightly. 

He blinks a few times. Heat spreads within his chest and a smugness he tries to push away rises up inside of him the more he looks at the silicone dildo, in the shape of a penis. Veins and all. 

“I… uh… you’d say that’s big?”

“Yeah?! Look at it!” You say as you hold it before his face, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

How you are so nonchalant about this, he doesn’t understand but he is amused and even more than that, he is intrigued. 

His lips curl into a slight smirk. He places one hand on his hip as he looks down, clearing his throat. 

“Alrighty then.”

-

The gun store was empty, just like Nancy had suspected. You left nearly empty handed. The only things you have found were a few stray bullets that had probably fallen out from the boxes when people grabbed them in the rush. You found two knives, a hunting knife and a butterfly. You grabbed a new thigh holster and a belt but that’s all. You couldn’t find the ammo that you needed nor any guns or rifles. 

The only food you found was the single cans and the snacks Steve found. 

You can’t help but feel a little defeated. You hoped, you really hoped that you would find valuable things, that you could stock up on enough food and ammo for the next few days at least but you got nothing. And it worries you. The last winter was rough and you barely made it out alive. Now you not only have to worry about yourself but also about your friends. 

“Hey…” 

Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You have been walking in silence for the past twenty minutes or so. As you lift your head to look at him, the loud rumble of thunder makes you flinch as a raindrop falls on your cheek and rolls down. 

“This doesn’t look good.” His voice is unsure and filled with anxiety as he looks up into the darkened sky. The clouds start moving faster and faster. The wind blows through the streets, whirling up all the dust and the dirt covering the ground. 

You lift your arm up quickly to protect your eyes. 

The lightning is red and the thunder becomes louder and louder, moving closer as the seconds pass. 

Your heart leaps to your throat when a loud crash sounds through the trees in the woods next to the highway. The cracking sound indicates the falling trees. 

Shivers run down your spine and you swallow harshly. 

“That doesn’t sound good either,” you murmur worriedly as you look up at him. 

He swallows the growing lump in his throat. There is a long road ahead of you both and you don’t have the time to get back to the RV in time before the storm hits. You just made it back on the highway but you still got miles and miles to your destination. 

The rain starts falling slowly at first. Rolling down your cold cheeks softly. Goosebumps rise up on your skin. 

Despite the incoming storm, Steve’s hazel eyes flash with relief, “the good thing is, we don’t have to worry about any creatures… They don’t come out when it rains.” 

“Yeah…”

Steve taps your shoulder as he picks up the pace, clinging onto the hope that you might still get the chance to make it to the RV before it starts storming. 

Your footsteps echo through the empty roads. Your breathing gets heavy and your heart starts pounding. 

When the storm hits and it will hit, you will have no shelter. There is nothing around except for the woods, which isn’t a safe option at all. The red bolts of lightning crash into the trees, causing them to fall. 

“We can–” Before he can even finish his sentence, the rain starts pouring, crashing down onto you both, soaking through your clothes almost instantly. “Fuck!” Steve curses as the cold water hits his face. 

The adrenaline that surges through you makes you immune to the coldness in this moment. You don’t feel it. Not at all. You don’t feel the chilled, icy rain. You don’t even feel the fear anymore as you both start running. 

Your boots hit the ground harshly, water splattering into every direction. 

There is nothing in sight. No gas station. No house. Just the road and the trees and the cars blocking the highway in the distance. 

“We can find shelter in one of the cars!” Steve yells through the rain, squinting his eyes. 

You nod desperately, not wanting to feel the rain anymore on your head. The water drops are heavy and strong and you cannot keep running forever. The moment you stop, you know you will become cold, and you prefer to stop inside a place than out in the rain. 

Another loud crash sounds through the streets, making your heart and your whole body jolt. Only when Steve looks over your shoulder and you take in his wide eyes, do you realize that the lightning crashed into the ground where you had been not even a few seconds ago. 

“C’mon!” He reaches his hand out to you, wrapping it around your own, he holds it tightly and pulls you closer to him as he picks up the pace. 

You don’t feel anything, not even after the crash. No fear. But you feel him. You feel the warmth of his hand. You feel safe. You feel secure, and when he gives your hand a squeeze, you feel something you have never felt before, yet you didn’t know what to call it just yet. 

You let him lead you once you make it to the blocked part of the highway. He holds your hand tightly as he looks for a car that has no broken windows. 

You both barely see through the pouring rain and the darkness as the sky takes on the color of the night. 

“There!” He pushes you towards a black BMW and opens the door to the backseat. You waste no time and get inside, pulling it at his forearm, dragging him in. He shuts the door quickly, muffling the sound of the rain and the crashing of thunder, just a little bit. 

It’s not much more silent in here as it is outside, the rain paddles so loudly against the roof of the car and the windows. You’re both panting, trying to catch your breaths. 

“Fuck…” Steve murmurs as he closes his eyes for a moment. Bringing his arms up to the front seat, he leans his forehead against it. 

“Are you okay?” You whisper, reaching out to touch his back. 

Your own heart is nearly beating out of your chest, your throat is hurting from breathing in the cold air while running. Your hands are shaking from the cold, just like the rest of your body was starting to do but you worry more about him. 

Steve nods. 

He takes a few deep breaths and keeps his eyes closed for a minute or so. 

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay.” He mumbles and leans back. He opens his eyes and takes a look at you. Your lips are blue and trembling, your face is soaked just like your hair and all your clothes are. You’re shaking like a leaf and he isn’t even sure if you have realized it yet because your whole face is etched with worry for him. 

His eyes soften and that unwanted feeling surges through him. Mistake number three.

The raging storm and the strong rain tells him that you won’t get out of here any time soon. You’re stuck here for the next hours, even until the next morning. 

“Take your clothes off, sunshine.” 

“W-What?” Your eyes widen, completely stunned at the sudden request. 

Steve removes his backpack and throws it on the passenger’s seat. He looks around the car, trying to find a cover or a blanket. He finds one tucked under his seat, a small one but it will have to suffice. 

He takes his jacket off and throws it into the front seat. 

“We’ll catch hypothermia if we don’t,” he mumbles as he kicks off his shoes before his hands make their way to his belt. “We can’t afford to get sick… And we’re stuck here till the morning. The storm isn’t passing any time soon and even if, we won’t go out there in the middle of the night.”

Embarrassment filled you from head to toe, but you knew he was right. You knew the two of you needed some heat, and you cannot do it with drenched clothes. You nod slowly, feeling shy and the memory of him half naked already filled your mind. 

“I won’t look.” He promises, blushing himself when he takes his soaked pants off. “Now take them off or you’ll feel even colder.” 

You push yourself out of your stupor and swallow the nervousness down. You tear your eyes away from him and look down at your wet clothes. You throw your backpack down and tear your jacket off. Only as your fingers reach your shoelaces do you realize just how cold you are. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking. 

A pained whimper falls from your lips when you take your shirt off, despite it being covered by the jacket, it’s soaked through as though you took a swim in the lake. 

Steve’s belt clinks when he throws his pants into the front of the car. 

You shiver even more when your soaked hair touches your bare back after you take the last bit of your clothes off, leaving you in just your bra and your panties. If it wasn’t for these circumstances, you would be blushing like crazy, flustered to your core. But you can’t bring yourself to care about the lack of clothes on your skin because once the adrenaline wears off, your weakness kicks in. 

Your fingers start to feel numb and the shakiness in your body refuses to subside. You bring your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. 

You flinch when you feel something soft around you. 

“Here,” Steve whispers after wrapping the blanket around your shoulders without looking at you. 

You look down at the white blanket and instantly bring your hands up to it, tugging it closer. 

“I-I can share.” 

Your teeth clatter and Steve knows that this tiny blanket won’t help much. He didn’t want to look but when he turns to you and he sees just how strongly your shoulders are shaking and your hands are trembling, making his chest hurt at the sight.

He tries not to look at your skin or at the color of your underwear that peeks out from under the blanket. He tries not to look at you in that way. He tries not to look at you. Not now.

“It’s so cold…” You whisper as you rub your hands, trying to find warmth somehow. 

Steve clenches his jaw. He feels angry at himself for getting into this situation, for not deciding to look for shelter back in the town. This could have been prevented. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He ignores the rumble of thunder outside and the rain. He is too focused on you and on your trembling body and he knows what he has to do. 

He knows it. 

And it won’t mean anything. It cannot mean anything.

He just doesn’t want you to suffer like this. 

He huffs and takes another deep breath before he turns to you, reaching out to you softly. 

“C’mere, sunshine.” 

You look down at his hand before you tilt your head up to look at him as he tugs you closer. 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” You whisper without a second of hesitation, without an ounce of dishonesty in your voice. 

Another thing that makes his eyes soften and his chest warm. 

His lips twitch as he reaches both arms out, tugging you closer with ease. He grabs your sides over the blanket and lifts you up and onto his body, making you straddle him. 

To his surprise, you instantly latch onto him, curling into his body and wrapping your arms around him like it’s a familiar place. You bury your face in his neck and press your chest against his, clinging to him after wrapping the blanket around him too. 

A sigh falls from your lips, “thank you, Stevie,” you whisper into his neck. 

He blinks. 

His body is a little stiff, his heart frozen in his chest as it stops beating for a second as he feels the beating of your own. Your skin on his. Your hands on him. Your breath on his neck. Your lips on his neck. 

Only now did he realize how cold he was as well. Feeling your warmth against him, the natural heat of your body soothed him. He sighed in relief, not having noticed his own discomfort, his own shivering because he worried about you. But he tells himself that he would worry for Eddie this way too. As well as Nancy.

“Shit, didn’t think it would be so fucking cold…” He mumbles and you notice the slight tremble in his tone, making you breathe hot puffs of breath on his neck. A sigh escapes his lips as he relaxes a little more, hoping that you two can get out of this without getting sick. You can’t afford getting ill in the middle of the road, not now. 

“This– This is what we get for not wanting to waste another day–” You stutter, and you feel his hands rub up and down your back, warming his palms in the process and trying to give the same to you. His eyes are fixed on the roof of the car, begging that you would not press yourself any closer to him in the lower region because the hotter his body gets, the better his blood flows all over his veins.

But his prayers are not heard when you seek more heat, moving your hips against him. He chokes a bit on his saliva as he tries to hold in the obscene sound that are about to come out of his lips. He knew it would be a matter of minutes before you said something, so he one upped you.

“Don’t be alarmed… and don’t move a lot on me, Sunshine.” He warns, making you frown as you lift your head from his shoulder to look at him.

“What–?”

“The cold, and I’m… I’m just human. If you feel it, ignore it.” He is looking away from you, a blush all over his cheeks. You aren’t sure what was happening, your body still shivering a bit from the cold.

“What are you talk–” and you move just a bit to try to inspect what is going on, maybe on his chest, or somewhere that hurts but, no. It isn’t that. He isn’t hurting. Right under you, there is a bulge. Now that heats your entire body up in ways you haven’t felt in a while. Your shivering stops immediately, nervousness, embarrassment, shyness, all of that invades your senses, “O-Oh…”

He grunts as he shakes his head, “don’t overthink it… It doesn’t mean anything Sunshine, it isn’t like that…” 

Your ego feels squashed a bit. You understand that thinking about these things in moments like this, or with the world as it is, is not the brightest move, or even rational, but as Steve states, you are still human. Yet, the fact he made it a point that it was not being caused because of you, and just because of the cold, felt like a punch to your gut. 

Needing to be distracted, to make the tension go away, you spoke as you leaned to rest your head on his shoulder again.

“How were you before the world turned to shit, Steve?”

“Huh?” He snaps out of his embarrassment as he looks your way, turning his head. Your faces are close, but the hot breaths soothes the shivering of lips, warming yourselves up.

“Like… dating and stuff. Did you date?” He gulps as he looks forward, the rain falling on the windshield. Should he tell you? It seems like Nancy didn’t, so maybe she wanted to keep it a secret or… he doesn’t know.

“I dated once.” You tilt your head at him, curious now that he is opening up to you. One of those rare instances that he did.

“What happened?” He debates whether to tell you the truth or sugar coat it, not wanting to tarnish Nancy’s image. He clears his throat a bit, deciding to put it nice for you.

“Um… She chose someone else.” He simply says and it makes you frown a bit, still a little confused.

“While dating you?” He freezes a bit at how sharp you are, taking a deep breath in.

“We were going through a rough patch anyways… so kinda, but not quite.” He finishes and you feel anger inside of you a bit. Who would cheat like that? Why him?

“Did you love her?” He chuckles at that and moves his head a bit from side to side.

“Yeah… But it was puppy love. High school and all that…” And you nod a bit, trying to calm the nerves that appeared in your belly a bit, not knowing why. So Steve has been in love before. That was a new perspective of him that you didn’t know about and you wondered… you wondered if she knew that she might have made a mistake. You hoped that whoever she was, that she would regret it every day. You knew that Steve was hurt from this, it’s impossible he hadn’t, be it puppy love or not.

And you know that pain as well.

“Yeah… I know about that…” Your answer was not expected, making him frown a bit.

“What do you mean by that?” You hum a bit, trying not to move a lot on top of him just as he requested. The shivering and trembles are gone by now, noticing how the conversation made the two of you relax and just take in the warmth of each other.

“I had a boyfriend… not high school, but a little after that… He was nice at first…” You started and he was staring back forward as you talked with your head on his shoulder. “But then– then he called me immature… a child… too positive. Blind to reality or some shit like that. He cheated on me after that and I didn’t find out until much later.”

And Steve’s eyes widened a bit, guilt creeping up in his throat as he remembered what he called you that night, under the rain, in front of Robin’s grave. You looked distraught and now he knew the reason. He found out why it had hurt you the way it did, why you didn’t want to talk to him for so long after it. He made you remember something painful, an insecurity that someone engraved in your brain.

“Shit– I–” He started, but you lifted your head from his shoulder, shaking your head with a small smile.

“No, no… you didn’t know. You didn’t know it would strike a nerve in me because of this.” And his palm on your back tightened slightly, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I’m still sorry and– for the record, I don’t think being positive is immature…” You’re surprised at his words, frowning slightly.

“You don’t?” He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

“Hell no… the way you are, in this timeline, with the world ending around us… I think you are the bravest out of the four of us.” And you felt your heart skip a beat, looking at him in a way that you weren’t aware of. A way where your eyes were sparkling with stars, with amusement.

“Brave?”

“It takes balls to be hopeful nowadays… Look around you, Sunshine. It’s a wasteland, and you still get happy finding kit kats in abandoned stores.” 

You were stunned into silence as his eyes were still looking forward, not glancing at how you were looking at him. You were afraid he would be able to feel the beating of your heart, how it was slowly quickening as you stared at him.

“I–”

“Even going into a fucking sex shop, I mean– Who the fuck does that in the apocalypse?” You burst into laughter at the comment, prompting Steve to also start laughing, feeling the rumbling of his chest beneath your fingertips. The laughter died after a few seconds and you laid your head back down on his shoulder.

“I lost all hope when Robin died,” he says softly, a shaky breath leaves his lips right after. “I was scared of it… I still am. Having it means that you might end up disappointed or hurt and I don’t wanna feel that way again… I felt it too many times…”

You furrow your eyebrows as you wonder what other times he is talking about – not knowing about Nancy. About how he hoped his parents would return and come back for him, how he hoped that he could still find happiness after getting to California with his family, with his friends, with his soulmate only for it all to be ripped apart and away from him. Literally. 

Steve shudders but this time not from the cold but from your comforting hand on his bicep and from the soft look in your eyes as you looked back at him. 

“You can’t live in fear of that… You have to have some hope. If not, life will be just miserable.”

His lips slowly curl into a smile before he starts chuckling. The gaze in his eyes softens the longer he looks at you. He can’t even stop himself from reaching his hand out to your face, pushing away the hair that fell before your eyes. 

“Yeah,” he whispers as his fingertips graze your skin. “Thanks to you I started realizing that.”

Your ears burn from the touch of his hand, your stomach flutters from the look in his eyes but curiosity beats every emotion in you. 

“Thanks to me…?”

He retracts a bit, pulling his hand away again when he realizes how he craves to touch more. He clears his throat and nods. 

“I mean… I have to have hope we reach California… If I go all pessimistic about it, I will probably get myself killed.” 

You feel a tinge of disappointment, you can’t help it. You hoped his answer would be another but you understand it, so you nod your head. 

“Yeah…”

California. The community. 

That’s their destination, not yours. 

Your destination is Nevada and your childhood home. You want to see your family and be with them. That was always the plan. 

Eddie and Nancy keep telling you that you will get them and continue your way to California but you don’t know if your family will want that. 

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks when he notices how much your face fell. 

You blink and look into his eyes again.

“The community… I-I will miss you guys,” you whisper, not struggling to show your feelings. “Once I reach my house, you will continue while we… will probably stay there. I don’t think they’d ever leave their little ranch.”

And suddenly it dawns on him like it hasn’t before… at all. He has gotten so used to you in these past two months or so that he forgot that you don’t share the same destination. Dread spreads through him so quickly that it startles him. 

“I don’t want you to stay there,” he blurts out before he can even consider different words. “I-I want you to come with us, you and your family.”

Your brows pull together as your eyes widen. All the disappointment and the doubt from before disappearing easily. 

“You want me there…?”

Steve hesitates when he sees the way you look at him. Even in this darkness, he can see the softness in your pretty eyes. He can feel what it does inside of him and he can’t have that. He just can’t.

“I– yes, because… Eddie. He will look like a kicked puppy and cry in a corner.” 

Oh. 

Eddie. Not him. Of course not him. 

You can’t hide the disappointment on your face now, even when you try to smile. You lay your head back on his shoulder and breathe out slowly. 

Guilt boils up inside of him. He knows how hard you are trying to get through to him, how you’re knocking on his heart, wanting to be let in but he can’t, he just can’t let you. And yet, it pains him a little because he knows that if things had been different, if you met under different circumstances and in a world that hasn’t ruined him yet, he wouldn’t have wasted a second to go after you, even if your type is very different from who he is given the cowboy hat and all the comments. 

“Sunshine?” He whispers, squeezing your waist softly. 

“Yeah?” You murmur into his neck. 

“Why cowboys?” 

“Hmm?” You look up at him, a little surprised by his question. He looks down intensely, curious about the answer he awaits from you. “Uh… I don’t know, I just… I guess because they are so… manly and strong… I suppose I like the way they look too… I like this whole western thing.”

He can only chuckle, giving a slight nod your way.

“Understandable. Why do you like it though?” His eyes began to feel heavy, your voice sort of soothing him, calming him down.

“I don’t know, but I loved Clint Eastwood as a child. Like, literally loved him, posters and everything on my walls… Then Han Solo, even without a cowboy hat, the attire was exquisite… Then Silverado… I honestly have no clue when it really started, or why, but I found myself just liking the whole aesthetic… plus the whips… ropes… handcuffs–” You felt your cheeks flush at your words, looking at Steve with shame, only to find him breathing slowly, his eyes closed.

You tilted your head as you started inspecting him. His eyelashes were quite long, his stubble was beginning to look like it needed a shave, and a few wrinkles from his expressions showed on his forehead. Then, the freckles—so many, little moles as well. You moved your head to look around, noticing that they also went to the neck and down his chest, losing themselves in the hairs that resided there.

Your body became hot, licking your lips tentatively as you made sure he was really sleeping. His breaths were still slow, his chest rising up and down calmly, and well… there was no longer a bulge underneath you, so, it was your green light to explore a bit. 

You raised your hand, your fingertips slowly brushing over his cheek. You started to trace his features slowly: under his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw, and then his lips. Your heart beat fast inside your chest, and you feared he might wake up from it. Your fingers brushed over them, finding them surprisingly soft despite the lack of chapsticks and Vaseline. There was very little dry skin on the corner, but that was about it. 

He shifted underneath you, and you felt how his grip tightened all around you as if holding a teddy bear. It prompted you to lay on his shoulder again, and you could feel yourself sweat nervously as you pressed yourself against him. You heard a sigh coming from his lips, relaxed, calm, sleepy and you couldn’t help but bask in this little feeling. This closeness you had with him in this moment.

Tomorrow, you will miss this heat… but for now, you can close your eyes and be content in these arms.

—--------------------

When you two woke up the next morning, it felt as if you had the best rest of your lives. A groggy good morning from the both of you, and the warmth from outside helped the car heat up.

It was humid, but you two could not hear any more rain. You both knew you had to keep going, so you got off Steve as he closed his eyes and looked away while you, feeling a little guilty for doing so but you couldn’t help yourself, you glanced all over his body. It wasn’t the time, you had to get out to get dressed so Steve could do so as well.

You winced as you grabbed your clothes and got out of the car, the windows all foggy so Steve couldn’t see you. They were still drenched, but there was no other choice for now, so you put on your shirt, a disgusted groan escaping your lips, only for you to gasp as the coldness of the wet pants hit all over your legs. You heard Steve getting out from the other side, and then his winces as he put his clothes on again.

“Fuck, this feels horrible.” You heard him say, and you turned around to see him throwing his wet shirt on, “ugh, why didn’t we bring a change of clothes again, knowing that there was a chance of rain?”

“Cause we didn’t want to waste space in our bags but now– since we didn’t find shit, it feels fucking stupid we didn’t.” You giggled and he turned around, shaking his head, looking at you.

“We can probably get dry with the sun, at least.” He shrugged and you sighed, opening the door so you could take your belt out with your weapons, putting them on before you threw on your wet jacket, making you pout in discomfort. Steve was doing the same, wanting to ditch the jacket, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know where he would find another one like this. 

“I hate this. I hate wet clothes. I hate it, I hate it.” You complained and Steve chuckled, grabbing the backpack from under his seat, and you did the exact same. He gave a nod your way, signaling that it was time to finally keep moving. 

The clothes felt heavy on you, making it a little harder to walk. You both were breathing heavily, the disappointment of not finding anything at all, and going back in this state only made the mood plummet to the floor.

“You think we can survive with the little food we have until the next town?” He winced at your question, and the answer was no. The next big town was a week or less away, give or take, and they only had a few cans. They would probably starve for one day, maybe two.

“We will survive, but painfully… and if we don’t find anything in that other town then… we might not.” He finally confessed which did nothing to calm your nerves.

“That’s cheerful.” You responded and he sighed as you two kept walking, knowing that the rain had cleared the path for you, still glancing side to side in case something or someone jumping on you both. You looked to your right, noticing big tire marks on the asphalt, and then towards the dirt. Truck tire marks. You looked into the trees, seeing a few completely ripped apart, as if the truck had crashed into them. You stopped walking.

He took some time to notice it, walking a few steps away from you and when he didn’t feel your presence next to him, he finally turned around, frowning as you looked into the woods.

“Sunshine?” 

“I– Come on.” You diverted from your path, following the tire marks and Steve’s eyes widened, following right behind you.

“No, no, no, no. We have to go back to the RV, Eddie and Nancy are probably worried–” You stopped on your tracks and he almost hit your back, looking down at the back of your head. “What are you–”

And when he looked up, a few steps away, there was a massive truck, the size of a shipping container. Those that traveled over the seas in big ships, exporting and importing stuff. And he felt hope. He really felt it. 

“Let’s check it out, we have nothing to lose, just a few more minutes.” You slowly walk forward and Steve quickly steps up and comes in front of you, taking the bat off his belt to get ready in case this was an ambush. But you both looked side to side, not really hearing anything the more you approached the front of the truck, wanting to see if there was anything at all in the driver’s seat.

But you only found the door completely open, dried blood all over the windshield from the inside, then on the windows, and a decomposed corpse on the passenger’s seat. You winced in disgust at the smell, but your heart turned with pain at the sight. They must have been shippers, and from the looks of it, with the bloody map and the military vest on the corpse, you both could assume this was after the world went to shit. 

Steve took a long look at the corpse, and the bones were not even showing yet. Some places only, but overall, this body had not been dead for that long. But this also meant that monsters had lurked around here, and you had to check everything quickly.

“Come on, let’s check the back.” You nodded at his command and you both walked behind the truck. The chain was still secured on the handles, so this meant no one had opened it before. You handed Steve the crowbar and he immediately got to work, trying to pry open the chains to no avail. You bit your lip nervously as you saw that he couldn’t break the lock away with the crowbar. It was massive. 

“Shit…” You looked around as Steve kept trying, only for you to disappear from his side as you rushed to the front. 

“It’s no use– Sunshine?” He turned around and looked to the side of the truck, seeing you fiddle with your fingers nervously, only for you to get inside the driver’s seat. He walked towards you and he saw you search on the corpse, inside the pockets of his vest. Your nose was scrunched in disgust at the smell of it, but you sighed of relief when you felt a big metal key inside the front pocket. 

You took it out and you finally saw the surname of the person laying before you. ‘Sullivan’. You gave a slow nod of respect, a thanks for keeping the key safe. You crawled out, showing the key to Steve as you took a deep breath of fresh air in your lungs.

“Well that was mortifying.” You said and he patted you on the shoulder with a smile on his face.

“See? Bravest out of the four of us.” He responded and you felt a sense of pride swell inside of you as he walked towards the back again, you following right behind him. You bit your bottom lip as you saw him open the lock. He looked at you once and nodded, to then finally rip the doors open.

Your eyes widened as you looked inside and you both stood in silence, in complete awe. It had… everything.

Gas, tanks of clean water, food, blankets, pillows, some generators, drinks, snacks– This wasn’t just a normal shipping container… This was meant for a community… 

“Holy fucking shit…” The curse came out of your lips instinctively and Steve nodded, his mouth open in shock.

“Holy fucking shit…” He repeated after you. You two looked at each other, and suddenly smiles broke on your faces, and you giggled as you both clashed into a hug, jumping with excitement, with happiness, with so much hope. His arms were around your waist as yours were around his shoulders. 

He twirled the both of you around, and when he did is when it dawned on you that it was your first ever true hug. He was hugging you. When he put you back down, he pulled away, but he didn’t let go of you just yet. His eyes locked with yours for a brief moment, your breathing heavy with excitement and there was something creeping up on him. Something that he shouldn’t even think about. Something that would just complicate things. 

His eyes drifted to your lips for a small second, before pulling away completely.

He directed his eyes back inside the truck and you were just standing there, watching him with your heart in your throat, blinking absentmindedly. What had just happened?

“How the fuck are we going to take most of this back…?” He asked and you snapped out of your thoughts, turning towards the truck again. You shrugged and turned your head to the side to look up at him.

“We know there are no monsters now… We slowly get the RV in… and… We have the lock, so we can just close it up until we reach Eddie and Nance and then come back.” You explained and he was surprised, looking at you, a grin on his lips that he couldn’t disguise.

“Now that’s a fucking plan.”

You both hopped into the truck first, looking for clothes and gladly you found some. You changed into dry and comfortable pants and shirts, putting the wet clothes inside the bags, knowing you won’t need them if Eddie brings the RV close. 

You could now move faster, the excitement and the thrill letting you reach the RV in 20 minutes. Nancy and Eddie were confused, because you had new clothes, but you couldn’t find anything for the road. That made Eddie elbow Steve a few times on the side, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively which only earned him a smack over the head. 

Nancy was skeptical about going into the city with the RV, but you two had promised and swore there were no threats for now. 

Imagine her surprise when she saw that you and Steve were right. There was nothing to be afraid of, and when Eddie and she saw what was inside the truck– They also couldn’t help but do a little dance themselves. 

Suddenly you were all just hugging each other, jumping up and down as if you had won the lottery and in this world, in this time, you did. This was the jackpot. Of course you couldn’t bring everything, there was no space in the RV, but you managed to put gas in the tank, get some gallon cans of it and save up, fill the water tank with the water barrels that were inside with a hose, lots of food, so much food. 

You found clothes, blankets, the pillows, and– Walkie talkies. You couldn’t believe your luck. Walkie-talkies, batteries, which Steve had already gotten some back in the sex shop, but you had walkie-talkies now. This would serve you all so much for the ones patrolling and the ones who stayed back in the RV. 

You stocked up pretty heavily, even charging the battery of the car with the battery of the truck. You spotted something that was secured in blankets, something fragile inside. You opened them to find– alcohol. Bottles of vodka, rum, whiskey… You grabbed some bottles, put them inside your bag, and looked at the three others who were still giggly with everything they were taking back to the RV.

And your eyes fell on Steve. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at his profile. His wrinkles on the sides of his mouth as he laughed, the way his hair bobbed when he talked, the way he grunted whenever he lifted something heavy… And you realized something then. Something that hasn’t happened in a while for you.

You slept peacefully. No nightmares. No bad postures. No waking up in the middle of the night just because… All because you slept cuddled to Steve… Or maybe this would happen with anybody… But you looked at Eddie, wondering if you would have felt as calm, then at Nancy, and then back at Steve.

And your heart skipped a beat again.

Oh no...

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @pretentious-blonde @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk @xxladymjxx

[solelifauna]

Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)

Pt.5

Guys, I'm cooked. Anyways, thank you for all the kind words!!! Also Y/n's cooked too...anyways! Enjoy!

ALSO!! EVERYONE THANK @oof-spoof!! THIS SERIES IS NOW BASICALLY DEDICATED TO THEM!!! Thank you @oof-spoof for supporting me!

The group fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words sinking in as if the world itself had pressed down on your shoulders. It wasn’t just about stopping Omni-Man and Invincible or sending that crucial tip to the Guardians of the Globe—it was about surviving long enough to make any of it matter.

The irrefutable fact lingered in the back of everyone’s mind, unspoken but looming: you might be killed again.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the memory of your father’s hand crushing your skull replaying in vivid, excruciating detail. The sound, the pressure, the blinding pain—it haunted you in ways you couldn’t even articulate. And if not that, then what? Would it be a more horrific death this time? Burned alive? Torn apart?

You looked around the table, the same realization written on the faces of your friends. Hallie was biting her lip, staring blankly at the table as her fingers drummed nervously. Connor’s jaw was clenched, his fists curled tightly on his lap. Weston was silent, his expression unreadable, but his tired eyes betrayed him.

Finally, Weston broke the silence. “I’ll figure out how to send the tip,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. His gaze shifted between each of you before landing back on his hands. “You guys focus on keeping our… other obligation in check.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about the Demogorgons. Those damn things hadn’t been on your radar for the past few days, but they were still out there, roaming the town, lurking in shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Judging by the groans and sighs from Connor and Hallie, they’d forgotten too.

“Everyone still has their things, right?” you asked, already mentally cataloging what you had at home.

Hallie sat up straighter, brushing her hair out of her face. “Got my pump action and bolt action in my trunk and in my closet,” she said, her voice steadier than her posture.

Connor leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Got ammo and a G-48, Haymitch's axe, and the machete,” he listed off, his tone bordering on exhaustion.

“I still have the smoke bombs and my dad’s rifle he thinks he sold,” Weston added, his voice low but firm.

You nodded, storing the information away. “Good. We’ll need all that and more.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding. You’d fought these monsters before. You’d survived the impossible. But this time, it wasn’t just about survival. It was about holding the line, balancing the dual threats of the Demogorgons and the looming Viltrumite takeover.

"I say we prepare for the worst," you finally say, your voice cutting through the silence. "Stock up on ammo when you can, supplies, canned food, and whatever else we’ll need. We have to be ready in case everything goes to shit again, in case… in case what we do doesn’t work—"

“Don’t.” Connor’s voice cuts you off, sharp and sudden. “Don’t say that, (Y/n).”

You flinch at the rawness in his voice, the sheer force of his words.

“Connor—” you start, but he barrels forward, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking.

“It has to work!” he says, his voice trembling. “It has to, or else—” He looks away, jaw tight, his hands clenching into fists. “Or else that means we fought for nothing. That means all those people who died—who are going to die—died for nothing. That means we came back for nothing.”

His words hang in the air, raw and painful. You feel them hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your lips press together tightly as you try to find something—anything—to say. Connor was always the "strong" one of the group, the silent type, the brash one who rarely let anyone see how deeply he felt things. He was the backbone, the shoulder everyone else could lean on when things got tough. Seeing him like this, unraveling, hurts more than you want to admit.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Connor,” you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes watery as he scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “You—you’re just doing what you always do, trying to keep us alive. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, Con,” you say quickly, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “I—I get it. Really, I do.”

The tension around the table is palpable. Hallie and Weston exchange uneasy glances, their worry for Connor evident in the grim lines of their faces.

“Connor,” Hallie starts gently, her voice low and careful, “nobody’s saying what happened before will happen again, but—”

“I know,” he cuts her off, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He lets out a shaky breath and sinks back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. But we have to consider the high chance it will.”

The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the thought of failing—of going through all of it again—was unbearable.

But you didn’t have a choice.

You glanced at each of them in turn, taking in their tired faces, the fear lingering in their eyes. They were your family, your only anchor in a world that felt increasingly impossible to navigate.

“We’ll make it work,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. “I don’t know how yet, but we will.”

You don’t know if they believe you, and honestly, you’re not even sure if you believe yourself. 

Weston’s hand comes to rest on Connor’s shoulder, rubbing little circles in that gentle, soothing way he always did to calm the group down. It was such a Weston thing to do—he had always been physical with his care and affection, expressing his love in small touches and gestures that reminded you all you weren’t alone. You see Connor’s shoulders relax just slightly under Weston’s touch, though the tension doesn’t completely leave him.

You shift closer, moving to sit beside Connor, offering your silent presence as support. Across the table, Hallie slides her water bottle toward him, her brow furrowed in worry. “Here,” she says softly. Her voice doesn’t waver, but her eyes betray the depth of her concern. Connor takes the bottle with a small, muttered “thanks,” and sips from it, his gaze distant.

The weight of the moment settles over all of you, thick and suffocating. No one says anything for a while, and for a brief moment, the only sound is the distant hum of chatter from other tables in the courtyard.

Then the lunch bell rings, cutting through the stillness like a knife, signaling it’s time to go back to class. The sound sends a jolt through you, and you see the same dread reflected in everyone’s faces. None of you want to go. Yet, there was nothing you could do.

You all stand reluctantly, gathering your things in silence. Before you split up, you squeeze Connor’s shoulder gently, hoping it conveys what you can’t find the words to say. He offers a faint smile.

You walk into the crowded hallway, your mind scrambling as you try to recall your next class. What was it? You swear you knew just minutes ago, but now the information is gone, like a wisp of smoke slipping through your fingers.

You glance around desperately, hoping to recognize a familiar face, someone who might share the class with you. But the sea of students around you is a blur of faces you barely recognize. Who the hell are these people? You don’t remember their names, their voices, their stories. They’re strangers, even though you know you should know them.

Panic creeps up your spine as you weave through the hall, your breathing growing shallow. You’re losing it. You’re losing yourself, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. The realization claws at you, sharp and unrelenting.

You hate this. You hate what this world, what this second chance, has reduced you to. What it’s reduced all of you to.

Your hands tremble as you tighten your grip on your bag, willing the shaking to stop, but it doesn’t. You pass classrooms, peeking inside, hoping something will click—a desk, a teacher, a face. But nothing does.

The hallways start growing emptier as students file into their classrooms, the bustling energy fading into a deafening quiet. You glance around, the panic tightening in your chest. Where the hell were you supposed to go?

Your mind scrambles, trying to latch onto something—anything—that will tell you your next class. The answer eludes you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You fumble with your phone, attempting to log into your student portal. At least that would show your schedule, right?

Except the password isn’t auto-saved. Of course, it isn’t.

You sit there staring at the login screen, willing your brain to remember your credentials, but nothing comes. It’s just another blank void. Great. Now you can’t even see your schedule, let alone your grades. Not that grades should be at the top of your concerns right now, but still, the thought gnaws at the back of your mind. You’re so screwed.

You lean against a row of lockers, the cold metal biting into your back as you let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell do I do now? Asking the front desk for help is out of the question. It’s the middle of the school year, and no one forgets their schedule this far in. It would raise questions. And why couldn’t you just look it up yourself? The idea of facing that judgment makes you cringe.

No, you can’t do that.

Instead, you resign yourself to staying in a random, empty hallway, slumping down against the wall. The quiet envelops you, a brief respite from the overwhelming noise in your head. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around you. God, you didn’t realize how much your eyes were burning, how much your body ached.

The idea of just staying here, hidden and still, is so tempting. Maybe you could just chill here for a while. Yeah, that sounded nice. Just a little break.

You don’t realize how much time passes as you sit there, your mind drifting between the chaos of your thoughts and the exhaustion weighing you down. For a brief moment, you feel the smallest sliver of peace.

Until a voice shatters it.

“Playing hooky, (Y/n)?”

Your stomach drops. No. Not him. Not now.

Mark’s voice carries that unmistakable mix of smugness and sharpness, the tone that always made you want to squirm. “Tch, Mom and Dad are not going to be happy. Especially after the last meeting your counselor had about your little habit of skipping classes.”

You open your eyes, and there he is, standing over you with a smirk that makes you want to curl in on yourself. His eyes bore into yours, sharp and calculating, as if he’s dissecting you piece by piece.

“W-what? When did—oh shit,” you stammer, the memory hitting you like a brick. He’s talking about the meeting. You’d skipped a bunch of classes last semester to deal with the Demogorgons. Sure, you kept your grades up, but that didn’t stop the school from calling your mom. And to say she was upset was an understatement.

Mark’s smirk widens as he watches the realization dawn on your face. “Ah, there it is,” he says mockingly, leaning against the wall. “I’m sure Mom will love hearing about this. You know how she feels about second chances.”

You glare at him, the panic in your chest now mixed with frustration. “Mark, I—look, just don’t. Please.”

His expression softens, but only slightly. There’s still that edge to his voice, that unnerving mix of concern and menace. “Don’t what? Tell her? You’re not making this easy, you know. Skipping class, hiding out like this… It’s like you want her to freak out.”

“I just—” You falter, your words failing you. The exhaustion, the stress, the sheer overwhelming nature of everything—it’s all too much. You can’t think of a good excuse, and Mark’s gaze feels like it’s cutting through every lie you might try to tell.

He crouches down, leveling his eyes with yours. “What’s going on with you, (Y/n)?” he asks, his voice softer now but no less piercing. “You’ve been off. I know you’re not telling me everything.”

You look away, unable to meet his gaze.

Mark’s words linger in the air like a trap, waiting for you to fall in. “Are you depressed or something? Maybe it’s a boy? I don’t know, (Y/n), but something’s off. I know it is,” he says, his tone dripping with faux concern. “Just tell me. Tell your big brother, and I can make it go away.”

The irony of it all hits you like a freight train, and you can’t help it—you huff, then giggle, and then it all spirals out of control. A laugh bubbles out of you, wild and uncontainable, quickly escalating into full-blown hysterics. You’re wheezing now, clutching your sides, and you know you must look insane. Maybe you are. How could you not be?

It’s funny, really. The idea that he, Mark, could fix your problems. That he could “make it go away.” It’s laughable because a massive chunk of your problems is sitting right in front of you, watching you unravel with that same calculating smirk. How utterly absurd.

Your laughter devolves into choked breaths as your chest tightens painfully. The tears come next, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. You’re sobbing now, loud and ugly, your body shaking uncontrollably.

Mark’s expression shifts, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then something darker takes hold—something intrigued, almost amused. He wasn’t expecting this, but oh, was he glad. He leans in closer, his lips curling into a softer smile. There was something seriously wrong with you. He knew it now. And that knowledge only made him more eager to figure out what had happened to his weak, adorable little sister.

“Oh, (Y/n),” he coos, his voice deceptively sweet as he cups your cheek with his large, warm hand. His thumb brushes against your tear-streaked skin, wiping away the evidence of your breakdown. His touch is firm but gentle, an unnerving mix of comfort and control.

You try to flinch away, your instincts screaming at you to get out of his grasp, but your body betrays you. Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into his hand, your head tilting slightly as if seeking solace. You hate it. You hate yourself for it. But you’re only human, and his warmth feels like the only anchor keeping you from completely spiraling.

“St-stop this,” you choke out between sobs, your voice barely audible. “Puh-please.”

Mark tilts his head, his expression almost mockingly innocent. “Stop what, (Y/n)?” he asks softly, his voice laced with feigned confusion.

“This,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “This—what you—you’re doing. Please, it—it isn’t fair.”

His hand doesn’t move from your cheek, and his thumb continues its slow, deliberate motion, wiping away fresh tears as they fall. His smile softens further, but his eyes remain sharp, predatory.

“Fair?” he echoes, as if tasting the word. “Oh, (Y/n). Life isn’t fair. You know that.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “But you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to worry about anything. That’s what I’m here for.”

You shake your head weakly, your sobs growing quieter but no less intense. “You—”

He interrupts you gently, his voice soothing but utterly condescending. “Shh. Just let me take care of you.”

The words send a chill down your spine, the weight of his intent pressing down on you. You know there’s no escaping him now, not when he’s latched onto you like this. Not when he’s decided you’re his problem to solve, his little sister to protect—even if it means breaking you further in the process.

Mark’s gaze lingers on your trembling form, his hand still cradling your cheek. He studies you with a mix of curiosity and calculation, the wheels turning in his mind as he contemplates your place in all of this. Maybe he could make something useful out of you. Maybe you could be shaped into something worthy of the Viltrumite cause.

But as he takes in your tear-streaked face, the way your body shakes beneath his touch, he doubts it. You’re too weak. Too small. Too soft.

It’s almost pathetic how fragile you are, how human you are.

Still, the thought lingers—what if? What if you could prove yourself? What if, against all odds, you showed even the slightest potential? Perhaps then he could convince their father to keep you after the takeover. It would be difficult, of course. Nolan had little patience for weakness, and you were the embodiment of everything the Viltrumite race despised. But if you somehow managed to prove your worth, there was a chance.

Mark’s lips curve into a faint smile, the thought of sparing you for his mother’s sake bringing him a strange sense of satisfaction. You weren’t ideal offspring, no, far from it. But you were her daughter. Debbie would appreciate having you around, he’s sure of it, especially when their father inevitably takes her away from Earth to shield her from the chaos of their conquest.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Mark murmurs, his voice low and smooth. His thumb pauses for a moment, pressing lightly against your cheekbone as his eyes bore into yours. “If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t even consider giving you a chance. But maybe… maybe you’ll surprise us.”

You blink at him, your chest tightening as his words sink in. “A-a chance? Mark, what are you—”

He cuts you off, his smile widening slightly, but there’s no warmth in it. “You’ll see,” he says cryptically, pulling his hand away and standing to his full height. His shadow looms over you, and for a brief moment, you feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze.

“Just remember, (Y/n),” he adds, his tone shifting to something colder, more deliberate. “This world isn’t kind to people like you. But you’re lucky to have me. I’ll make sure you don’t get left behind.”

The words feel like a promise and a threat all at once, leaving you frozen in place as he turns and walks away, his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

You’re left alone in the empty hallway, your breaths shaky and uneven, the weight of his intentions pressing down on you like a vice. Lucky, he said. But you don’t feel lucky. You feel trapped. And no amount of tears can wash that feeling away.

You sit there, slumped against the wall, trying to process what the hell Mark was talking about. “If it weren’t for Mom?” What does that even mean? Why would she have anything to do with whether Mark decided to “give you a chance?” What kind of chance was he even talking about?

Your mind spirals as you try to make sense of his cryptic words, the unease clawing at your insides. The idea that your mother somehow factored into whatever twisted plans Mark had for you only made the knot in your stomach tighten. What was he planning? What did he mean by not getting left behind?

Your thoughts race, one question bleeding into the next as panic wells up inside you. You can’t piece it together. You don’t have enough information. But the way he looked at you—the cold calculation behind his eyes, the way his words felt like a threat wrapped in false care—it makes your skin crawl.

You bury your face in your hands, your breathing shallow as your mind loops through the interaction. What the hell is going on?

Meanwhile, Mark is on his way out of the school building, his phone already in hand. He dials the familiar number, his expression cool and composed. The phone rings only twice before the unmistakable voice of his father, Nolan, answers.

“What is it?” Omni-Man’s voice is gruff, direct, as always.

Mark leans against the wall outside, his tone calm but tinged with a quiet urgency. “It’s about (Y/n),” he begins, cutting straight to the point. “There’s something off with her. More than usual.”

On the other end of the line, Nolan sighs. His voice is bored, disinterested. “Mark, your sister has always been like this. Emotional and a bit erratic. It’s nothing new.”

Mark clenches his jaw but keeps his tone steady. “No, Dad, this is different. She’s acting weird—like, really weird. Come’on, I’m sure you’ve noticed how she’s stopped constantly asking to go out with us? Or how everytime she looks at one of us, her heart rate always increases, hell, I could smell the adrenaline rush that gets triggered.”

Nolan’s silence stretches for a moment. “Dad, why is she having a fight or flight, fear response triggered, huh?”

“Of course I’ve noticed, Mark,” Omni-man sighs out. “If it’s worth worrying about, I’ll handle it. But until then, she’s just…” He pauses, and Mark can practically see the look on his father’s face. “She’s still a human.”

Mark exhales sharply, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push Nolan when he’s like this. “Fine,” he says, his voice tight. “But if I find out something important, I’ll let you know.”

“Do that,” Nolan replies curtly, and the line goes dead.

Mark slips his phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. He’s not entirely satisfied with his father’s response, but he’s also not surprised. Nolan has never had much patience for what he considers “mundane human nonsense.” If (Y/n)’s behavior didn’t involve anything worthy of the Viltrumite cause, it simply wasn’t a priority to him.

Still, Mark can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than his father realizes. And if Nolan won’t take it seriously, then Mark will.

[tinytownn]

back to you – one-shot

roronoa zoro x f!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: after being ambushed on the way back to the ship, the crew is faced with a difficult battle. you get injured and zoro comes to your rescue–thinking you're unconscious he lets his inner thoughts slip.

content: violence, fluff??, corny ass ending, worried zoroooo, no use of y/n, also for this post and any op fics going forward the character will have giant scissors as a weapon and is the ship’s seamstress (picture sheele’s extase from akame ga kill)

a/n: [UNEDITED] erm don't look at this too hard, i don't wanna talk abt it...i originally wrote another 3k word ending but scrapped it (possibly for another project??) so this is what you guys get lmaoo. more fast paced than i usually like, but i thought it'd be a cute lil fluffy piece.

—

The air was thick with smoke. Cannons from rival ships deployed, leaving scars in the earth as the ammo plundered deep within. Unconscious bodies that littered the beach became human shields as you attempted to dodge the bullets that whizzed past your head–the sound sending chills up your spine.

You and your crew had been ambushed. The supply trip was supposed to be simple—routine, even. When you arrived, Nami had spotted a secluded docking spot tucked between jagged rocks. It looked safe.

How wrong that assumption was.

Splitting up into groups, Sanji and Chopper went to get food, Nami and Robin ventured to various shops, and Luffy and Usopp found their way through restaurants, eating their way through the menu of any place that would let them in.

You were paired with Zoro to gather medical supplies—a list quickly scribbled by Chopper before you docked.

“Take Zoro with you,” Chopper had said. “To carry the heavy stuff!”

He meant well, but Zoro made no effort to hide his boredom, dragging his feet with every step.

"This sucks," he muttered, arms crossed as he sulked behind you.

“All you’d be doing is sleeping in the crow’s nest. Plus, I’m not carrying all of this,” you reminded him, holding the list up like a scroll. “Suck it up.”

It took a while of wandering, but a large, wooden sign with a red cross messily painted on it came into view–a medicine shop.

“Aha— there it is,” you said, pointing.

Zoro’s gaze, however, was focused elsewhere.

“Sword shop,” he murmured, eyes lighting up for the first time since you left the ship.

He looked at you, hopeful. “Just one—”

“Fine,” you said before he could even finish. “Go. Meet me next door when you’re done. And don’t get lost.”

“It’s right there.” He grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I’ll meet you there.”

Watching him turn, his steps guided him to the sword display in the window and he disappeared inside. Knowing he made it inside, you went next door to start gathering things off the list.

Although there wasn’t much on the list–the bottles were fucking massive. They piled in your arms and began to topple. You regretted sending Zoro off, but you managed to make your way to the counter, paying for the items and hauling the bulky bag behind on your way out.

You glanced toward the sword shop. No Zoro.

Frowning, you stomped over and pushed the door open. A bell jingled overhead.

You scanned the small store, the only person inside was a lanky, half-asleep, old man at the counter. Hearing your footsteps, his eyes perked up, head turned to you.

“Ah, hello, dear!” His scratchy voice echoed through the empty shop. “How can I help you?”

You nodded, keeping your place in the doorway. “Have you seen a man–tall, green hair, probably frowning, pissed off at the world?”

Not even taking a moment to think, the old man scowled. “Yes, I remember him. He was just in here a few minutes ago– rude young man. He left while I was telling one of my stories! You oughta get yourself a better boyfriend. One that knows his manners.”

Your face flushed. “Oh, we’re not-”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you kids nowadays, not appreciating a little history.” The man shook his head before his gaze snapped to you. “But you seem like a smart, young girl! Let me tell you about the time…”

You quietly back out of the doorway, softly chuckling to yourself as you imagined Zoro’s reaction to the old man talking his head off. As you lugged the bag behind you, facing the two storefronts you were confronted with a new issue.

Zoro had gotten lost. Again.

You found the rest of your crewmates before you found him. The search had stretched on for an hour before Luffy popped around a corner grinning wildly.

“Yaaa! I found him!” he announced triumphantly. “He was standing next to another sword shop—like they were calling to him!”

You glared at the swordsman, who rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged red.

Luffy began to dramatically reenact the encounter, but as you neared the ship, Luffy’s banter was interrupted by the rowdy yelling of pirates, hundreds of them.

Four ships surrounded yours, anchored at the small beach. A makeshift bridge stretched from one of them, and men were already swarming across, hauling anything they could carry.

A shriek escaped Nami’s lips, she was seething. “My treasure!”

She was the first to charge forward, Luffy quickly following behind her in defense of his precious ship.

The first cannonball ripped through the air, slamming into the sand beside your group. Luffy wasted no time stretching himself to deflect the ammo back towards their ship, propelling it towards the ship and shredding the sails.

Men at the masses came flooding from the ship, all wielding swords. Groups of men high up on the surrounding ship were armed with guns and an army of bullets came raining down on the beach.

The lack of preparation, the horde of bullets, the neverending cannonballs, all weighed heavy on the crew–but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. No one had much time to think, to plan, so they went their own directions, deflecting what they could.

Sanji hurled kicks at the groups on land, skillfully contorting his body to dodge bullets as the contact sent pirates flying. Nami went head to head with a large group of swordsmen, her tactful movement was no match as she swiftly found a weak point. Robin used her devil fruit ability, not only to confuse the group, but attack with another one of her hands as they stared, dumbfounded, at the one that dangled, unattached in the air. Usopp took a further position, in a tree, as he shot precisely aimed projectiles. Chopper also used his devil fruit and took out masses of men with ease and pure strength. The field of swords were practically calling Zoro’s name as he dove in, three weapons at the ready as he sliced into the crowd, taking them out.

You had thrown your weapon—your shears—into the supply bag during your search for Zoro. Now, in the chaos, you scrambled back to retrieve it.

Your fingers wrapped around the handle just as a sharp pain lanced through your arm. A bullet had grazed you. You dropped the shears in the sand, blood already soaking your sleeve.

The bullet only grazed your skin–you were lucky. But that didn’t stop the warfare that went on around you. A cannonball struck the earth a few feet away from you, sending you to your knees as you toppled over, unbalanced.

You grasped the handle of your shears again, determined to join the fight–when another bullet came in contact with your skin. Straight through your shoulder.

Your weapon, taking two hands to use, became impossible to wield as you cried out on the ground. Hopelessness shot through your body. The pirates were approaching, laughing, taunting.

The rest of your crew had pushed forward, unaware of your shrill cries as you bled onto the beach. The screams of the enemies drowned out your agonizing groans as you were stuck with blow after blow.

With the remainder of your strength, you grasped your shears, slashing wildly. You fought. You screamed. But it wasn’t enough as the attackers kept swarming.

Steel nipped at your skin. Warm, sticky blood trickled down your flesh.

As more pirates neared the back of the beach, the men huddled over your body, maliciously slashing your skin.

The pain was endless.

And then you heard him.

Zoro grunted as he propelled his body forward for a sweeping attack, the blow hitting hard to the group of enemies. He blew through each opponent that came his way, relentless in his pursuit to find you.

He slashed through the crowd, blood splashing onto his skin, his clothes–but he didn’t care. He kept hacking away, arms tirelessly working his way deeper into the horde until he saw you.

Any remaining pirates feld from the beach upon seeing the carnage, leaving your bloodied body in perfect view for his guilt-panged heart. Deep cuts and slashes littered your body, blood covered any part of your of body the flesh wasn’t torn. A hole in your shoulder pulsed and spurted blood out onto the ground, another gash on your arm seeping blood as well.

He dropped to his knees.

“Hey! Stay with me!” His voice cracked as he gathered you in his arms, cradling your head against his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, again and again. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He kept whispering reassurances, unsure if you were even conscious—speaking more to himself than to you.

Zoro didn’t stop. He called for Chopper but didn’t wait. He sprinted to the ship, carrying you onto thr deck like you weighed nothing.

He brought you lower into the ship, his heavy steps rang throughout the hall as he clamored down the steps. He kicked open the infirmary door, laid you on the bed, and immediately went for the supplies. His hands trembled as he soaked a cloth in alcohol and gently dabbed at the wounds.

You whimpered.

He froze, breath catching. “I know,” he whispered. “I know it hurts. Just hang on.”

He worked quickly, compressing the worst of the wounds, doing what he could until Chopper returned. And while he did, he talked to you—softly, desperately.

“I’ll be better,” he said, voice breaking. “Stronger. So I can protect you.”

You couldn't respond, but your fingers twitched, now intertwined with his.

Zoro didn’t notice. He just held your hand tighter, leaning over you, eyes flicking over your wounds.

“You mean more to me than you’ll ever know.”

There was a silence–his words hanging in the air like a sweet melody.

“Zoro…” you rasped, voice barely audible.

His head snapped up to meet your lidded gaze. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

You gave him the faintest smile.

“Told you…you’d get lost.”

He choked a laugh through his tears.

“Yeah,” he whispered, kissing the back of your hand. “But I always find my way back to you.”

—

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ (message me to be added or removed)

[jetblack4realz]

the gun girl - kayce dutton

summary - kayce has a thing with guns, you work at a gun store, it's the perfect love story

word count - 1.8k

tw - guns

again, short but sweet, and i'm obsessed with kayce dutton

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"i'm looking for just a basic .22 remington," kayce said, leaning against the counter with his eyes on tate as he roamed the aisles of ammo. you stood from where you were organizing a few boxes of the stuff, smiling at you stood across from the stranger.

"right handed or left?" you asked, stepping back to glance at the stock behind you. he finally looked at you, staying silent for a few moments as he tried to remember what you'd asked - his eyes wide as he stared. he didn't remember bass pro having such attractive employees.

"right," he answered shortly, watching as you approached the .22 section.

"okay, well we've got a couple brownings in stock currently. they're a bit pricey, but if i'm being honest i prefer them to the rugers or weatherbys. what are you hunting?" you asked, fingers running over the butt of the guns on the wall as you looked to him again.

"elk," kayce said. "little man's coming with this time."

your eyes were drawn to the six year old that had come to his side, a small smile pulling at your lips as he grinned up at you. you leaned over the counter a bit to see him better.

"you excited, bud?" you asked. he nodded, leaning into his father's side more as he smiled at you.

"he said i should get a new gun to commemorate it," kayce said, earning a small laugh from you. you looked back up at him, raising your brows as a teasing smile settled on your lips.

"oh i'm sure he did," you said. "i'm sure he thinks the browning is the best pick for you too."

"well, i've got the weatherby and the ruger, so it's the last real option," he laughed. he ran a hand through the little boy's hair. "he doesn't like them either."

"i'll get it rang up for you two then," you told him, smiling still as you pulled the proper box from the wall. you moved to the till, scanning it in. "do you have a rewards number?"

"oh, uh, yeah," kayce said, giving it to you then.

"kayce dutton?" you asked, looking up with raised brows. he nodded and you returned to your typing. "i think we've met before. or at least, i've met your father. he was here when we opened the store."

"your family owns the store?" he asked.

"mhm," you hummed. "when i was fourteen. i've helped run it since."

"i haven't seen you here before," he said. you shrugged.

"how often are you buying new guns?" you asked, laughing lightly as you clicked the computer. "need any ammo or are you set?"

"i should be fine," he said with a nod.

"alright, just go ahead and swipe your card then," you told him, nodding at the pinpad. he did just that. "i'm y/n by the way. it's nice to meet you."

"kayce," he said, before realizing you already knew that with a furrow of his brow. he laughed awkwardly before gesturing down at his son. "this is tate."

"hi!" tate chirped with a wave. you laughed lightly, waving back at him.

"it's nice to meet you, tate," you told him. you passed kayce the box and ripped his receipt, handing that to tate. you smiled at the boy. "hide this from your mommy. i'm sure your daddy doesn't want her to know he bought another gun."

your tone was teasing and a flush rose to kayce's cheeks, but not because of it. he was quick to jut in. "oh, i'm not married or with anyone, so no worries there."

"oh," you said, sounding awfully surprised. somehow, this endeared you more to him - even though you already found him incredibly endearing. he was single - win! - but he was also a single dad who actually cared about his kid. your heart warmed as you smiled up at him. "well then, no one to worry about how much money you're spending on guns. sounds great."

"it has it's benefits," he agreed with a smile.

"well, i will see you two around the store, likely," you said, glancing between tate and his father as kayce stepped away. "good luck on your hunt."

"thanks, i'll let you know if we get anything," kayce said.

"looking forward to it," you replied with an easy smile. you waved at tate, your smile widening slightly. "bye tate."

"bye!"

kayce didn't look away from you until he had to turn around to head down the stairs to the main level of the store, and even then he glanced back as you returned your attention to the inventory behind you.

seriously, when did bass pro employees become so attractive?

it was only a week later that you ran into tate again, the little boy running up to you as you reorganized the men's huntingwear section.

"i know you!" he cheered as he approached, an older man following behind him as he eyed you curiously.

"oh, hi tate!" you laughed, bumping his knuckles with yours once he held his out. "how are you buddy? you guys get any elk last weekend?"

tate nodded eagerly. "a big one! dad got it from so far away!"

"600 yards," the older gentleman added, smiling down at his grandson. he looked back up at you. "you're y/n y/l/n, right? their oldest daughter?"

"yeah," you nodded, matching his smile. "it's nice to see you again, mr. dutton."

"last time i saw you, you were just a little girl," he hummed, a warm smile on his lips. "you're all grown now. you helping your dad?"

"every day," you affirmed. "he's getting older, so i've been helping him and my brothers get this place to a good state to pass along. devin's gonna take over here in the next few years."

"oh, is that right?" john asked gruffly, nodding slowly as he tried to recall your oldest brother.

"mhm," you nodded. you glanced down at tate again as he began messing with the beanies on the rack across from you. "i met your son last week, kayce."

"yeah, i heard," john nodded, his voice gruff as he looked to tate. "seemed to have caught the attention of both of those boys."

tate smiled up at you as he pulled a carharrt beanie over his head. you laughed, rubbing his head with a soft hand.

"may i ask what you mean by that, sir?" you wondered. he shrugged, looking around the store with an ill-disguised smile.

"nothing really," he said. he pulled the beanie off of tate's head as tate reached for it again, shaking his head. "you've already got three of these, buddy. let's put it back." he looked back up at you with a polite smile. "see you around, y/n."

you waved to tate as they walked off, returning to your work folding clothes with a small smile on your lips. you thought of kayce and wondered briefly what exactly his father had meant by what he said.

it was your final shift before the weekend and you were extremely bored. you were back at the gun desk, sitting on your little wooden stool as you scrolled your phone.

"you guys stock smith & wessons here?"

you looked up with wide eyes, standing quickly as you looked to whichever customer was asking about handguns on a random friday afternoon.

you let out a short laugh as your eyes landed on none other than kayce dutton, his hands on the glass case in front of you as a small smile pulled at his lips. you eyed his pretty cowboy outfit, his carharrt vest and wrangler jeans causing you to realize just how much your type he really was.

"i guess you do buy guns a lot," you hummed, leaning back against the counter behind you. "heard you got a nice buck last weekend."

"oh, you did now? from who?" he asked.

"your father," you answered. "he was here a few days ago with tate. said you caught it at 600 yards. that's pretty impressive."

he shifted his weight on his feet as he leaned against the gun case again, smiling. "yeah, i felt pretty good about it. you get anything yet this season?"

"i haven't gone out yet. got drawn for one over in section seven though," you said.

"that's over by my family's ranch," he told you. "i could show you a few good spots. i've gotten a fair few buck over there."

"i'd appreciate that. i ain't ever shot over there," you said, smiling softly at the man in front of you. a few moments of silence passed over the two of you before you glanced to the side at the racks of guns propped up. "so, you looking for a smith & wesson?"

"well," he said simply, shrugging as his smile grew a bit. "i actually came here for something else."

you raised a brow. "and what's that?"

"i was hoping a date," he said, an awkward yet hopeful smile on his smile as one corner of his lips raised. you eyed him, matching his smile slowly as you pushed off the counter, folding your arms over your chest.

"i think i can do that," you answered. he let out a breath of relief as his smile grew more full. "when are you thinking, cowboy?"

"tonight, at seven? the outlaw saloon? they've got some good food and 've got some music playing tonight," he answered.

"that sounds like fun," you said, stepping towards him as you stood across from the case. "i think i'm free tonight."

he grinned, leaning further towards you. "perfect. i'll pick you up."

"wouldn't expect anything different," you said with a soft smile. you pulled your phone from your pocket, holding it out to him. he took it, your fingers brushing as he did. "put your number in, text yourself, and i expect to see you at my door tonight."

he glanced up at you as he created a contact for himself and sent a text, his own phone buzzing in his pocket as he did so.

"i'll see you tonight," he said, tipping his hat as he stepped away after handing your phone back.

"see you tonight," you said, matching his smile before he finally turned and walked down the stairs, sparing a few glances your way as he walked through the doors and out to his truck.

you watched him all the way down, letting out a happy laugh before finally turning away, running a hand through your hair. you turned on your phone - three hours until you got off, five until kayce picked you up. you looked at the boxes of ammo and guns, deciding in that moment you needed to reorganize them.

"back to work," you hummed to yourself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you

masterlist!!

[petalbcrnes]

◌ㅤㅤ𝅼ㅤㅤʚɞㅤㅤ𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ’n 𝐈𝐓-𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!reader hcs.

♡ · 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 ── continuation of the 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 paired w/ it-girl!reader one-shot request, but now with headcanons.

⊹ 💬 · getting through request day by day,, do not mind the moodboard pictures. they are only here for vibes and do not dictate what reader looks like. it was not specified if anon wanted a nsfw section so i did not add it. only sfw here. this is more or a domestic version on the one-shot<3

♡ · REQUEST ── ❛ i neeeeeeed hcs with it girl reader i am obsessed with that trope now ❜

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀;⠀RULES⠀;⠀TALK W/ ME.

Jason didn’t think he’d even deserve your affections—loud in presence, stunningly confident, and always in the center of attention, but never had it felt like too much, you were balanced—you disarmed him with your sincerity. You saw him, not just the headlines or the Red Hood persona.

You make him feel grounded, while he makes you feel safe. You’re light in a way that doesn’t ignore the dark—you just carry it with grace. You have your own problems, he has his. Considering the glamour of your life, you don’t ignore the less savory parts of it all.

You post soft, candid pictures of him on your socials. He pretends to hate it, grumbling about it every time, but secretly saves all of them.

You dress to kill, and Jason jokes that you’re more dangerous than him with a gun. He would definitely carry your heels for you when your feet start to cramp from them. He does that princess carry too.

Bruce definitely raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you (he’s happy for you two, I promise). Alfred? He loved you instantly. He’s probably the first one that found out about you two.

Your friend group can’t believe you’re dating the guy who looks like he’d bench press anyone who looks at him wrong—until they see how he looks at you like you hung the stars. After that they tease you non-stop about Jason.

You can sweet-talk your way past GCPD roadblocks, club lines, and cranky neighbors. Jason usually just—… glowers. It's a solid duo.

Jason will never say it out loud, but after bad nights, he finds you—wherever you are—and buries himself in your space until the world feels real again.

He keeps a picture of you everywhere goes—tucked away where no one would see. It's one where you're laughing so hard your eyes are closed. You keep a picture of him in your wallet.

He once saw someone being rude to you at an event and got this close to going full Red Hood. You stopped him—barely.

Your vanity is covered in your beauty products and Jason’s stuff—cologne, spare ammo, bandages. It’s chaos and you love it.

You have zero chill when it comes to gift-giving. See something that reminds you of him? Bought. Expensive custom leather jacket? Already tailored to his measurements. He asks how you got them—you wink.

You once gave him a limited-edition motorcycle helmet that matched his Red Hood gear. He stared at it for a full minute before going.

“This costs more than my whole apartment, babe.” “Good thing you basically live in mine, then.”

You send him flowers. Yes, you send Jason Todd flowers—big dramatic arrangements with black dahlias or red roses, depending on your mood. He pretends to grumble but keeps every single card in a box under his bed.

You once said you had a bad day and he brought you flowers too—not the store kind, but ones he picked himself on a rooftop mission. (He made the bouquet himself, too).

“They reminded me of you. Pretty. A little dangerous.”

You stock your kitchen with his comfort foods. Even the obscure ones.

You cook for him sometimes, even if it’s just simple things. He acts like it’s the best meal he’s ever had—(it probably is. I stand by the hc that this man struggles to cook). He didn’t grow up with that kind of care.

You pay attention. He never says what he needs, but you know.

“Your gloves are torn—already ordered new ones.”

You buy matching silk robes. His is black. Yours is ivory. He never wears it around anyone but you, but he’s obsessed with how it feels.

You spoil him emotionally, too. With praise. With care. You tell him,

“You don’t have to earn this. Just let yourself have it.”

Jason is so flustered by being spoiled. His first instinct is suspicion, followed by awkward gratitude, followed by silently trying to return the favor tenfold.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

He wears one of your rings on a chain under his shirt when he’s out doing Red Hood things. A small, glittering reminder of home.

Jason is weak for you in silk. Weak for you in over-sized hoodies. Weak for you period. You know it, and you tease him endlessly. It’s heartwarming to know that someone loves you without needing to perform for them.

You love tugging at the collar of his leather jacket just to pull him closer. He never complains.

He gets flustered when you post.

“Really? In that dress? And tagging me? You tryna get me killed, pretty?”

What’s it like when he is jealous? The circumstances of your job and social circle truly change his reaction.

Jason is ridiculously territorial but tries so hard to play it cool. (Keyword: tries). He’ll stay silent for a beat, then mutter,

“He kept touching your arm. I counted four times.”

He doesn’t get jealous because he doesn’t trust you—it’s because he knows how people look at you. Your industry is a very dangerous one. It may not have guns and bullets like he’s used too, but he knows the risks.

You once flirted with a bartender just a little to get a free drink—Jason spent the rest of the night teasing you like:

“Should I dye my hair blonde? Clearly I’ve got competition.” (He’s an ass, affectionately).

You tease him about it constantly.

“Awe, is my big bad Red Hood jealous of a guy in a bow-tie?”

Secretly, you love how unguarded he is in those moments. He cares so deeply it spills out.

Jason learns your skincare routine and buys you replacements when you run low. Even the complicated ones with French names he can’t pronounce.

He comes home late sometimes and finds you asleep on the couch waiting for him. He’ll cover you with his jacket, crouch down, and whisper,

“I’m here. Go back to sleep, pretty.”

You keep a little emergency first aid kit in your designer purse—for him. Bandages, painkillers, alcohol wipes. He teases you for it—“my own personal nurse,”—but when you patch him up gently, he looks at you like you invented light.

You do his hair when it gets too long. He closes his eyes, resting his head in your lap like it’s the first moment of peace he’s had all day.

He’s so utterly in love, it’s ridiculous. So are you, though.

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Of Ghouls and Drugs

Request: "ok so I'm absolutely obsessed with that coop fic you did where reader helps him when he's injured and it's super domestic and fluffy....could you maybe do something where the roles are reversed and he helps the reader who's injured? maybe she's a little shaken up over it too and he calms her down and it's just very sweet and soft. thank you i adore your writing so much 💖" A/N: First of all, the reception of my Fallout content has been amazing. If you're one of the people who have liked/reblogged/replied/shared/saved/etc, I am eternally grateful to you. Second, thank you once again to the anon who sent this request! It's a bit of a switcharoo from Stuck Like Glue, so if you need some more Cooper content, check that out or take a peek at my Fallout Masterlist! Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence Summary: Injured and scared, you can always count on your Cowboy to save the day.

Word Count: 1.7k+

(Gif Credit to @victoryrifle)

You don’t know why you’re hyperventilating. 

Sure, you’d been in countless fights and been scared more times than you can remember. In the Wasteland, if you’re not scared every now and again, you’re dead. But today, cornered in a decrepit open-air shopping mall store while a hoard of feral ghouls claw at the rusty security gate, you’re frozen with fear. 

It was an old clothing store, picked apart by scavengers and ravaged by time. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of dust, from the old checkout counter to the racks of high heels that sit untouched. Unfortunately for you, it hadn’t been a department store you ducked into where there could be some hope of escape. This one was a small boutique-type outlet with one way in and one impassable way out. Furthermore, the roll-down security door currently saving your life had been pure luck on your part. The lever for it was broken off and mounted on the side of the entrance; you’d only found it after the damn thing had torn your upper arm to shreds in your haste to get away. 

And now you’re ducked behind the checkout counter, old patterned men’s tie wrapped tightly around your bicep in a poor excuse of a tourniquet. You were out of ammo, banking on the security gate holding until the ghouls got bored or forgot about you. But there was something about today, about how they’d come charging from the darkness the second Cooper had left to turn in your latest bounty, that terrified you. Feral ghouls were shells of people with no logic or sense left in them, but the attack had felt calculated, planned. You argued with yourself, knowing they had basic instinct and probably just singled you out after another of their kind left.

Then again, maybe you’re conflating your fear of Cooper becoming one of them one day with the looming fear of death. 

Unable to do anything about it, you sit behind the counter and shake. Your breath comes in quick punches, inhales cutting off the exhales and vice versa. The iron smell of your own blood is overwhelming. Despite the tourniquet, warm liquid leaks down your arm and drips into a thick crimson puddle beneath you. Your backpack, full of stimpaks and every chem known to man, is abandoned just outside the gate. The damn thing had been torn away when you’d got caught on the jagged lever, beyond your reach and unable to be saved. 

The ghouls wail and groan while clawing at the gate, the sound of rattling metal echoing around the store’s walls. It’s deafening to the point where you cover your ears, accepting the fact that you’re screwed either way. Blood loss or ghoul attack, it doesn’t matter. Cooper’s long gone towards the last town, and you’re cursing the apparently lackluster job the two of you did making sure your camp was secure. 

“Take a look around.” He’d told you, “Getch’yu some new clothes if you need ‘em.”

Cooper’s voice and kiss goodbye lingers in your thoughts as you hold your hands over your ears. It’s a more pleasant thought than the ghouls outside. Your ghoul always keeps you safe. 

“Darlin’.” 

You almost smile to yourself, probably delusional from blood loss. 

“Hey!”

Your name slipping out of Cooper’s mouth dances across your foggy mind. 

“Goddamn it woman, open your eyes.” 

Something shakes your whole body, and your eyes snap open. 

At first it’s too dark for you to recognize any solid features, and you scramble away. The missing nose and scarred flesh blend together in your mind. You swing your injured arm in blind panic, which has the tourniquet breaking loose and bright arterial blood spattering the floor.

But you hear a voice calling through the haze. Soft and slow, like it’s calling to a wounded animal. “Ay, ay ay. Calm down now, sweetheart.”

You squint through the darkness, fighting dizziness. A familiar silhouette makes itself apparent. 

“Cooper?”

His face, weathered by radiation and pain, is usually twisted into a dramatic scowl. But right now it’s concerned, brow furrowed into worry that you’d never seen. The sounds of ghouls and impending doom have vanished. 

“It’s me, babydoll.” He almost coos at you, reaching out a hand. “C’mere.”

Your emotions rage, and tears burn at your eyes. You reach out a hand and brush the one he’s holding out, but your fingertips barely catch on the seam of his gloves.  You squeeze to make sure he’s real. He wraps strong fingers around your wrist and pulls you in. 

It’s easy to give in as his familiar scent and feel washes over you. Gunpowder and smoke are the main notes, but you catch the leather of his duster and the unavoidable grime provided by the Wasteland. The tears flow easily out the corner of your eyes and drip down your cheek.

“I-I don’t know where they came from.” You clutch at his coat, “Scared the hell out of me.”

Cooper is still moving despite you being all but wrapped around him where he’s knelt down. You feel his hands near your injured arm and instinctively cower. 

“Came from somewhere in that back parking lot, it looks like.” Cooper grits in his usual gruff tone, “Must’a got ‘em goin’ when they heard us. Waited ‘til you were alone.”

You sniffle pathetically into his coat, and it morphs into a strangled cry as he wraps the tie back around your arm. His other hand holds a broken piece of wood that he uses to knot into the fabric and twist. 

“Ah! Fucking hell, Coop!” Your protest is little more than a whine as your arm starts to go numb. 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He murmurs, tipping his head back so he’s able to look in your eyes. “Don’t want ya to bleed out here.” 

You hold his gaze for a moment. “Why’d you come back?”

He helps you stand, giving you a moment to lean back against the counter and acclimate to the dizziness. Your eyes hold steady on him, watching lashless eyelids blink above gaunt cheeks.

“Vials.” He hooks an arm around your shoulders and the other behind your knees and lifts you up, “I wanted to have enough in case I got caught up.”

The slow cadence of Cooper’s walk almost lulls you into closing your eyes and he trudges silently to the shop’s entrance. You see gore splattered on the walls and floor, headless ghouls lying motionless at his feet. The top handle of your backpack is sticking out of the mess, and Cooper snatches it up. 

He walks for some distance, away from the pile of dispatched ghouls. He doesn’t stop until you come up on a store a ways away, advertising furniture and televisions. It seemed relatively untouched considering an atomic war and a two-hundred year wait. The Ghoul moves near the door, and you hear him clanking about with the lock. It takes a few tries and muttered curses, but Cooper jimmies it enough so he can get a toe nudged in the door. You attempt to help by grabbing the door, but he moves your hand back to his shoulder and pushes in on his own.

Cooper sets you gently on a shockingly clean and padded couch. The Ghoul is quiet, but gets to work cleaning the long gash in your arm. He gives you his inhaler, but there’s a strange canister clicked into the mechanism rather than his vial. You take a huff, and gag at the strong taste. 

“H-Holy Shit.” You cough, and it almost distracts you from the pain of a stimpak being stabbed into your wound. “What is that?”

Cooper unties the tourniquet when he’s satisfied, and sets the stimpak off to the side. “Med-X. Inhalin' it works faster.”

You nod and huff on his inhaler again. The Med-X is potent as all hell, and it feels like it’s shooting straight to your brain. You’re more willing, desperate for more as the effects set in. Cooper settles himself on the cushions beside you, watching carefully and taking away the inhaler before you overdose yourself. 

“I’m sorry for bein’ stupid.” You murmur. “I shoulda ran anywhere but there.”

Cooper leans in, ungloved hand cupping the side of your neck and tilting back. “Never apologize for survivin’, sugar.”

The drugs swirling about in your brain make it hard to form normal sentences. “I wouldn’t have without you… I hurt my arm and lost my cool.”

He tries to talk, but you  shush him.

“I couldn’t quit thinkin’ about those ghouls… about you.” 

Cooper sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders. He pulls you in close and shushes the soft cries that creep up your throat, fueled by a drug-induced haze. 

“Y’know… There’s always somethin’ that’s gonna make us lose it.” Cooper drums his fingers on your forearms. “No matter how tough we might be.”

You feel his lips in your hair and lean into it. “Guess I gotta trust that, ‘cause you’re pretty tough.”

Unbeknownst to you, your words are already comically slurred. Cooper chuckles into the bird’s nest on your head. 

“Feelin’ that Med-X, honey?” 

You swear to god, it’s gotta be that drawl that’s honey, not the drugs.

“Jus-Just a little.” You slump further into his side, head dropping onto his chest. He uses the tip of his boot to drag a nearby footrest closer and prop his feet up. 

“Good. Time for a nap.” Cooper tilts his hat down over his eyes. 

You hum, unable to argue. A nap sounds rather splendid, especially with the amount of drugs circulating your body. You glance up just as the Ghouls huffs down the rest of the Med-X himself. 

“Coop!” You try to chastise him, but it comes out as more of a laugh. “That’s not safe. You don’t need that right now.”

The Ghoul grumbles something that sure sounds like ‘goody two-shoes’, but reigns in the hostility, 

“Sure I do.” His hand rubs up and down your arm before finding its way to your waist. “I’m an old fuckin’ man. Joint pain.”

“Joint pain, schmoint pain.” You mock, eyes falling shut and staying that way. “Fuckin’ old man.”

Cooper actually chuffs at your remark and ducks to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s unexpected and sweet to feel such affection from him, and combines with the euphoric feeling of opioids pulsing through your brain.

“Go to bed, darlin’. Before I knock you out myself.”

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[leyavo]

You ever watch the movie Red? It's a good movie, general description retired CIA agents get hunted down to be shut up, anyways, they get marked R.E.D. Retired Extremely Dangerous. All i can think about is RED Simon

I did but ages ago 😂 but I would love to see the retired 141 guys trying to get back into the game. Think Simon and Kyle would easily slip back into their roles, whereas Price just wants to relax in his old age and Johnny’s just trying to survive and likes the adrenaline (remember the good old days L.T?) [Masterlist]

Sigh, all Simon wanted to do was fix the sodding breaks on his classic car and take it for its weekly run.

But, no. Price had called like bloody Charlie’s angels and warned him that he was next on whatever assassins list was out to get them. Thankfully he was able to store his car in a private garage, praying that his baby would be safe.

The garage just happened to be another stash for weapons. His fingers ache as he loads the ammo, not as fluid and in tune with his mind anymore. The skull mask discarded in the lockbox, a little snug and the tactical vest too tight that he lets it drape from his broad shoulders instead of strapping it up.

Johnny’s already on the run, looks like Simon isn’t as far up on the list as he thought. A little disheartening for him, if he’s being honest.

Kyle’s the smart one, going dark and getting his family to a safe house before Simon can even ring the doorbell of his house. He’s glad he doesn’t have to see Kyle’s missus, she’d just blame him for bringing an assassin on their doorstep. When it’s clearly Price’s fault.

The assassins more than half his age, Simon could be his dad. The only thing going against him is his lack of youth, but his mind is still alert and he manages to escape the assassin. The worse part, they called him grandpa whilst they were fighting.

Does need to find the guys though…might even have to reach out to Laswell in order to do so. Can definitely see Simon and Johnny on a phone call whilst their sneaking around trying to find info (like in the game when soaps goes it alone and he has to find ghost).

Kyles probably already with Laswell building a file on the assassin, it’s personal now his families involved. He’s already undercover at an agency said to be paying the assassin too. Survived because he has a safe room in his house and an escape route for safety. Always prepared.

Laswell’s offered up you to help Simon with the nitty gritty stuff as the new technology he had no idea how to use. You’re in his ear advising him on how to dodge all the cameras on the streets that weren’t there before. Angel on his shoulder he calls you.

Price is cursing that he’s been brought back into the game when he could be back on his farm and feeding the chickens. He has definitely got fully kitted out surveillance system covering his land and home (he says it’s to catch the foxes before they get to the chickens, but who’s he kidding).

Johnny’s glad he kept to his fitness routine and can still kick it with the youths. Keeps reminiscing about the good old days with the 141. Shaves a Mohawk after a decade of growing it out, thinks it brings him luck and swears to never grow it out again.

What would be funny though…is the assassin not knowing Ghost’s true identity and trying to lure him out by taking the TF141 guys. Of course Simon’s going to rescue his mates.

Assassin’s fucked if they do anything to Simon’s car though.

And the reason they want to shut the TF141 up is because John commented on a Facebook post complaining about the government 😂

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 12 - War Crimes

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic. CW: +18 content MDNI, Sex, PiV sex. AN: Believe it or not this is still a poly fic, I promise.

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

Farah and Alex stick in the woodline, they’re looking out over the building. You’re not really sure you’re going to need them but at least you have backup if you do. This time Soap showed you how to use the radio. 

“So what did Price say?” You ask as you walk down the farm. 

“They made it across the border, on their way to Volgograd. They’ll be keeping in touch via Laswell.” 

“Who’s that?” 

“CIA contact.” 

“CIA? I thought you were British? What are you doing with the Americans?” 

“We go where we’re needed.” He says with a sigh. You shrug as you make it down to the perimeter wall. Soap swings his weapon over his back and pulls himself up to the top of the wall. 

“C’mon.” He whispers, leaning back down to offer you his hand. You smile and take it, letting him pull you up to the top of the wall. When you’re on the other side you’re behind one of the garages. 

“They store everything in the barn. There’s a loose panel round the back.” You say pointing through the gap between buildings at the massive industrial metal barn. Soap nods, you let him lead skirting round the perimeter of the farm. You use the shadows for cover only moving when you know it’s safe. It doesn’t take you long to reach the barn. 

This is too easy, the place has less staff then you’ve seen before. There are still 2 guards on the front doors of the barn. 

“Farah, how are we looking?” Soap asks into the radio. 

“You’re clear, no movement.” Her voice comes back. Soap looks at you smiling and you push forward hugging the wall as you make it round to the back of the building. Just as you remember there is a loose perplex panel hanging off. Its loud as you move it but you assume the barn is empty on the inside. You’ve been watching it for a few hours before making your move and no one has been going in or out. 

When you duck under the gap you come out into the massive barn. Anything that would have made you think this was a cattle barn has been removed. The place is now full of vehicles, ammo and weapons crates, different types of machinery and missiles. 

You wait for Soap to come through before follow him over to them. They look new, not like the old soviet ones you’re used to seeing. Some of them even have the American flag printed on them, although most of them have been scraped off or painted over. As you walk round the smaller ones you make it to some bigger ones. 

These ones look older, you’re not sure how old though. They’re different then the stuff you’ve ever seen. Soap looks back at you frowning as you follow him over. You walk over to a table with tools on it, there's papers strewn around. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Soap says as his hand runs over one of the missile heads. You look down at the papers, the only thing that sticks out is the yellow and black radiation sign. You swallow hard looking back at the huge missile in front of you. 

“Soap. These-” You’re too shocked to speak. You pick up a piece of paper off the table. “These belong to Makarov.” 

“Farah, the missions off. We’re leaving, there’s nothing we can do here.” Soap says, you can’t tell if he sounds more angry or sad.  

“Why, what's happened? Is the place empty?” She asks. He turns to look at you holding down the button on his radio. 

“No, it’s worse. Makarov has nukes.” 

“Say again?” Alex asks. 

“There’s nuclear warheads here. We can’t do anything without setting them off.” Soap says. You fold the paper up and put it in your pocket. 

“Your exit is still clear. Get out of there.” It's almost like she had no emotions about the whole thing. 

“Wait.” You say grabbing Soap’s arm. “There has to be a computer here, we can find out what Al Qatala were shipping over the border if it wasn’t missiles.” 

“It’s too risky.” He says.

“What if Makarov has nukes in Russia?” You say. 

“We’d know if he had nukes in Russia” He says, you let go of his arm and he moves to the exit.

“You didn’t know there were nukes here.” You say. 

“It’s not worth the risk, c’mon!” He snaps, reaching out to grab your arm and pull you to the exit. As you let him drag you, you see into a control room.

“Look.” You say digging your heels into the ground to stop him. “There’s a computer, let me check it.” He huffs looking round quickly.

“Quick.” he says, letting go of your arm. You smile and rush in, there’s no login option. You look for anything, something like a spreadsheet or order forms anything you think you could recognise. Finally after what feels like a few minutes you find what looks like an order request. They’ve tried to encrypt it but it must have failed for some reason. 

“A few days ago. There was a shipment of warheads and stabilisers.” You say you're trying to translate, you have no idea what stabilisers mean, it’s not really the best translation and you’re being rushed. 

“Nukes?” He asks, you look over at him standing guard on the door.

“It doesn’t say.” There’s requests for a bunch of different types of chemicals, names of things you don’t even recognise.

“He’s playing around with chemicals. I don’t know what any of this means.” You say, you see Soap hesitate, looking around before coming over to see. He scans the document for a second before pointing at something.

“Its elements, chlorine, phosphorus, hydrogen.” 

“He’s making chemical bombs.” You say as a matter of fact. 

“Soap you better be out there you’ve got incoming.” Farah says. Before you even have time to react you hear a door open. You both duck and you hear Arabic voices echo in the massive barn. You start taking your radio off handing it to Soap.

“I’ll distract them, then you can leave.” You whisper.

“Are you crazy, they’ll kill you.” He puts his hand out to stop you. 

“I’ve talked myself out of worse situations. I’ve been here before, if they catch you they’ll kill you.” He sighs, taking it in his hands. 

“Your weapon too.” He points. You shake your head. 

“Might need to shoot my way out if they don’t believe me.” Before Soap can stop you you stand up. “Stay here, I'll get them out.” 

“Good luck.” He calls as you make it to the door. You smile at him and walk round the corner where you can hear the voices.

“Finally. Do you know how long I have been looking for someone in this place?” You say walking towards them. Confidence is key, you can do this. 

“Stay where you are!” One of them calls, they hold their weapons on you.

“Don’t shoot unless you plan on shipping my body back to Makarov.” You say, they look between themselves for a minute.

“You work for Makarov?” One of them asks.

“He sent me to find out why the next shipment is delayed.” You say putting your hands down and stepping closer to them. 

“We’re working on it.” One of them says as they lower their weapons.

“We have half the staff we used to have. Most people have been sent to fight the ULF.” The other one says. 

“Do you think I care about your staffing issues? That shipment was needed yesterday.” You say pointing at a random missile. “Who do I need to talk to to get some answers here?” 

“We’ll take you.” They say turning. You nod following them out the barn. You don’t want to end up speaking to whoever is in charge, they will definitely be able to sniff you out. You hang back, the people escorting you are two wrapped up in their own conversation to notice you lagging behind. 

As soon as they turn a corner you take your chance sneaking through the space between the 2 garages and round the back of the main building. You sneak through a gap in the wall. You hope Soap got out, you head towards the meeting point anyway. 

It’s not long before you see Soap step out from behind the trees. 

“Thanks.” He says handing you back your radio. You smile at him, putting it back on your hip. A few seconds later Farah and Alex step through the foliage too. 

“Is it true they have nukes?” Farah asks, her composure is completely different now. 

“Chemical weapons too. They’ve been shipping them into Russia.” Soap says. 

“Are you sure?” Alex asks, frowning. “We haven't seen anything.”

“I saw a shipping order.” You reach into your pocket and hand Farah the piece of paper you picked up. She looks at it Alex leans over to look too. Before she has a chance to say anything alarms ring out from the farm. You look over at Soap pressing your lips together. 

“Let's get out of here.” Alex calls. You nod and follow them deeper into the woods.

…

You’re not sure why the phone call with Price and Laswell is the most stressful part. 

“You did what?” Price snaps.

“It was my idea.” You say, flicking your eyes up to Soap who’s been standing back from the table with his arms crossed, his body language has completely changed. Not the laid back Soap you’re used to saying.

“I don’t bloody care whose idea it was you’re supposed to be resting, recovering before you come out here.” Price lets out a sigh.

“I think we have other things to worry about.” Alex says. 

“Alex’s is right. If the US finds out Al Qatala are shipping nukes over the border to Makarov and Konni we’re in trouble.” Laswell says. 

“What’s the US’s response going to be to this?” Price asks.

“I don’t know but I would assume they do not want private militias or terrorist organisations having access to such weapons.” Laswell says. 

“We don’t need the Americans invading here too.” Farah says. 

“They don’t even know yet, but we need to tell them right. We can’t keep this to ourselves?” Alex says. 

“No, we don't tell anyone! Not the Americans, not the British. We will deal with this problem ourselves.” Farah says.

“The ULF is not in a position to disarm nuclear warheads.” Laswell says her voice is more stern. 

“Won’t make a difference if they’re all being shipped to Russia.” You say. 

“We can’t let anymore come through. Whatever Makarov is planning we need to put a stop to it before the next shipment. When is it?” Price asks.

“3 days, although with the security breach it could be moved up.” You say. There’s silence. 

“Laswell, any changes in Makarov’s movements?” Price asks after what feels like forever.

“No, as far as I can tell he’s still in Volgograd.” She replies.

“Okay, I’m sending Nikoli to pick you up. He’ll fly you out to Volgograd.” Price says, you look round at everyone. There’s a new person now, Nikoli.

“Copy.” Soap says. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak since he finished explaining everything to Price. 

“In the meantime stay put. I can’t be worrying about you getting yourselves killed.” Price says. “Send Laswell everything you know, we’ll speak soon.” There's a click on the line. 

“The data you got from the base on the border arrived yesterday. I can go through it, I'll have what you asked for by tomorrow.” Laswell says. 

“Thank you.” Farah says, before ending the call. You look over at Soap, he seems disappointed about something. 

“You should get some rest.” Farah says her eyes flicking to Soap. You move over to him resting your hand on his arm. 

“Let’s go. We should get something to eat at least.” You say looking up at him. His eyes land on you but they seem dark, distant. You don’t know if it's about the nukes or the response from Price but you’ve not seen him like this before. He nods and turns to leave.

He’s quiet while you get something to eat. Pushing food around his tray while you inhale whatever mush they’re serving. You talk, if not just to fill the dead air, you’re sure he’s heard some of the stuff before but he doesn’t even complain. 

“I’m going to take a shower.” He says suddenly before getting up and moving away before you have a chance to say anything. You look down at the uneaten food on his tray. 

…

You’re laid in the shared dorm room staring at the ceiling trying to think what he’s sad about. Or maybe he is just mad, maybe when he gets mad he goes silent. You feel like you don’t know him enough to judge him, or analyse him. A door opens and some people walk in, stripping their coats off and kicking off boots. 

You turn over in bed trying to ignore the noise and turning on of lights. You’re not going to be comfortable here, you’re not going to be able to sleep. Not with everything going on in your head, and now all you can think about is Johnny. 

You swing yourself out the cot pulling your boots back on and heading out the room with your coat tucked under your arm.

Johnny got his own room, maybe it’s because of his status, maybe it’s because Farah likes them. Whatever the reason, you would rather be with him then where you are right now. 

When you make it to his door you hesitate, he told you where he was staying before you left. You let out a sigh and knock. You wait a few seconds before it opens, he’s standing there topless with a raised eyebrow. 

“You okay?” You ask, swallowing the nerves. 

“Are you?” He asks. You nod, he steps to the side inviting you in. As soon as you’re through the threshold his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against him. 

“You’ve been quiet. Are you upset about something?” You ask, throwing your jacket over the chair. He lets out a long sigh burying his head in your neck. He doesn’t say anything, his hands running up your side, his touch is soft against your skin. 

“Was it what Price said?” You ask, he spins you in his arms. You press up against him, his cheeks are flushed. He reaches down and kisses you. His hands run up your shirt to your breasts. You put your arms up in the air breaking from the kiss so he can pull your shirt over your head. 

His kisses get deeper, more needy, his tongue running over your neck, across your collar bones. You moan out for him, his hands slipping past your waist band gently pulling your trousers down. His mouth locks round one of your nipples. He hums, nibbling and flicking your nipple. You push one of your hands through his hair. 

“Christ love, fuckin’ sweet as sugar.” He breathes, dropping to his knees and looking up at you. Looking up at you with those deep blue eyes. His lips wet and shining as he pulls your trousers down. You spread your legs for him, as much as you can. He kisses your stomach, his hands grip your ass digging his fingers into the soft flesh. 

His mouth continues to move down, his tongue hot, pressing against your skin, he moans and you continue to run your fingers through his hair.

“Johnny, bed.” You say. He looks up at you, one of your hands drops to stroke his cheek. He slowly stands back up until he’s towering above you. Your hands drop down to the front of his pants fiddling with his belt buckle.

He slowly starts to move you over to the bed, as soon as you reach it you gently push him down. He bounces on the cot, his mouth tipping open. You take a step back kicking your boots off and stepping out your trousers. 

“Lay down.” You say. He follows swinging his legs into the bed and laying flat with his head on the pillows. “Think we’ll get interrupted this time?”

“Did you lock the door?” he asks, nodding towards it. You turn, going over and securing the latch. When you look back round he’s shimmed his bottoms off laying naked in the bed. You watch as his hand strokes up and down his cock exposing the red tip. You walk over to him, you swing your legs over him kneeling on his thighs. You replace his hands with yours, his head tips back as you slowly shuffle closer to his hips. 

You don’t know if you’re helping, but this is the most vocal he’s been since you got back. You kneel up and he opens his eyes watching as you hover above him stroking up and down his cock. You smile at him before you ease yourself down on him. 

He lets out a groan, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. They run up and down as you slowly begin to ride him. It doesn’t take you long to get into a steady rhythm, he watches you, his hands gripping you tighter and tighter with each thrust.

His gentle moans turning into grunts and pants. Before long you’re panting along with him, your heart starts beating faster in your chest. He feels good, the last person you had sex with was Ivan and that was nothing like this. It was just a transaction, this is different, he’s reacting to you, his touch is soft as is his gaze, his moans. 

It makes you work harder, leaning over to run your hands over his chest, he has scars, a particularly nasty looking on his shoulder. Probably a bullet, you run your fingers over one on his chest. 

“Make a habit out of getting shot?” You ask him between pants. 

“Not really, just end up in sticky situations.” He says. You reach down and kiss him, rocking your hips on him. He breaks from the kiss, tipping his head back. 

“Christ, perfect love.” He says, letting out a long breath. He’s bucking his hips in time with you. You’re getting close, the new angle pressing against the spongy spot inside you. You close your eyes arching your back trying not to dig your nails into him.

He grips you tighter, he’s getting closer, so are you. You sit back up straight bracing your hands on his chest. You moan with him, letting him control the speed with his hands gripping your thighs. 

“Jesus.” He arches his back as he cums. You feel him throb inside you, he stops moving as you ride him through the orgasm, it only feels like a few seconds later when you cum to the feeling of him filling you up pushes you over the edge. 

You fall against him, laying on his chest. He wraps his arms around you and turns you in the bed, when he slips out of you, you feel empty. He kisses your forehead then you turn over on your back. 

He does the same letting out a long breath. He reaches down and pulls the blanket over you both, you turn to lean up against his chest wrapping your arm round his stomach. 

“It wasn’t what Price said. He’s not really angry. He doesn't get angry anymore, at least not with us.” He says after a few seconds, his hand runs down your back.

“Leaving you at the farm. Not knowing if you would get out or not.” You look up at him. “You could have died.” 

“So could you.” You say, you don’t know if that will help or not but it’s all you can think to say, you're surprised he even cared. “Besides I would have got out.”

“You’re too cocky, it’ll get you killed.” He says.

“You’re a soldier, you literally put your life on the line every day.” You scoff back. 

“We’re trained.” 

“Me too, in another world maybe I would have been like you.” You say running your hand across his chest. 

“You served?” 

“Military service is mandatory in Urzikstan.” You shrug. 

“Not really your thing?” He asks.

“I’m not good at following orders. Used to being alone. I learned a long time ago that people you love can hurt you the most.” You sigh resting your head against his chest. He chuckles. 

“What?” You ask. 

“I know someone who said something similar to me once.” He says he tightens his arm around you.

“Yeah?” You ask, sleepy. 

“Yeah, I think you’d like him.” 

“Maybe one day I’ll meet.” You say relaxing against him. He kisses the top of your head.

“Yeah, maybe one day you will.” 

Next Banners by plum98

[buckysleftbicep]

the things we left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!ex!bucky barnes x widow!ex!reader (reader is female)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, a whole lot of angst, unprotected sex, creampie, painful break up, depression, toxic relationship

summary: you haven't seen bucky in years. not since the night he left. the blip changed both of you, and nothing was ever the same after. now, val has you working together again. the job is dangerous, the tension is unbearable. and the feelings? still impossible to outrun.

word count: 6.7k

author's note: hi loves, it's been a tough few days and honestly, i am trying to cope with work and school, and how i gotta start on my research paper in a month. i am so overwhelmed, and writing this fic kinda helped me to escape all of that for a bit 💓. thank you for reading, love ya guys and stay safe out there!

The email came at 3:12 a.m.

You didn’t check it right away—you were halfway through disassembling your beretta on the kitchen table, fingers slick with oil, an old jazz record crackling faintly from the busted speaker in the corner.

Outside, another storm carved itself across the city skyline. Rain hammered the tin roof. Wind screamed through the alley like it was trying to claw its way in.

You'd gotten used to nights like this. The quiet ones. The hollow ones. The ones where silence curled around your spine like a second skin. Where sleep didn’t come easy and ghosts sat in the corners.

But you never ignored a message from Val.

Especially not one marked URGENT.

You slid the half-cleaned barrel aside and reached for your tablet. The screen flickered to life, illuminating the room in cold blue.

A notification pulsed at the top corner, her name bold, bureaucratic, unmistakable. You hesitated for a second. Not out of fear, just instinct. You always read the fine print before you let something gut you.

You tapped the message open.

FROM: V.Fontaine@classified.gov SUBJECT: URGENT: Field Assignment Target: Codename OMEGA. Ex-military. Ex-Hydra. Now independent and building weapons that rival Stark’s worst. Expanding faster than Hydra ever did. You’ll be compensated generously, you’re the best tracker I’ve got. And Barnes could use your help. — V

You stared at the screen for a long time.

Barnes.

Your thumb hovered at the edge of the table, tapping once. Twice. Again.

That name wasn’t a landmine—it was a fucking extinction-level event. A seismic crack straight through your chest.

You hadn’t seen it typed out in over two years.

Not since you deleted every message.

Every photo. Every voicemail.

Not since you shoved him—all of him—into a vault inside your mind and welded the door shut.

Even thinking it felt like betrayal. The air shifted around you. Denser. Sharper. You weren’t sure if it was rage or something colder coiling under your ribs, but it made it hard to breathe.

You rose from the table without realising it, pacing to the window. The alley outside was bathed in harsh shadows, neon from the liquor store sign across the street painting everything a violent red.

You could still remember the last time you said his name aloud. It hadn’t been soft. Or sweet. It had been a whisper strangled by tears. 

Just a few months ago, you had seen his face again. Unintentionally. On your shitty television, the one balanced on a rusted ammo crate next to your gear bags. You were flipping through channels to avoid your own thoughts—when suddenly, there she was.

Val, in that smug little purple coat, standing on some makeshift podium like a bad dream. Flanked by the press, and smiling like the devil.

"Meet the new Avengers."

And there he was. Bucky.

Your hand froze around the remote.

He was different. A little older. Clean-cut, almost polished. But not really. There was still something haunted behind the eyes. Something wild under the surface.

You knew that look. You’d memorised it—held it in your hands during the worst nights. It was the way he looked when he didn’t know how to stay. The way he looked at you.

You didn’t watch for more than a few seconds.

Didn’t listen to what he said.

You clicked the screen off.

Walked out of the room like it hadn’t just set a match to the walls you’d spent years rebuilding.

The last you’d heard, he was a congressman. Or maybe that was just another lie the world told itself to sleep easier at night.

You’d made it a rule not to keep tabs. Not to reach out. Not even when you missed him so much you thought your skin might split.

It was the only way you’d survived.

Now this.

Now Val was offering you money. A job. A mission.

But not just any mission. One that meant going back into the field. Tracking a target dangerous enough to spook even her.

A weapons dealer with enough firepower to start another war, based in Romania, deep-pocketed, ex-military, rumoured to be building something worse than Stark tech.

You could do it. Of course you could.

You were trained for it. One of the best assassins still walking—invisible, untraceable, lethal.

Val hadn’t exaggerated. You were the best.

But this wasn’t about the mission.

This was about him.

Working with him. Seeing him again.

Smelling him. Hearing his voice.

Pretending it didn’t hollow you out.

God, after everything— After everything—

You clenched your jaw until your teeth ached and looked back at the screen.

Val didn’t know your history. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sent the message if she did. Or maybe she did know, and sent it anyway. You wouldn’t put it past her.

Your reflection in the glass caught your eye. Same eyes. Same scars. But the woman looking back wasn’t the one he loved. Not anymore.

Maybe she never was.

You sat back down slowly. The room was too quiet now. The Beretta still lay in pieces on the table, glinting dully under the bare bulb overhead. The silence felt like a countdown.

Your hand moved on its own. You tapped out a reply.

I’ll take it.

You could still remember the night he left. 

It had started like all the other nights.

Angry, messy and quiet in all the wrong places.

You’d fought again. You couldn’t even remember what about, maybe it didn’t matter. It never really did. It was always about the same things—the silences, the avoidance. 

The way he wouldn’t talk to you unless it was laced in something defensive. The way your voice always seemed to crack just before you said something unforgivable.

The apartment was dark, save for the sliver of streetlight cutting through the blinds and the faint hum of the heater that never quite worked right. 

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, spine tight, fists curled in the sheets. Your chest still heaved from the shouting match, breath shaky, shallow. 

You hated crying in front of him. But it was happening anyway.

Behind you, he stood by the door, tall, unmoving, arms crossed like holding onto himself was the only thing keeping him from saying something worse. 

Bucky hadn’t spoken in minutes. That always scared you more than the yelling. The quiet.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you finally whispered, voice raw.

He didn’t respond.

You turned to look at him, forcing your voice to steady. “Say something.”

He looked up then, and his eyes, God, his eyes. There was no softness left in them tonight. Just exhaustion, grief wrapped in the shape of a man.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said quietly.

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. “I want you to act like you still fucking care.”

“I do care,” he bit out. “That’s the damn problem.”

The silence that followed was loud. So loud it made your ears ring.

Bucky’s jaw tensed as he stepped forward slowly, stopping just in front of you.

His voice dropped lower, strained, like it hurt him to say it. “You think I don’t care because I don’t yell back anymore? Because I don’t chase you when you storm out? I stopped chasing you because every time I do, you just run further.”

Your throat burned. “I’m not the only one running.”

That landed. You saw it, in the way his expression faltered, just for a second.

“I lost everyone, Buck,” you continued, voice cracking. “Nat. Steve. The world fucking flipped inside out. I came back and people I loved were either dead or moved on. And you—you were the only thing that felt real.”

He didn’t say a word.

“I just kept thinking… maybe if we held on tighter, we could—”

“Break each other slower?” he cut in.

The words hit you like a slap. Brutal, cold and unflinching.

You blinked at him, stunned. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“I think we’re trying to survive a war that already ended,” he said, a little softer now. “And neither of us came out whole.”

Your eyes stung. But you didn’t want to cry. 

Not again. Not in front of him. 

“So what? That’s it? You give up?”

“I didn’t say that.” he protested.

“Then what are you saying?”

He ran a hand through his hair, stepped back like he needed air. Like you were suffocating him just by standing there. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I don’t know who we are anymore.”

You stood up. Walked toward him. Close, too close.

Your voice was trembling now, but you didn’t step back. “We’re us. We’re still us. You know that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth—like he wanted to believe it. Like he couldn’t.

“You don’t get to walk away,” you whispered. “Not tonight.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was desperate. 

The fight dissolved the moment your mouths met. Your hands went to his jaw, to his hair, pulling him in like you could anchor yourself inside him.

He kissed you back like a man unraveling, like he had no other language left. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you backward until your spine met the bedroom wall.

Clothes came off in clumsy, frantic movements. Tugged shirts. Shaking fingers. Gasps caught in the quiet like smoke. His lips trailed down your throat, your chest, his mouth everywhere—hot and hungry.

He pushed inside you with a groan, and your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, like need. Your hips lifted to meet his, the angle bruising, perfect.

It wasn’t gentle, it never was when you fought.

Every thrust was a plea. Every moan a memory.

He held you like he wanted to stay. Fucked you like he didn’t know how to leave.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back as he drove deeper.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured into your neck, voice wrecked. “I know. I’ve got you.”

Your nails raked down his back. Your mouth caught his in a sloppy, hungry kiss. You’d done this so many times, made love like it was the only language you both still understood.

And maybe it was.

When you came, it was with a cry muffled into his shoulder. Your body trembled around him, and he held you through every wave. He followed soon after, voice breaking on your name as his hips stuttered, as he buried himself deep inside you, like he could stay there forever.

For a while, you just lay there. Breathing.

You were curled against his chest, your hand resting over his heart, still pounding hard beneath your palm. His arm was around your waist. His other hand gently cradled the back of your neck. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

And then—he spoke.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Your whole body stilled.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“This,” he said. “Us. The fights. The sex. The pretending, (y/n) it's killing us.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, we can fix it. We always do.”

“This isn’t fixing anything,” he said, voice quieter now. “We're just stalling the inevitable.”

Your eyes filled again, but you blinked fast, furious. “So what? You want to end it?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation was worse than anything he could’ve said.

“Say it,” you whispered. “If that’s what you want, just say it.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. He looked wrecked, like every word he said carved him open too.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said. “I’m not what you need. Maybe I never—.”

“Don’t say that,” you breathed. “Don’t you dare—”

He kissed you again.

Slow. Final.

And when he pulled away, it was like something tore loose inside your chest. Like a rib cracked open and your lungs forgot how to work.

“I love you, god, I do,” he said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

You stared at him, heart breaking open like glass.“Then why does this hurt so much?”

He looked at you—like it was killing him not to reach for you.

“Because I loved you,” he said, voice wrecked. “And I still couldn’t make it right.”

He left before sunrise. You didn’t sleep for three days.

Bucky hated briefings.

He hated the fluorescents. The cold coffee. The recycled air. He hated the staged professionalism, the smug undertone in Val’s voice, and the folders she always slapped down like a final hand in poker.

But he showed up anyway, half-shaven, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat along his spine, bruises still blooming across his ribs from the chase in Istanbul just a day ago.

A smuggler had gotten lucky with a crowbar and he had returned the favour with a shattered wrist.

Val didn’t even glance up when he entered the room.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered, flipping through a file like she hadn’t been waiting. “Sit.”

He dropped into the chair across from her, spine loose but jaw tight, watching her like he was waiting for the punchline.

“You said it was urgent.”

“It is.”

She slid the top folder toward him across the steel table. No smile. Just business.

“Weapons dealer. Codename: OMEGA. Ex-military and former Hydra, bastard’s freelancing now, he’s building something, Stark-level tech, maybe worse. We don’t know but black market says it’s mobile, adaptive, and spreading faster than anything Hydra ever managed.”

Bucky flipped the folder open, glancing over the first photo. Satellite images. Grainy outlines of a compound nestled in the Carpathians. Weapon crates stamped with false serials. And a man, dark-haired, lean, with a half-smile that made Bucky’s gut twist.

“You want me to take him out?”

“No,” Val said, narrowing her eyes. “Not yet. I want you to find him. Get intel. Map the pipeline. This asshole is exporting something fast, quiet, and powerful, and nobody knows how yet.”

He leaned back in the chair, nodding slowly. “So who’s running point with me?”

That was when she smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It never was.

“Someone sharp. Knows the terrain like it’s etched into their bloodstream. I needed someone OMEGA wouldn’t see coming, a ghost, basically.” She pulled a second folder from beneath the stack and laid it down with calculated weight.

“So I found the best.”

Bucky’s chest went still.

She tapped the folder once. “You’ve worked together before.”

His eyes didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t need to look to know. Something low and cold began to unfurl inside him.

“Who?” he asked, already knowing.

Val didn’t skip a beat. “She’s from the Red Room, trained with Romanov. One of the sharpest trackers I’ve ever seen, maybe the best. You worked with her back in 2016. Rogers brought her in to help you disappear for a few weeks.” She looked up at him. “That ring any bells?”

His throat dried out.

Of course it rang a bell. Of course it cracked the whole goddamn church tower.

“She ghosted after the Blip,” Val went on, oblivious to the way the blood had drained from his face. “Merc work. Off-grid. Her name comes up every few years, always attached to success stories. She doesn’t come cheap, but lucky for us, she said yes.”

Bucky didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

Val cocked her head slightly. “Problem?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his tone flat. “No. Just surprised.”

“Don’t be. I told you I wanted the best.”

And she meant it, that was the thing. 

Val had no idea. None. 

She was looking at him like she’d made a smart tactical move, like this was just another piece on her chessboard.

She didn’t know you were more than a name on a file. Didn’t know that just hearing your name was like being punched in the ribs with a memory.

Of course you said yes. Of course you did.

Bucky looked down at the folder, the one he hadn’t opened. The one that already felt like it was burning through the table. His fingers twitched, fighting the urge to open it. But he didn’t need to. He could already picture your face.

Exactly how you looked the last time he saw you, in that apartment, the light catching the tears on your cheek, your mouth trembling, your voice a broken whisper after one final kiss that hadn’t felt final at all.

You hadn’t spoken since. He’d made sure of that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were the right choice. 

You were. You always have been. Your instincts were lethal. Precise. Back when everything was chaos, when he was hunted, bleeding, feral—you’d found him with no satellites, relying on nothing but your skills.

You’d read the rhythm of his footsteps, you’d seen the man underneath the weapon—and somehow, you’d still touched him like he was worth something.

He remembered it all.

The way you’d looked at him without fear. The way you’d spoken to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you’d fallen— And the way he’d fallen harder.

Too hard.

He clenched his jaw and rose from the chair before Val could get clever.

“When do we leave?”

Val smiled, satisfied. “She’ll be here by morning.”

He turned and left before she could say anything else.

Bucky hadn’t seen you in years.

But the memory of you had never really left.

He had tried to pretend otherwise—told himself he’d locked it away. Buried it. Pushed it down into the same graveyard where the rest of his broken things lived. But the truth was simpler. Meaner.

You were everywhere.

In the way someone laughed too loud on a subway platform, in the weight of silence when he climbed into bed alone.

You’d lived beneath his skin long after you left his bed.

And sometimes, even now—in moments he didn’t expect, he could still feel you there.

He remembered the first time he saw you.

Bucharest, 2016. Steve had said your name, classified—a Red Room defector who knew the streets, the syndicates, the backchannels. A shadow that didn’t leave footprints.

He said you owed him a favour. He never said what that favour was.

You’d found him in less than forty-eight hours.

He was holed up in an abandoned tenement, hiding in corners, still haunted by trigger phrases and mission reports and words like asset and eliminate.

He hadn’t slept in two days. He hadn’t trusted anyone in longer.

Then the door creaked. A whisper of motion. And there you were, boots silent, a pistol tucked in your belt, eyes sharp enough to cut. You looked at him like you already knew every terrible thing he’d done. 

And somehow… you didn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you said.

And maybe that was the first lie you ever told him. 

Because you did. Just not in the way he expected.

You’d stayed longer than Steve asked. Said the apartment wasn’t secure. Said you didn’t trust the local chatter. But you’d also started bringing back coffee in the mornings. Left food on the table without asking.

You never made him say thank you. You never asked why his hands shook when he reached for a fork.

And when he had a nightmare so violent he woke up gasping, fists clenched, blood on his tongue, you didn’t back away.

You touched his shoulder, soft and steady, and whispered his name until the past let go of his throat.

Until he remembered where he was. Until he remembered who he was.

That was the night you sat on the windowsill, legs crossed, and told him about the Red Room. 

Not all of it. Just enough. 

You told him about the girl who never shed a single tear during conditioning. Who learned pressure points before she comprehended math. Who killed a man before she learned how to braid her own hair.

He watched you in the half-light. And something broke open in him. Something painful and quiet.

“You think you’re the only one who came out wrong,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve got blood on my hands too.”

He didn’t know what to say.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It couldn’t be.

Two people clawing at each other for something that made them feel human. That made them feel alive.

You’d kissed him like you were starving. Pulled him in by the collar, pressed your body to his like you could crawl inside him and stay there. It was heat and teeth and desperation. It was need, masquerading as anger, safety masquerading as lust.

But later, when your breath had evened out and the moonlight spilled across your bare shoulder, he held you like a secret. His hand moved up and down your spine like he’d been doing it forever.

You curled into him. Stayed there. Whispered things you’d never say in daylight.

He didn’t ask about the scars. You didn’t ask about the dog tags beside his bed. You didn’t need to.

You’d already seen each other naked long before the clothes came off.

That was all it took. That was all it ever took.

Then the Blip happened. And the world ended.

He didn’t know what hurt more—watching you turn to dust in front of him, or himself coming back five years later to find out you hadn’t come back.

They say grief changes people. But this wasn’t grief. This was obliteration.

When you finally returned, months after the snap was reversed—something in you was different. Sharper. Duller. Both at once. Your eyes didn’t light up the same. Your voice came from somewhere deeper.

Bucky later learned the truth in pieces.

You hadn’t come back with the others. Not because you couldn't. But because you hadn’t wanted to.

The moment your body came back, lungs gasping, heart hammering, soul thrown back into flesh, you were alone. Dropped in a place you didn’t recognize. Somewhere cold. Ruined. A city that had moved on without you. 

No one was waiting. No one even knew you'd returned.

And when you finally made it back to what was left of the world, you found out what you’d missed.

Natasha was gone. Steve was gone.

Everything you fought for. Everyone who held you up. All of it—just gone.

You didn’t go back to the Tower. Didn’t call anyone. You vanished.

You went underground, took jobs that let you bleed. Let you disappear. Let you punish yourself in silence, in shadows, where no one could see the way grief had gutted you.

It wasn’t about survival. It wasn’t even about revenge.

It was about not being seen. Not being found.

Because if someone found you—if Bucky found you—then you’d have to admit that you were still alive.

And some days, that felt like the worst thing of all.

It took Bucky weeks to track you down.

You'd covered your tracks—burner phones, false names, cities that swallowed you whole. But he knew your patterns. Knew how you moved.

He traced whispers of a woman who never stayed long, it had led him to a crumbling outpost in Albania, an old safehouse half-buried in snow. 

You’d just come back from a mission, your knuckles bruised, your jaw clenched, blood dried at your collar.

He watched you from across the road, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat. You didn’t see him until he stepped into the light and said your name.

Soft. Like a prayer. Like a wound.

You didn’t talk about Natasha. Didn’t mention Steve. You didn’t talk at all.

And when he finally got you to come home, Bucky tried to help. God, he tried. He made you tea on the nights sleep wouldn’t come. Sat outside the bathroom door when you locked it, listening to the sound of your breath breaking apart through panic. 

He held you when you let him—which wasn’t often—and never asked for more. And when the words ran dry, when silence grew sharp enough to cut, he touched you like he could piece you back together. Made love to you like it might be enough, like it might remind you how to stay.

But you didn’t come back to him. Not really.

And if he was honest, neither did he.

The world had cracked open. And when it tried to reassemble itself, the pieces didn’t fit.

He still loved you, that had never changed. 

But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, jagged. 

Sometimes it’s made of splinters and sutures. Sometimes it bleeds.

And this one did.

The fights started small.

You stayed out too late. You took contracts without telling him. Vanished without explanation. Returned like nothing had happened—blood on your hands, silence in your eyes.

“Where were you?” “I handled it.” “You don’t have to handle things alone anymore.” “Don’t tell me what to do, Bucky.”

It escalated.

You screamed. He slammed doors.

You made love like it was the last time, every time. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning. He kissed you like he couldn’t bear the thought of breathing without you.

You cried once—during.

He kissed the tears from your cheeks and didn’t ask why.

And the next morning, neither of you said a word.

He had left before sunrise.

Quiet. Measured. Like if he moved too fast, the goodbye would catch fire.

Hours earlier, you’d clung to each other like maybe it could still work. Like maybe the way he held you—deep and slow and shaking, like it could sew something back together that had already torn beyond repair.

He’d kissed you after. Whispered your name like it was a prayer. You’d thought maybe he was staying.

But the words came anyway. The softest ones. The final ones.

“I love you,” he’d said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

He didn’t leave a note, he didn’t need to. The silence between you had already said everything.

You didn’t chase him. He didn’t come back. And neither of you called.

Because whatever it was—love, grief, survival—it had finally burned through.

Now, standing in the tower hallway, hands clenched and jaw tight, he thought about all of it.

About the girl who kissed him with cracked knuckles and laughed when she beat him in hand-to-hand. About the woman who came back from the dead and couldn’t sleep through the night.

He thought about your mouth. Your voice. The way you used to touch him.

You were coming back into his life. He didn’t know what that meant yet.

But it didn’t feel like closure. It felt like fate trying again.

The helicopter touched down just before midnight.

The rooftop landing pad of the compound was slick with rain, wind howling against the glass walls like it wanted in. You stayed seated as the engine powered down, watching water bead and crawl across the window. 

The city pulsed below, indifferent and alive. It had been years since you stood in this place. Longer since it had felt anything close to home.

You adjusted your gloves slowly, methodically. Your bag was already slung across your shoulder, weapons holstered, expression blank. The only tell was your fingers—twitching against your thigh like they were searching for something to hold onto.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

"You coming, or do I have to drag you out?" Yelena's voice, unmistakably smug.

You turned. And for a second—just a second, your composure slipped.

She looked the same. Combat boots scuffed from wear. Hair shorter now—cropped into a blunt cut that suited her sharp grin.

There was something in her eyes that made you feel twelve again. She crossed the threshold and threw her arms around you before you could react.

"You bitch," she said, laughing into your shoulder. "You didn’t even text me. I thought you were dead. I tried everything. Even hacked into a mercenary network that tracks off-grid operatives. That’s how low I sank."

You exhaled a breath that almost cracked. Your arms wrapped around her on instinct.

"I missed you too," you murmured.

She pulled back and looked at you—really looked.

"Where did you go?" Her voice dropped a little. Not accusing. Just softer. Like it hurt to ask. "I tried calling, so many times. You just vanished."

You hesitated.

"I couldn’t be here," you said finally. "Not after everything that happened."

Yelena nodded, but her smile faltered. There was understanding in her eyes. And maybe grief too. You had lost your best friend, and she had lost a sister.

"Well, you're here now," she said. "And Val’s gonna shit herself when she sees the two of us in the same room."

You huffed out a quiet laugh. It didn’t reach your eyes.

The elevator opened with a low chime.

And that was when you felt it.

A shift. A cold crackle in your chest. Like a wire pulled tight.

You turned your head.

And there he was.

Bucky stepped off the elevator like a ghost from a life you didn’t let yourself remember.

Dressed in black, cargo pants, worn boots, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the grey shirt beneath. His damp hair pushed back like he’d just stepped out of the storm. A duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his gait loose but alert. 

And his expression—his expression was still, but his eyes...his eyes landed on you like impact—like an old wound splitting wide open

They locked on yours with such force it felt like gravity shifted. Something primal and painful surged in your chest. 

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

He froze. So did you.

It was silent. Just the distant hum of the building, the rain tapping against the windows, Yelena shifting awkwardly between you. No words. Just that unbearable, suffocating pause.

Then he blinked. Swallowed. And nodded once.

"Hey."

It was barely audible. Rough. Like he hadn’t said it in a long time.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Yelena glanced between you and cleared her throat. "I’ll uh… give you two a minute."

She was gone before you could stop her.

You turned back toward the window, throat burning. You felt him walk closer—not near enough to touch, but close enough that his presence bent the air.

"You look different," he said quietly.

You didn’t turn around. "So do you."

Another silence.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again," he said.

"You didn’t try to."

That landed. Hard. You could feel it—the way his weight shifted, the breath he held like it might shatter.

"I didn’t think you’d want me to."

You finally turned, eyes sharp, guarded.

"I didn’t."

And it was true. At least partly.

Because as much as you wanted to hate him, as much as you told yourself you’d buried it all—your body still remembered. 

The way he used to touch you. Hold you. Make love to you like it meant something.

It all came flooding back now.

You remembered the press of his mouth against your throat, the weight of him between your legs, the way he whispered your name when he was close—like it broke something inside him. 

You remembered how he moved inside you, how he clung to you like a drowning man, murmuring your name over and over like it was the only anchor he had left.

You remembered his hands, calloused and warm, roaming your body like they knew every inch, every scar, every secret. 

The way he used to fuck you like he was desperate to stay, to feel something that tethered him to this life—to you. Like the act of loving you was the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely.

And you remembered what it felt like after.

Curled into his chest.

His lips in your hair.

His breath still shaking.

His voice—low and ruined—saying he couldn’t keep doing this.

The ache of it split something inside you.

You swallowed hard. Fingers tightening over your arms like they were holding your ribs together.

"This doesn’t change anything," you said.

He nodded slowly. "I know."

But it did. You both knew it.

Because for all the distance, for all the time, the pain, the silence—the second your eyes met, you felt it. That same, awful, impossible thing.

You still wanted him.

And he still looked at you like you were the only person who ever knew how to touch him without hurting.

It wasn’t love.

It was something worse. It was memory.

The ride into Romania was long, loud, and silent in all the worst ways.

The blades beat a steady rhythm against the night sky, slicing through clouds as the landscape below dissolved into shadow. 

You sat across from him on the side bench, both of you facing inward, knees angled close, but never touching. The blades roared above as the helicopter cut through the clouds, the green glow of the instrument panel washing your boots in ghost-light.

You didn’t look at him. But you could feel it. Every flicker of his gaze, every stolen glance. Like gravity pulling him toward something he had long buried.

When the helicopter finally began its descent, the mountains looked like teeth—jagged, looming, half-lost in cloud. The safehouse wasn’t much. A stone structure tucked into a hillside, half-swallowed by fog and overgrowth. 

The wind howled around it as the blades slowed to a halt, leaving you both alone with nothing but damp air and unfinished sentences. You slung your bag over your shoulder, boots crunching over gravel as you followed him up the narrow path. 

There was no conversation. Just the weight of your history trailing behind you like a second shadow.

Inside, the safehouse smelled like dust and rain. There were two rooms. A generator humming low. A fireplace that hadn’t been used in years. 

The air held the chill of old grief, you dropped your gear on the floor, peeled off your damp jacket, and stood there, cold, wet and exhausted. He did the same, his movements slow, careful, like even the air between you might break if he moved too fast.

The silence thickened. Unbearable.

You turned toward him, voice sharp. “You never came back.”

He looked up from his bag. Stilled. “What?”

You stared at him, every nerve in your chest pulled tight. “After the fight. After you walked out. You never came back. Not even once.”

He blinked. “You told me not to.”

“No, I didn’t,” you said, voice rising. “I begged you to stay. I begged you not to walk away, and you still left.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snapped. “You did anyway.”

He stepped toward you then, chest heaving, anger flickering beneath the surface. “What did you want me to do? Keep pretending we were okay? Just keep  fucking you like that was enough?”

You flinched. “Don’t you dare—”

“I didn’t know how to make it better!” he shouted. “I loved you, god, I loved you, but I didn’t know how to reach you. And every time I touched you, I told myself we were okay, that I could keep us from falling apart. But it was fucking killing me.”

You swallowed against the ache rising in your throat. “So you let go.”

He nodded slowly, breathing hard. “Yeah. I let go.”

“And you didn’t look back.”

He stepped closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Act like you didn’t leave too. You shut me out. You stopped talking. You disappeared before I even walked out that door.”

Your eyes burned. “Because I was grieving, because everyone I—I loved was gone.”

“And I was still standing there,” he said, voice breaking. “I was right there, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Something in you cracked.

You pushed him, open palm against his chest. Hard.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stumble. Just looked at you with something hollow in his eyes, like he was still standing in the ruins of everything you used to be.

“I waited,” you whispered. “I waited for you to come back.”

He stepped into you then, hands bracing against the wall behind you, caging you in. The air shifted, heat sparking between you like a live wire.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, low and rough.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at him, eyes wet, fists clenched. “Then why didn’t you try?”

His voice was hoarse. “Because I thought I already lost you.”

You shook your head. “No James, you gave up on me.”

“I never gave up on you,” he said. “I gave up on the idea that I was good for you.”

The words scraped across your chest.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

The distance between you snapped.

His hands found your face, your jaw, your waist, pulling you in like a man dying of thirst. The kiss came sharp, searing, desperate. All tongue and teeth and ragged breath.

You clawed at his shirt, fisting the fabric, grounding yourself in the heat of him. He pressed you back against the wall, hard enough to shake loose the memories.

His mouth dropped to your neck, your collarbone, biting at the soft skin like he was angry at it. You gasped, arching against him, fingers dragging down his spine.

“Tell me you don’t miss this,” he growled against your throat.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Not what I asked.”

He lifted you with ease, walked you backwards to the bed, lips never leaving your skin. He dropped you down, followed you with a weight that felt like coming undone. The rain outside slammed against the windows. The bed creaked beneath the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

Clothes peeled off, slow and frantic at once. He kissed every inch of your skin, reverent and bruising. You clawed at his back, moaned his name like a plea, like a prayer.

When he slid inside you, it stole the air from your lungs.

He moved slowly at first, deep, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl, your body arch. You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulder blades. He buried his face in your neck.

“You feel the same,” he rasped. “Fuck—you feel exactly the same.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Please, don’t stop.”

His rhythm quickened, rougher, harder. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by broken sobs and gasping breath.

“I should’ve fought for you,” he said. “I should’ve fucking fought.”

You kissed him, fierce and shattering. “Then fight now.”

He groaned into your mouth. “I love you.”

“Then stay.”

You came with a cry, your whole body seizing around him. He followed with a broken moan, hips stuttering, breath catching as he spilled inside you.

You stayed like that for a long time, chests pressed together, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the dark.

And in that quiet, brutal silence, something shifted.

Not healed. Not yet.

But something close to hope.

You lay still for a long time after, his hand tangled in your hair, your breath catching on every exhale like your body didn’t quite believe what it had just done. Bucky shifted beside you, his arm tight around your waist, grounding you.

“You meant it?” you asked softly. “When you said you love me?”

He turned his face toward yours. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no flicker of doubt. “I never stopped,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

You closed your eyes. Let the words settle. Let the silence stretch.

Then—his voice again. Quieter now. Rough around the edges, like the words scraped on the way out.

“Can we try again?”

Your eyes opened.

He held your gaze, steady and unflinching.

“I know I left,” he continued. “And I know you shut me out too. We both did damage. But I still love you. And I want to stay this time. No matter how hard it gets, I’m not walking away. Not ever again.”

Your chest ached.

Because part of you still wanted to push him away, to brace for the inevitable.

But a bigger part, the part that remembered the sound of his laugh in the morning, the feel of his hands holding your broken pieces together—that part whispered:

Yes.

And for the first time in a long time, you almost believed it could be enough.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! your feedback is forever welcomed my loves!

[sunrisesfromthewest]

how would armando react if he is in love with the reader, but she He doesn't look at him the same way, but he wants her for himself and he won't stop until he has her

New follower 💗✨🌷

Headcanons with are boy Armando✨✨

__________________________________________

Summary: Armando really likes you to the point where he’s in love with you (secretly), but you won’t give him the time in a day. Knowing Armando that definitely wouldn’t stop him from trying to pursue you tho.

__________________________________________

[👀First time seeing you]:

* Armando was probably with his Dad and Marcus when he spotted you,since he tends to be more aware of his surroundings then most.As he watch you interact with the Ammo Squad,he nods his head in your directions asking who you were.

* After hearing his Dad say “Y/N”,he tunes the rest of his fathers voice out.Letting the name play on his tongue a bit,to commit it to memory.He glances back at you with a determined look,smiling internally.

* After awhile of being around him you would catch him staring but choose to ignore it,after hearing about his background.

* Armando seemed to pick up on this after he would try to catch your attention or hold a small conversation.Which would frustrate him slightly but not waver his determine mind.

[👩🏿‍💻Being around each other at the station]:

* Not really being able to ignore him,since it seems like every corner you turn he’s there,you would start greeting him,giving him a light smile every now and then.

* Unbeknownst to you,he already figured out your office routes(But you don’t need to know that🙃) I could definitely see him cherishing each little interaction he has with you.Probably mentally keeping a tally mark on how many times,you look,talk,smiled or even walked pass him in a day.(He’s down bad😭)

* Then you’ll start to notice things going missing on your desk like your favorite pens,or small personal items that you had.Only for them to end up in a place you know for sure wasn’t there before.

* Confused you would ask around only to get I don’t know expression back from your colleagues.

* Giving a glance at Armando you asked if he seen your missing items,he would look up at you and hold eye contact for a minute before giving a firm shake of the head;indicating that he hasn’t seen it.(When he knows damn well he has.✌️)

* He would for sure sit on your desk trying to spit game but you just raise a eyebrow and tell him to get loss.Ignoring you he would continue to bother you until,you see him sneak something in his pocket.”Did you just—-“but before you could question him he’s already walking away with a smirk.

[🤺🤺During a mission]:

* Best believe if someone offers to be your partner on a job.He would send them death glares or he would definitely pull them aside and give them a little ‘talk’.(This man crazy about his baby☺️)

* The whole time you two are partnered up you think it’s his Father trying to get you to befriend Armando but Mike is not even aware on how much his son likes (Loves)you.He just know that your a good duo.

* Before doing a job his eyes always scan over your uniform making sure that you’re fully protected,oh and he’s definitely checked your weapons to make sure they function correctly.

(so girl you good to go 👍)

* Armando would unconsciously take the lead when entering a room,pulling you behind him as he scanned the area.Also,low key taking advantage of touching you but he not slick you pick up on what he was doing.But choosing not to comment on it since your focused on the mission.

* If you get caught in a crossfire,just know he’s already shooting at the suspect while making his way to you before anyone else does.Hands and eyes running over your form to make sure you’re okay.

[🤭More interaction and after work Hangouts]:

* After Armando saved you,you start to talk with him more,which had this man ready to pounce on you.Bringing him drinks or snacks whenever you stopped by a convenient store made him become,more obsessed with you.

(Cause Based off the third movie,I know he needs some affection and light pampering😌)

* He’ll definitely start making his attraction move obvious:grabbing your waist if he needs you to move or to grabs something by you,asking if you’ll be free to hangout,saying little pet names like mama,baby or angel every chance he got.

* If your out with the squad,he would probably be mean mugging the whole time,until he sees you,his expression wouldn’t change but if you look closely you’ll notice how his eyes light up.

* He’ll more than likely linger around you wanting to stay close but not making it to obvious.(It’s definitely obvious😂)Staring straight at you he’ll try to make his moves again but you just smile and shake your head.

* As the night goes on he starts to get more restless and just a little bit annoyed,as you continue to ignore his advances.Having enough he pulls you aside and ask why your not giving him the time in a day.

* Shrugging you say”I’m just not interested,”while taking a sip of your drink.Stepping forward he whispers,”I can change that mamá,”grabbing your hand he gives it a light squeeze. “Come on,give me a chance baby.”(Oh,girl I would’ve caved in😳😳😳)

* Watching him give you a teasing smirk,you smile back,raising your right hand to his chin,bringing him forward.Thinking your about to kiss him he closes his eyes leaning forward to close the gap,only for you to bring a finger to his lips and say Nope.Opening his eyes he looks down at you with longing,but you only smile and make your way back to the others,swaying your hips.(Girl you ain’t slick🤨)

* Watching you walk away as if you put him in a trance he whispers,”No corras bebé, recién estamos comenzando.(Don't run baby, we're just getting started)”he says with an predatory gaze.

(Went from Confessing to Obessing🫣)

Part 3 of First Encounter might not get posted until tomorrow but we’ll see,Thank y’all for the love💓💓💓💓

[charleslee-valentine]

Trudy refills Vincent’s cereal. He’s 2-3 years old and blind in one eye. He doesn’t need more cereal, he just needs his bowl rotated so he can see the cereal that was left over on his blind side. Not that we necessarily know how Vincent communicates without speech, but she hardly gives him time to answer her question about more before she’s refilling the bowl anyways. This is her approach to parenting her boys in general.

There’s no interest in fixing their actual issues. Rather than help Vincent to see what he already has in front of him, she’d rather add more, inadvertently also adding more onto the side he can’t see. At some point, this would just add to the issue. Overcompensation into overwhelm. Bo is brought in for breakfast kicking and screaming and it’s sort of evident why Trudy puts all her love into Vincent to the point of it being suffocating and unhelpful. Sure it could be a simple case of favoritism, but with the aspect of overcompensation specifically, it seems that she wants to balance her guilt over failing to parent one of her sons by pouring more effort than necessary into Vincent. Rather than giving the extra attention to Bo, it’s refilling a non-empty bowl of cereal.

I don’t think that necessarily mean she loves Vincent more. She finds him easier to parent. Fill the bowl whether or not he needs it because that’s easier than unpacking where Bo’s massive emotional outbursts are coming from. It seems more like love-bombing than genuine kindness. He’s “being such a good boy today,” but the implied part is an unsaid comparison to Bo. As twins, and conjoined twins at that, they’re not independent of each other. Vincent’s behavior exists only to contrast Bo’s, from her perspective. “Fix” his needs, and she can fix them both. Hence, preferring just to duct tape Bo to a chair than help him any.

Then Vincent grows up to become her protege, starting in his childhood but lasting until even after Trudy’s death. Over thirty years have passed since they were toddlers in those high chairs, but Bo gives a hint about why Vince got that ‘special privilege’ to not be as physically abused. “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Only, God didn’t take anything. Victor Sinclair doing illegal, unqualified surgery on his babies is why Vincent lost half of his face. Trudy only uses God’s name and religion as a shield for her own guilt about how her boys turned out. But it’s more likely she included Vincent in the wax business because she again, was dumping affection onto him over and over as her strategy.

Otherwise there isn’t as much favoritism between the boys. In their childhood photos, they both play piano, both play pool and baseball, both get to sit at the table with their birthday cake (without highchairs or bindings) and they play on the floor together. It's not entirely divisive between them, though it’s still obvious from which brother she’s slapping across his face and which brother she’s love-bombing which she’d prefer to deal with. Just not which she actually cares for more. Vincent wasn’t somehow spared from abuse in a house like the Sinclair household.

Interestingly, when Bo tells the story of Trudy and Victor, he mentions that once the Doc died, they were alone. Except, there’s at least one version of a prop newspaper stating that Trudy created a wax memorial for Victor. So this is just a false version of events most likely. Sure it could be that a decision changed, but there’s also the fact that, in the guns and ammo store, there’s a sign that says “Trudy’s Town or Wax.” And Bo tells Vincent, “We almost finished what mama started.” She’s also much older than the Trudy we see in the family photos and articles (even with the amount of cigarettes that woman smoked.) Ambrose is confirmed to have been abandoned for a decade, but to be turned into wax, Trudy would’ve had to die sometime between the abandonment of Ambrose and the present. Else she would’ve been properly buried most likely. The plan to fill Ambrose was hers, it’s just Bo that suggests using real humans (according to his apology to Vincent, he takes credit for the idea anyhow.)

Which makes her boys at least in their mid twenties when she died. In an older version of the script, Bo had killed her and Victor, but knowing it would put them all in foster care, that doesn’t quite make sense unless they were older. So the order of events is, Doc dying, the sugar mill closing, Trudy planning to reimagine Ambrose, and then dying herself.

The reason that’s important is because it’s emblematic of just how much pressure she was putting on both of her boys. And that’s not love. With two mentally ill, abused sons, (maybe three, since Lord only knows how they treated Lester once he came along,) that’s just manipulation. Victor and Trudy aren’t cartoon super villains for being bad to their boys. But when you can’t even just rotate a bowl slightly for your half blind little one, it’s shallow. Trudy has her cigarettes right in the boys faces in the opening and in most of the photos. Smoking was in one study linked to about 1/3rd of conjoined pregnancies, and in a similar case of conjoinment to the boys, one of the twins had lost an eye and had a prosthetic, but with minimal scarring because of the surgery being done in an actual legal hospital. It’s not about God taking anything, or about which is a little monsted and which is a very good boy- it’s about Trudy and Victor both messing up from the very beginning and causing the boys losses, then refusing to take accountability for it. Or, in the symbolic sense, to just do the right thing and turn a damn bowl of cheerios towards your blind kid.

[ateezscupid]

Can I request an Chan-Young × reader. Anything is fine

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫. ☆

warnings ✩ fluff and angst (deadly combo), fem/afab reader SHE/HER PRONOUNS USED!!, reader's age is somewhere between 18 and 20 since I don't know how old chan-young is exactly, kind of grumpy x sunshine mixed with love at first sight trope, love isn't necessarily mentioned but kind of implied(?), reader is a monster like hyun-soo, injured reader

tags ✩ @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan

SWEET HOME MASTERLIST / REQUEST

Chan-young took a deep breath as the dusty air filled his lungs. The world outside was a silent pattern of desolation. The only sound that pierced the stillness was the occasional groan of a distant monster, a reminder of the horrors that had befallen the city. He squinted through the shattered storefronts, his eyes scanning the desolate streets for any signs of life, but all he could see was the detritus of a civilization that had once thrived here.

"So sick of this." Yeong-hoo groans. The heavy rucksack digs into his shoulders, the weight of supplies and ammo a constant reminder of their urgent mission. They were on their way to the hospital, racing against time to save their injured comrade, and every second counted.

Chan-young nods, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "We're almost there. Stay alert." His voice is low but firm, the authority of a leader echoing in his tone despite the exhaustion etched into his face. The group trudges onward, the rhythmic patter of their boots on the cracked pavement syncing with the erratic beating of their hearts.

A sudden rustling from the abandoned shopping center to their left makes Chan-young's senses sharpen. He raises a hand, signaling the others to halt. They obey, their eyes following his as he points to the source of the noise. It's coming from a convenience store, its door hanging open like a mouth mid-scream. He looks back at the group, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "We need to check it out."

The other soldiers grumble but fall in line behind him as he cautiously approaches the entrance. The shop's interior is cast in a gloomy twilight, the only light filtering through the shards of the broken windows. The shelves are bare, their contents long ago looted by desperate survivors or destroyed in battles with the monsters that now roam free.

As they advance into the store, the rustling grows louder, more insistent. Chan-young's hand tightens around the grip of his gun, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His heart hammers in his chest, anticipating the worst. But what he finds instead stops him in his tracks.

In the far corner of the store, huddled behind an overturned counter, is you. You look up at them with wide, terrified eyes, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Your clothes are torn and stained, your hair matted with dirt and fear. You're clutching a makeshift weapon, a broken chair leg as if it could protect you from the nightmares that lurk outside.

"Don't come closer," you whisper, your voice shaking. "Please."

Chan-young motions for the others to stay back, his instincts telling him that you're not a threat. He approaches you slowly, speaking in a soothing tone. "It's okay. We're not here to hurt you. We're just passing through." Your grip on the chair leg tightens, but you don't move. Your eyes, however, never leave him, searching his face for any hint of deceit.

Yeong-hoo's eyes don't leave you, his grip never loosening on the gun in his hands. As he examined you, he noticed a few cuts on your body, and when looking closer, he saw one of your eyes was black. "Shit!" he lifts his gun and aims immediately. "You're one of them!"

Chan-young reacts fast, slapping the barrel of Yeong-hoo's gun to the side. "Hold your fire! She’s human!"

"No, she isn't, look at her eye! And there's blood under her nose!" Yeong-hoo's voice is sharp with alarm.

Chan-young's eyes dart to your face, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of your injuries. "We don't know that," he says, his voice tight. "Let's just get you to come with us."

You flinch at the sound of raised voices, and the trembling in your hand intensifies. You clutch the chair leg closer to your chest, your eyes flickering between the soldiers and the door as if weighing your chances of escape.

"We don't have time for this," another soldier interjects. "We have to get to the hospital."

Chan-young hesitates, his gaze flickering to you and then back to his comrades. He knows they're right, but something about your situation pulls at his heartstrings. "We can't just leave her here," he says firmly. "We'll be quick, just make sure she’s okay."

Your eyes widen further as the soldiers close in, your grip on the chair leg tightening until your knuckles are white. You try to shrink away, but there's nowhere left to go. "P-please," you stammer, "I'm not… I'm not one of them." You had to lie to protect yourself.

Chan-young steps closer, his hand outstretched. "We're here to help," he assures you. "We're on a mission to the hospital. You can come with us."

For a moment, you seem to consider it. Then, with a sudden burst of strength, you swing the chair leg at them. It's a clumsy, desperate move, but it's enough to make the soldiers step back. You scramble to your feet, ready to run, but a wave of dizziness crashes over you. You sway, barely managing to stay upright.

"Damn it," Yeong-hoo mutters, his finger twitching on the trigger.

"Hold your fire," Chan-young snaps, stepping in front of you. "We're not leaving anyone behind." He looks back at the group. "We need to move fast. We'll take her with us."

The soldiers exchange uncertain glances, but they know better than to argue with their leader. They quickly move to help you, who is now leaning heavily against the counter, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. Your one good eye is filled with a mix of fear and defiance as you look up at them.

As they gently guide you out of the store, you glance back at your hiding spot. It had been your sanctuary for days, the only place you felt somewhat safe from the monsters that had taken over the city. Now you were leaving it behind, entrusting your fate to strangers with guns.

They make their way through the shopping center, stumbling with every step. Your body is a patchwork of bruises and cuts, a testament to your desperate fight for survival. The soldiers' eyes are glued to their surroundings, ready to protect their new charge.

The hospital looms in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the ruin. The journey there is fraught with tension, the constant threat of monsters lurking around every corner. You clutch onto Chan-young's arm, your trembling subsiding only slightly. You can't shake the feeling that you've made a terrible mistake.

As they approach the hospital, the sounds of battle grow louder. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and fear. The group picks up their pace, the weight of their mission pressing down on them like a heavy burden.

"We're almost there," Chan-young murmurs to you, his voice filled with a mix of reassurance and urgency. "Stay close."

You nod, your eyes never leaving his. Despite your fear, you feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you'd make it through this hell alive.

Hours later…

They arrive back at the safe zone, having been unable to save their soldier. Everyone goes back to their stations while Chan-young takes you to the medical ward with Yeong-hoo silently trailing behind them, the gravity of their situation sinking in. He helps you onto a bed, your legs giving way with fatigue.

You were silent, avoiding eye contact and still trembling.

"What's your name?" Chan-young asked, his voice gentle. You didn't reply. "…How old are you, at least?"

You still didn't answer. This was going to take a while. Chan-young sighs and bites the inside of his cheek. "Are you at least 18? Or over 18? I need to know."

Your trembling stops for a moment, and you look up at him with a spark of anger in your one good eye. "Fine! Yes!" you snap. "I'm over 18! Does that make a difference?"

"N-No, I just-" he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Are you hurt anywhere? I can fix you up." Your expression softens slightly as you nod.

"Okay, where are they?" he asks. You point to your bruised ribs and the gash on your forehead, wincing at the touch.

With practiced hands, Chan-young starts cleaning the wounds, his movements efficient and gentle. You flinch at first, but his calm demeanor soon soothes you. "You're safe here," he says, his voice low and steady. "We're going to take care of you."

As he works, he tells you about the safe zone, about the other who have banded together to survive. He tries to keep the conversation light, steering clear of the grim realities of their world. You listen, your breathing growing calmer with each passing moment.

"Y/N." You blurt out.

"What?"

"My name is Y/N."

"Nice to meet you, Y/N," he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Chan-young. That's Yeong-hoo over there." He nods towards the other soldier who's keeping a wary eye on you.

You glance at Yeong-hoo, then back at Chan-young. "What's his problem?" you whisper.

Chan-young sighs. "He thinks you're…y'know, a monster. You're not, right?" He says it with a soft tone, hoping to ease your nerves.

Your breath catches, glancing at Yeong-hoo in the corner. "Is he gonna kill me if I say yes…?"

Chan-young shakes his head, applying a bandage to your forehead. "You're human, aren't you?"

You hesitate before shaking your head no. "I'm human, but…monster too…I guess?" you whisper, your voice shaking slightly.

Chan-young's hands pause in their work, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of confusion. "What do you mean?"

You take a deep, shaky breath and start to explain. You tell them about your transformation, about the hunger that had taken over your body and mind, the power that had turned you into something else. The fear in your voice is palpable, and Yeong-hoo's grip on his gun tightens.

"Like that one monster that escaped?" Yeong-hoo interjects. You stare at him, nodding. "Huh. So, you're a mutant?"

"It's complicated," you whisper, looking down at your hands.

"Well, you're safe here," Chan-young says firmly. "We've got others like you. We're all just trying to survive." He continues to dress your wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his rough exterior.

"But, can I control it?" you ask, your voice barely audible.

"You'll learn," he reassures you. "We've got people who can help you. We've seen some turnback. It's not easy, but it's possible."

Yeong-hoo snorts from his corner, not convinced.

Chan-young glances at him, then back at you. "Don't worry about him. We're all in this together." He finishes bandaging your ribs and moves to your bruised shoulder.

"I'll find you a room." Yeong-hoo says before walking out.

You wince as he touches the tender area, but you don't pull away. You tell them about your life before the apocalypse, your family, your dreams. It's a stark contrast to the monstrous world outside, and for a brief moment, they all forget the horror that awaits them.

As he applies the final bandage, Chan-young notices the way your skin seems to be knitting itself back together. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but it's there. He looks at you questioningly. "How long have you had these…abilities?"

You look away, your voice small. "Since the outbreak. I got a really bad nosebleed…I thought I was going to die."

Chan-young's heart clenches at the pain in your voice. He'd heard similar stories before, but each one hit him like a punch to the gut. He finishes up and stands, looking down at you with a mix of pity and admiration. "You're strong, Y/N," he says. "Stronger than you think."

You look up at him, your eyes wet with unshed tears. "Thanks," you murmur.

Chan-young nods, examining your features. He couldn't deny that you were super pretty. Your eyes were the same color as the sea under a stormy sky, and your hair was a messy halo around your face. Despite the dirt and the bruises, you had a certain…fragility about you. He sighs, focusing back on your wounds.

"You're going to feel a little sting," he warns, pouring alcohol onto a cloth. You bite your lip, your eyes squeezed shut as he gently cleans the gash on your forehead. You wince but don't make a sound.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your fear. You open your eyes to find him smiling at you, and you can't help but smile back.

Yeong-hoo returns with a blanket and a pillow, tossing them onto the bed without a word. He still didn't trust you, but for now, he'd follow Chan-young's lead. "You can sleep here," he says, his voice gruff.

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah," Chan-young says. "We've got enough beds. We're not savages."

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing. You're so tired, you could sleep on the floor if you had to, but the bed seems like a luxury you haven't had in an eternity.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don't mention it," he says, patting your hand. "Get some rest. We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

As you lie down, you can't help but feel a sense of relief. Before falling asleep, you sit back up. "Chan-young?"

"Yes?" He's already by the door, about to leave.

"Um," you sniffle. "Can you, um…" you start but trail off.

"What is it?" he asks his hand on the door handle.

You take a deep breath and swallow your pride. "Could you…could you stay here with me? Just for tonight?"

Chan-young's expression softens. He understands your fear, the feeling of being in a new place filled with unfamiliar faces. He nods and pulls up a chair beside the bed. "I'll stay."

The room falls into silence, save for the distant cries of monsters and the occasional footstep outside. You feel the warmth of his presence beside you, a comforting weight in the heavy darkness. You close your eyes, willing yourself to relax.

"Chan-young?" you whisper, your voice shaking.

"Yeah?"

"What if I turn?" The words hang in the air, thick with fear.

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a strange mix of sadness and determination. "We'll deal with it," he says. "Together."

You nod, taking solace in his words. You know he can't guarantee anything, but the promise is enough for now.

The night stretches out before them, filled with uncertainty and the ever-present danger that lurks just beyond the walls of their haven. But for this one moment, with the gentle hum of life-support machines in the background, you feel a semblance of peace.

Your eyes grow heavy, lulled by the rhythmic breathing of the soldier beside you. Despite the chaos outside, you feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you've found a place where you can belong, where you can learn to live with the monster inside you without fear of rejection or death.

As you drift off to sleep, you don't know what the future holds. But for tonight, you're safe. And that's enough.