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bayjaruchel · 2 years ago

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Underneath The Strobe Light

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Pairing: Mike Schmidt (2023)/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're aware of your feelings for Mike, but you're unsure if he feels the same. A single late-night conversation changes everything. (4.2k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

Extra Notes: Posted October 29, 2023

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You know Mike, sometimes. Mainly in bits and pieces.

You know he has that poster of Nebraska above his bed; you know he's got a soft spot for terrible eighties cartoons. You know he likes his steak well done. Maybe it's generally useless information — but you've tucked it all away in a dear corner of your brain, in a well-worn cardboard box with his name scrawled fondly on the side in Sharpie.

He's been busy nowadays, especially with his awful new job at that abandoned restaurant. You've always been there if he needs someone to watch over Abby. It's a strange juxtaposition— spending more and more time at his house, but spending less and less time actually talking to him. But you know he's exhausted, both mentally and physically.

You don't expect much. You don't need much. Even though Mike's always offered to actually pay you for babysitting Abby, you've always declined.

However— needing and wanting are two very different things.

And you want. So, so much.

Sitting here, on the couch in his living room, your mind always wanders back to him. Abby's a really nice kid, even if she's a little on the eccentric side. Whenever you're sitting with her, watching her draw or watching the television, you can't really focus on Mike. But now, with her safely put to bed … There's nothing to stop you. Nothing to distract you from the empty spot next to you on the couch.

You blink, already bleary-eyed from the hour. There's some mediocre sitcom playing on the television. It's practically white noise, and you can feel yourself slowly but surely being lulled to sleep. The stubborn part of you wants to fight it. The tired part of you wants to just let it happen. You fumble for the remote instead, switching the channel.

World News Now?

Not bad, you think wryly, slumping back into the pillows. You liked the guy playing the accordion and singing about the news, polka-style. Hopefully they'll bring that back. Maybe large broadcasting networks actually do know their audiences.

Yeah, no.

You stifle a yawn, tugging your blanket a little tighter. The room's dark, so the only real sources of light are coming from the kitchen and the bluish glow of the television. The only sounds besides that of the T.V. are the occasional car passing by, joined by the gentle chorus of crickets. It's quiet, but not in a discomforting way.

It's kind of perfect. Like your own little bubble in the world. Untouchable. Not until the sun rises, anyway.

Your bubble suddenly pops when a car pulls into the driveway, tires crunching on the pavement, and your heart skips.

It couldn't be anyone else.

About a minute later, there's the sound of keys turning in the lock. The door swings open and then shuts behind him. Softly. He knows Abby would wake up if he slammed it. Then there's the thump of him setting down his stuff— carelessly.

The couch cushions squeak a little when Mike sits down next to you. Silently. He's gotten rid of that stupid security vest.

"Hey," you offer.

"Hi," he obliges.

You're sure he's not really paying attention to the T.V. "How was work?"

It's bland small talk at best, and brutally annoying at worst. But it's the only way to move into interesting conversation territory. And he didn't just trudge past you to go flop down on his bed, so you're assuming he does want to talk. You might pretend not to know, but you're well aware of his social life— or lack thereof. Everyone needs to talk, sometimes.

"Pretty dull." Rolling his probably stiff shoulders, he lets out a small sound of discomfort. Sheepishly, he murmurs: "I kind of … I kind of just napped, to be honest."

"Aren't you supposed to be a security guard?" You tease. "That's a really important job, you know. You have to stop all the dangerous teenagers from breaking in and spray-painting dicks on the walls."

He huffs out something reminiscent of a laugh. "Honestly, the pay's too low to take it seriously."

"And yet … "

"There weren't any kids, okay?" Mike shakes his head. When you turn to look at him, though, he's smiling. It's faint, but it's there. "No dangerous teenagers that I had to fight off. It was fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

You don't want to let the silence set in.

"Oh, yeah, we finished the leftover spaghetti earlier. For dinner. I hope that's okay."

"No, it's terrible," he deadpans. "I hate you."

"Asshole."

"Whatever." Mike snickers, and you bask in its gloriousness. "Yeah, it's okay. I know that I probably wouldn't have eaten it anyway. Did you, uh … " He pauses for a split second. "… Did you like it?"

His tone makes you wonder, but you hastily brush it off. "Yeah, I did," you clarify, "the sauce was pretty great. Was it store-bought, or?" Because if it was, then where can I get it?

"Yup," he replies, popping the 'p'. "Great stuff, for something that's canned. But I always add a little more garlic powder, too."

"Oh, really?"

Mike hums an affirmation. "It's like magic, I'm telling you. Doesn't even take a lot to add flavor."

"That's cool." You rustle with your blanket again, adjusting it more out of habit than anything else. That, and it's kind of cold. "I'll try and remember it for later."

He's almost cheeky when he speaks.

"It's life-changing."

You can't help but snort. "You sound like an addict."

Incredulously, he glances at you. "To what? Garlic powder?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I can't believe that you'd say that." He slowly shakes his head, for the second time in the span of roughly a minute. "Especially as someone who's experienced it firsthand—"

"—you're the one talking about how life-changing it is—"

"—you can't possibly ignore the irresistible savoriness of garlic powder."

You look at one another for a moment. The sheer absurdity of the situation sets in all at once. And, well. He starts giggling, and you can't hold it in, either. How could you? Even though he looks at least part zombie, his eyes are still very much alive. Despite the blatant awkwardness and lingering shyness that always follows him around, he's still got a very contagious laugh.

After you both calm down, he lets out a long sigh.

"It's getting really late."

You cling to what little stubbornness remains. "Yeah?"

"Are you gonna head home?"

Again, there's something there. Despite his nonchalant attitude, it's almost like—

—but you're probably overthinking. Wouldn't be anything new. He has to get some rest, and so do you. The drowsiness repeatedly threatening to tug your eyelids closed is a testament to that. Normally, you'd just pass out on the couch or something, and take off early in the morning; before Mike and Abby wake up. But now, it's different. Now, you actually have to make a choice before your sleepy body makes it for you.

"Um." You rub your eyes again. "I mean. I could, if it's bothering you—"

"It's not."

He interrupts you so quickly that it catches you off-guard. It seemingly catches him off-guard, too, judging by the way he promptly averts his gaze and pretends to care about the guy on the television going on about some sort of plumber strike in the city.

"Oh." You need a second to process. "Oh, okay. Well, in that case … I don't really think that it'd be safe for me to drive right now." You laugh, a little too airily for it to be completely genuine. "I'd probably fall asleep at the wheel or something." At least that's the truth. "I'll just take the couch. As usual."

"Okay," he says. He's back to murmuring.

"And I'll be gone before you eat breakfast." Subconsciously, you're fiddling with the slightly frayed edges of the blanket. It's well-loved. "As usual."

You think you hear him suck in a breath, seconds before:

"Why don't you stay?"

Your own breath stutters in your chest.

"... what?" Is all you can manage, without horrifically humiliating yourself.

"I mean," he rushes to correct himself, "you come by sometimes because you want to spend time with Abby— she likes you a lot, you know, sometimes I think she likes you more than she likes me . I think—" He's properly nervous now, his knee bouncing up and down. But he's already continuing before you can get a word in. "I think she'd like you to be here in the morning. And you don't accept pay, anyway. You just— won't."

His nervousness is spreading to you. "Hey, I—"

"Why are you here, anyway?"

The question sounds like it's been a long time coming. He's demanding you now, brow furrowed and eyes sparking with emotion. "Is it out of pity? Do you feel sorry for me? Do you feel sorry for Abby? Because if you do, then— then you can just—"

"It's not!" You exclaim.

Immediately, you realize that there's a sleeping girl not too far away, and shamefully lower your voice.

"... It's not, I promise. I just—" It takes a little while for you to gather the right words, and when you do, you don't drop your gaze from him. All of his previous frustration is all but gone, replaced by a slightly wide-eyed expression that's making your heart ache a little. "I genuinely really like spending time with Abby, okay? She's really sweet, and creative, and just a really great kid. And I—"

You stop yourself.

"And you what?" Mike asks, gently.

Might as well, huh?

"And I really like spending time with you, too," you admit, finally unable to meet his eyes and focusing on your lap instead.

There's an incredibly tense beat, in which you swear your life flashes before your eyes.

Then:

He's barely audible when he speaks. His knee has stopped bouncing, but he's playing with his thumbs. Clearly, your confession— vague as it was— resonated with him, in some way. You hope he understands what you meant, because you couldn't possibly put it all into words in a way that would make sense.

"Feeling's mutual," he mutters.

Your head almost snaps up at that. Maybe you had expected it, deep down— you're not oblivious, duh— but it's one thing to have a hunch, and another to have that hunch proven. And out loud, no less.

"Yeah?" You dare to ask.

Slowly, he looks up. He meets your eyes.

"Yeah," he repeats breathlessly, like the wind's been knocked out of him.

You let your blanket fall from your shoulders, and it slides all the way onto the floor.

You reach out.

He lets you lace your fingers through his.

Mike's palm is sort of clammy— and he's shaking a little— but he still squeezes your hand. On instinct, you guess. It still makes you smile. He doesn't return it, but his lips are parted a little, and you really, really like that. More than you probably should. You like a lot of things about him more than you probably should.

You scooch a little closer, and he doesn't move away. You let your gaze drop back down to his lips again, making your intentions clear. Still, you don't know if it's clear enough. You lean in, just barely.

"... Can I?"

His reply is almost instantaneous.

"Please."

You swallow all of the witty quips you could make, and kiss him instead.

He's very tentative at first. Like he hasn't done this for a while. But you ease him into it— and before long, he's got one hand on the back of your neck, the other somewhere near your waist. He tastes like coffee and something else you can't really put your finger on. It doesn't really matter, though. Because you are kissing him, damnit!

His eyes are still shut when you part— with a soft smack — but they flutter open after a second. You're not sure if you're supposed to say something meaningful. Luckily, he leans in instead, and your thoughts are immediately transported elsewhere.

You kiss like this for a while. It's really nice, and you know he needs it. So do you.

However— when you start losing track of time, lost in the moment, he makes a noise.

It's quiet, definitely. But it's nothing like the little hums and sighs he's been making so far. It makes you shift closer, pressing more insistently into him. And he responds, enthusiastically wrapping his arms around you, closing the little distance between your bodies that there was. You can practically feel his heart jackrabbiting in his chest when you slip your tongue past his already kiss-swollen lips.

He moans.

You indulge yourself. For a little longer. And Mike chases you when you part.

"We shouldn't do this in the living room," you whisper, nearly panting. "The couch is a little—"

"Okay," he whispers back, already sounding wrecked. "Okay."

You've been in his room before. You've sat on his bed— you've even laid on it before. But you've never straddled him on it before. It's a position that makes your head spin a little, and you occupy yourself with kissing him again. His hands fit perfectly on your hips, but they don't stay there for long, tragically— they trail upwards, up your waist, to your back. To your shoulders, and then back down again. It's as if he just can't get enough. You can't either. You need more.

So, you tug at his shirt. He gets the message right away— hands scrambling to pull it up and over his head. He's still rather slim, but with a slight softness, mostly located in his midsection. There's a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, as well as the provocative happy trail leading down from his navel. You drag your eyes downward, admiring him, and then decide that you're wearing too much clothing. Your top comes off, dropped onto the floor near his.

Mike takes more time to admire you when your torso is completely bare. His hands are warm on your bare skin, and slightly rough. Like before, he's hesitant at first, but when you encourage him— either literally or with physical indications— he grows bolder. His stubble scratches gently against you when his lips find your collarbone.

You squirm a little, not even realizing it— and you feel him. Simultaneously, you both gasp. He's not fully there, but he's at least half-hard— and it can't be comfortable in those jeans.

"Should I—"

"Yeah—"

With steady fingers, you unbutton his fly, and then unzip him. It's a little awkward when he shimmies out of the jeans, and when you wriggle out of your bottoms— you both snicker a little, but he's back to comfortably breathless when you settle back onto his lap. Under normal circumstances, you would tease him again. And yet, you can't bring yourself to. Not right now, at least.

All you want to do is keep going.

You roll your hips, testing the waters. His breath audibly hitches, and his hands fly up to settle back on your hips. He looks up at you, eyes already half-lidded— and they close when you grind down again. And again. His lips are clumsier this time when you kiss him, but he still reciprocates all the same. The sensation of him directly underneath you like this is intoxicating. You can feel every little twitch and every little jolt.

"Fuck," he breathes, long and drawn-out, " God, I can— I can see the spot on your—"

"Yeah?" You encourage, grinding down again, drinking in his answering groan. "You like that?"

"Yes —"

"You want me to take 'em off?"

Mike's pupils are blown wide, even though his eyes are already dark as is in the dimness of the room. He nods, once, then twice. "Yes," he murmurs. "Please," he adds, for good measure.

He stares openly when you get off him, just enough to peel off your last remaining layer of clothing. And when you sit back down, well. It's obvious that you'll have to give him a second. "Can I," he says, finally, "can I touch you?" The way he's looking up at you again is just so sweet, so needy, that you consider saying no. Your throbbing core quickly shuts that idea down.

"Go on," you encourage.

He helps you move so he has easier access, and—

His fingertips find your slit, already wet for him.

"Look what you did to me," you murmur.

He visibly flushes— and then carefully works one finger into your slick heat. The feeling, combined with his thumb brushing against your clit— it's relief that you've needed this entire time, and you can't help but let a quiet sound escape your lips. It's apparently enough incentive for him to quicken his pace a little. Deliberately, he continues massaging your sensitive nub in a firm but easy pattern as he gently pushes a second finger inside you.

Mike may be out of practice, but evidently, he still knows what he's doing. He peppers kisses up and down your neck, some more open-mouthed than others. Crooking his fingers, he maintains his diligent rhythm. A thought floats through your mind, unbidden— he must have strong hands, if he's been able to keep up like this—

Two becomes three, and you're spreading your thighs a little wider for him. He's still transfixed, but speeds up at your urging, breath hot against the divot between your neck and shoulder. You chance a glance down, and you can see the visible outline of him through his boxers. You did that to him. He's desperate— for you.

"Mike," you gasp, "nnh—"

"Yeah, c'mon," he mouths, against your neck, "c'mon—" He's not letting up in the slightest, and when you tell him to, he speeds up again. He needs to see you cum just as much as you need to feel it. Your needs and wants are rapidly blending into one. You squeeze your eyes shut, but open them to look at him. His dark curls are a mess, his hand working tirelessly between your legs.

"Mike —"

He says your name in return, like he's the one in the vulnerable position.

"Mike , 'm gonna— 'm gonna—"

"Please," his breaths are ragged, debauched, "cum, please, c'mon, lemme see it—"

"Oh —"

The tension snaps, and you spasm around his fingers. Your hips twitch, and you moan, your mouth falling open as you ride out your orgasm. You're rising— falling — molten honey pooling in your core, before flowing throughout your body. And Mike keeps going throughout it all, letting you enjoy the sensations until you're fully satisfied.

Nearly boneless, you sag backward. His fingers, soaked with your glistening release, slip out of your cunt with a wet noise. He doesn't waste any time in bringing them up into his mouth, cleaning them off with his tongue— at the taste of you, he groans, even though it's muffled. Your mind takes a moment to catch up again with the world, but another thought manifests itself— how would he react, if you let him use his mouth on you? How would his head look between your thighs? He would be noisy, wouldn't he? Enthusiastic, pliant, and—

Your desire, although it waned for a short minute, comes back tenfold. But you take one look down again and— you can do that later. Right now, you want him inside you.

Mike lets you tug him down for another kiss. He lets you feel the worn fabric on his thighs, almost playfully. When you palm him through them— he hisses through his teeth, hypersensitive even though you've barely touched him yet. You're going to fix that, though. Hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, you tug them down.

You were right. He's desperate. As soon as his overheated skin meets the cool air, he lets out another quiet hiss. And when you take him in hand—

"Mmh —" A firm stroke from base to tip, and you've already got him. He's average in length, but a little girthy. You know he'll be perfect. There's a little drop at the head of his cock, and you resist the urge to lick it off, focusing instead on warming him up a little. He whispers your name, once, when you pump up and down, twisting your wrist.

"Got a condom?" You ask, stilling for a second. His eyes snap to you.

"Oh my God, " he quickly mutters under his breath, before raising his volume, "uh, yeah, I think so. Lemme—" And he's already scrambling off the bed, opening the drawers of his nightstand with speed, but somehow simultaneously managing not to make much noise. He rifles through them, but soon emerges victoriously with what he was looking for. It's a little funny, how he doesn't waste any time in ripping it open and tossing the garbage into the mostly-overfull pail near his bed. Hastily, he rolls on the condom. You think he's expecting you to lay back or get up on your hands and knees so he can fuck you like that— you wouldn't be entirely opposed to it— but that's not what you want right now.

You place your hands on his chest and push him back down so he's sitting against the headboard. He goes without complaint, even shifting when he understands what you want to do. He's flushed almost down to his neck.

When you sink down on him in a smooth slide, still slick from earlier, you both moan. He sounds strained— he's biting his lower lip, squirming until he finally bottoms out. You have to take a moment to catch your breath, too; the fullness is just how you imagined, but it's so, so much, especially because of your lingering sensitivity.

"I'm not—" He audibly swallows, hands tightening on your waist when you move just a little, "oh, fuck, I'm not gonna— I'm not gonna last long." He's babbling a little. "You're tight, fuck."

You rock back and forth, once, and it's enough to force a choked noise from his throat. You watch his face, observing every little twitch, the clenching of his jaw. You can't hesitate for much longer, though— so you begin lifting yourself and dropping yourself down on his cock. Just in little movements at first, so you can get used to the feeling. His eyes squeeze shut—

"Look at me," you demand, and he does. He doesn't try and thrust up into you when you really start to move. Up and down, up and down, with lewd plaps that accompany your sounds; his grunts— you swear you hear him whimper . His eyelashes flutter open and closed, as he struggles to follow your command, wanting to be good. For you. Even though you can see his thighs flexing as he holds everything back. You ride him for all you're worth.

True to his words, you can tell when he gets close. Maybe he's been on edge this entire time. You thread your fingers through his hair— he buries his face into the crook of your neck, maybe out of embarrassment. You can feel how flushed he is, a thin sheen of sweat covering both of your bodies. Your muscles are aching, but you're determined to make him cum. You're determined to do this for him.

He says your name, but it's more of a whine. "Please — I'm gonna— I can't — "

"Go on," you pant, "you can. Don't hold back." Your arms are wrapped around his neck, now, holding him tight; just like his arms around your waist. The contact is almost too much, but somehow it's still not enough, despite him being inside you. "Go on," you repeat, after he whines again, the sound sending white-hot heat straight to your core. "Cum."

Mike twitches, and you can feel him pulse— the sound he lets out is high-pitched, muffled into your skin. You slow your movements— the aftershocks of his orgasm last longer than yours. It might've been a little while for you, but it had definitely been longer for him.

He doesn't let go, even after his breathing's slowed down.

Gently, you pull his head back so you can look at him. He looks up at you with slightly wet eyes. The kisses you press to his cheeks and forehead make him scrunch up his face.

"Hey," he rasps, "I gotta throw out the condom. Hang on."

"Yeah, okay."

When he slips out of you, you both sigh a little. With unsteady fingers, he ties up the condom before chucking it into the pail.

The sheets are cool on your skin when he pulls them over you both. The room reeks of sex, but both of you are too exhausted to care. When you turn to lay on your side, he's behind you, throwing an arm over your waist. Tugging you closer. Almost absentmindedly, there's a kiss pressed to the back of your head.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

You stare at the far wall, unable to close your eyes just yet.

"For what?"

"For—" A pause. "For everything, I guess."

The awkwardness is back. But you let it in. You smile.

"You're welcome."

He doesn't respond, but shuffles nearer, chest pressed up against your back. It's not long before you're both fast asleep.

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt smut

4K notes · View notes

hotshotsxyz · 8 months ago

Note

Hiii Abbie 💕💕💕

Buddie + “ i didn’t know where else to go. “

-❤️🪐

(buddie) (1.5k) eddie's pov before and after the events of this fic written for the same prompt! (technically i only used the line in the first one but oh well lol)

cw: vague description of a very bad car accident

Eddie doesn’t make a habit of watching the news. It’s depressing as hell, he runs the risk of seeing Taylor fucking Kelly on his TV, and if something he actually needs to know about is going on, he’ll hear it from Buck some time in the next few days anyway. All that to say, Eddie isn’t watching the news; he’s just flipping through the channels.

“Pick me, choose me!” Meredith Grey is saying in a rerun of Grey’s Anatomy.

click

“—low pressure system moving in from the north,” a meteorologist says on The Weather Channel.

click

“Alright boys, saddle up!” says the captain on that crappy network firefighter show.

click

“—multi-car pile-up on the 405. It’s unclear if—”

click

“—raw dough. It’s such a shame—”

click

“—urging drivers to avoid—”

click

“—looking for a loft in the city, while Jennifer would prefer—”

click

“—unclear if there are any survivors of the initial crash.”

Eddie puts the remote down. He doesn’t make a habit of watching the news, but every once in a while, something catches his attention.

The image on the screen is an aerial shot of a massive, burning multicar pile-up. The 136 is on scene, but they can’t have been there long if the size and ferocity of the fire is anything to go by.

“—compounded by the explosion of a tanker carrying gasoline—”

Eddie winces. They’re going to be there all night if they don’t get more companies on scene. He reaches for the remote at the same time as the shot switches from the aerial to a reporter on the ground. She’s not what stops him from changing the channel. The crushed and smoldering Jeep behind her is.

And it’s—there’ve got to be a thousand silver Jeeps in Los Angeles. And Buck wouldn’t—why would he even be on the 405? So obviously it’s not Buck’s Jeep, even if it is the same color and probably year. It’s just a shitty little coincidence.

An unpleasant pressure begins to build in Eddie’s chest.

He’ll just—it’s not late. He doesn’t even have to tell Buck why he’s calling. Eddie scoops his phone off the table, navigates to his favorites, and taps Buck’s name. The call goes straight to voicemail. Eddie frowns and taps his name again. He gets the same result.

“—and rescue is under way, but I’m being told that until the fire is contained—”

Buck’s phone is dead, probably. Or—or he took Jee to that movie he was talking about so he had to turn it off. That’s—he’s sure that’s it. Eddie rubs at his sternum and stands. He’s just… feeling a little paranoid.

He calls Maddie. She answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Maddie,” Eddie says, brushing a hand across the back of his neck. “It’s Eddie.”

“Uh, hey,” Maddie says. “Is everything okay?”

Eddie winces. “Yeah, I think so. I was just wondering if you’ve talked to Buck tonight.” He’s being ridiculous. Buck’s fine.

“No,” Maddie says, obvious confusion in her tone. “Why, did something happen?”

“No, no,” Eddie says. “I just haven’t been able to get ahold of him.”

Maddie hums thoughtfully. “He might’ve had a dental appointment earlier,” she says.

“Okay, thanks,” Eddie says. “I’ll probably just swing by the loft then.” There’s a pit in his stomach. Buck’s fine. At worst he has a cavity or two. He’s fine.

“Oh!” Maddie exclaims. “Hold on, let me check his location; I’ll save you the trip if he’s not there.”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. Duh. He has Buck’s location too. He didn’t even need to bother Maddie with—

“Nope, sorry,” she says.

Eddie takes a breath. He’s fine. Buck’s fine. “Maddie,” he says slowly, “where is he?”

“Um, as of twenty-eight minutes ago, looks like he was driving through Culver City, on the 405, I think,” she replies. “Eddie, what’s going on?”

“Oh god,” he breathes. He can feel the blood draining from his face.

“Eddie?” Maddie asks. She’s starting to sound worried.

On the TV, the camera zooms in and pans across the wreckage. It reaches the Jeep. Hanging from the rearview mirror is a bigfoot air freshener that looks exactly like the one Chimney gave him as a joke a few months ago. It’s—

It’s Buck’s Jeep. He’s fine. He has to be fine.

“—understand that search and rescue efforts are underway, but as of right now, no additional survivors have been located.”

He could be dead.

Eddie’s knees give out beneath him. He lands heavily on the couch.

“Don’t turn on the news,” he says.

“What? Why?” Maddie asks.

“There was an accident on the 405,” Eddie replies mechanically. “I think it might be bad.”

On the other end of the line, Maddie sucks in a sharp breath. “Eddie—”

“It’s his Jeep,” Eddie says.

He’s okay.

He has to be okay.

He’s not okay.

He could be dead.

“I have to call Bobby,” Eddie realizes aloud. “He can—he can get in touch with IC.”

“Okay,” Maddie says shakily. “Okay. I’m going to call Sue. Maybe she—” Maddie cuts herself off with something like a gasp.

“I’ll call you when—” if “—I get ahold of him,” Eddie promises.

“Same,” Maddie replies.

They end the call without a goodbye.

Eddie tries Buck again, just in case. He doesn’t answer.

He can’t—

Buck has to be okay.

He has to.

Eddie takes a steeling breath and calls Bobby.

…

Eddie’s crawling out of his skin. The captain of the 136 has him on hold, and that’s already more than he’s obligated to do but—

But it’s Buck and Eddie’s fucking terrified.

The longer he waits, the farther afield his imagination goes.

He’s got a broken leg and a concussion; they’re taking him to Cedars-Sinai.

He wasn’t conscious when we found him. They’re airlifting him to UCLA.

I’m sorry, Diaz. He was DOA.

Eddie paces back and forth and tugs at his hair. He needs to do something, anything! He needs—

Flashing blue and red lights filter in through the window.

He’s dead.

He’s dead, and this time Eddie wasn’t there to coax him back.

He’s dead and they sent an officer to tell him in person and Eddie’s never going to catch his breath because Buck’s the one that taught him how to breathe after—

There’s a knock at the door.

He can’t do this. Eddie can’t do this. He can’t—

How is he supposed to go to work without Buck? How’s he supposed to tell Christopher? How is he ever going to get up in the morning again? How is his heart supposed to keep beating in a world devoid of Evan Buckley?

He opens the door.

His phone clatters to the floor.

“Buck,” he sobs.

…

Eddie watches the slow rise and fall of Buck’s bruised chest as he sleeps.

He’s alive.

He’s okay.

He’s got tangible proof right in front of him, but—

Eddie reaches out and brushes an errant curl from his forehead.

Buck is alive and breathing and sleeping in Eddie’s bed and he’s okay. But Eddie—

He rests his palm on Buck’s sternum and counts each inhale.

Buck’s here. He’s fine. Maddie knows and Bobby knows and Eddie’s got the living proof right in front of him, but—

Eddie shuffles a little closer until the heat of Buck’s skin is overwhelming against his own. He hooks his chin onto Buck’s shoulder and tries to memorize the strange shadows and highlights that are painted on his skin by the light of the moon.

He’s alive.

He could’ve—

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and shudders.

Buck’s alive and he’s right here, but Eddie can’t quite escape the moment when he was certain neither of those things would ever be true again. His breathing goes a little ragged, and his hands curl into fists.

“Eds?” Buck mumbles, eyes still closed.

Eddie lets out a shaky breath. “M’sorry, go back to sleep,” he whispers. The words are sticky and thick in his throat.

A small furrow etches itself between Buck’s brows. Eddie smooths it with his thumb. He drags his gaze back down Buck’s face and finds his eyes open and fixed on him.

“Eddie,” he whispers in the dark.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m fine,” he lies.

Buck frowns. He watches Eddie for a long moment, then something in his expression shifts. “Switch sides with me,” he says.

Eddie blinks. “What?”

Buck huffs a soft breath. “Just—trust me?”

And oh, Eddie does. He carefully climbs over Buck, who shuffles to his right to give Eddie more room.

“Okay?” he asks quietly.

“Almost,” Buck replies.

He pulls Eddie flush against him and guides his head down onto his chest. Beneath him, Buck’s heart beats strong and steady.

“Oh,” Eddie exhales.

Buck runs his hand through Eddie’s hair and down his back.

Eddie closes his eyes and finally, he sleeps.

#tysm for the prompt saturn!!#i hope you like it even though i cheated lmao #abbie answers #abbie writes #911 #911 abc #buddie #buddiefic #buddie fic #fic

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faerymin · 2 months ago

Text

Just My Luck: Episode One

Synopsis: With the discovery of a tribe populating a remote island between Japan and South Korea, your lover and head of the broadcasting network, Kim Namjoon, temporarily demotes you from your role as a news anchor and sends you on location in favor of filming a documentary. With your already cold relationship straining further, you’re sent to film the project only with a cameraman infamous around the station for womanizing, the recently recruited Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (ft. Kim Namjoon)

Tags: Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, From Sex to Love, Infidelity, Brief Friends With Benefits Situation, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Workplace Romance, Dubious Morality, Fluff, Guilty Pleasures, I'm Sorry Kim Namjoon, Secret Relationship, Mutual Pining, Substance Abuse, Rich RM, (Kind of) Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 4.7k

Author’s Note: Cross-posted on AO3.

━━━

“Delusion detests focus and romance provides the veil.” Suzanne Finnamore, Split: A Memoir of Divorce

━━━

IN THE FIRST HOT MONTH of the fall KBS gave an obituary to a popstar who’d been admitted to Asan Medical Center with her wrists cut in a segment on the morning news, which you watched only because you forgot to switch off the TV and must have pressed some buttons in your sleep to play that particular channel. The medical records and the anchor (who was the weather girl before you’d divorced the broadcasting system) said exhaustion but in the afternoon you spoke to Seokjin and he told you about the actor who left her for an underwear model, which is why you spoke to him in the first place, because Seokjin knew about things like that, knew about people, and to appease you he continued to tell about the news anchor, Mido Nang, becoming the frequent visitor to a surgery clinic in Hannam.

“How do you know it,” you said. You were on the long white chaise in the employee lounge, and he smoked by the open window although it was forbidden. “How do you know she got anything done?”

“I know because I know this surgeon who did her. And you want to hear something funny? Apparently she asked to get her nose cut from all sides the second time so she’d look like Shin Minah in A Love to Kill. The poor thing doesn’t understand that’s not how bones work.”

“Her performance was lackluster this morning,” you said then, swirling sugar cubes into the coffee. “She was trying to pose for the camera while pronouncing the girl dead.”

“She’s lackluster every morning. The only reason she stays the anchorwoman is because she’s screwing, I think, the president’s nephew.”

Echo of voices bounced in from the hallway, and Naeun, who was a director and wore her hair choppy and boyish, flipped a page of the copy of Cosmopolitan she’d been exhausting for the better half of an hour, her foot swinging in the air in single pendulum motion. “If HR gets another complaint about the smoke you’ll be the next one pronounced dead.”

He laughed. “What are they going to do. Fire me?”

The lounge at once became populated with insiders of another crew who were responsible for an underperforming tabloid show and seemed perpetually exhausted. They had come from location, their faces grave and cameras slung across their shoulders, and milled about the kitchenette in a terrible racket. One of them said, “I got the footage of IU, the bitch, flipping me the bird.” Somebody answered, “You think that’s good? I have a shot under Suzy’s skirt, right at the angle where you see all the cellulite.” And they all appeared at once placid and greatly weary with this particular conversation as they got their sandwiches and instant coffee and spread their banquet upon the board in the corner, a Dantesque mass of white shirts and blazers. Naeun made a point to show her back to them.

“You’re a lot of laughs this afternoon, ladies.” Seokjin threw his cigarette out the window. “I’m glad I didn’t dine out.”

“Don’t leave,” you said, draped lazily across the chaise. You’d only begun to drink your coffee.

“Can’t, I already told you. I have to see someone about a job.” Seokjin’s fingertips grazed very lightly across your arm on his way out, and before the door had closed after him someone else entered, someone you realized was the cameraman only when he’d passed you.

“Sunbae,” he said, to neither of you precisely, and continued to the coffee machine.

You noticed Naeun’s foot had stopped swinging and after a moment she retired the magazine, looking at you. She did not have to say anything. The new on-location cameraman had joined the news station that summer, after a soapy program about a ghost copulating with a diner waitress got cancelled. The management liked him for being a son to a videographer who was acclaimed overseas but everyone was sceptical due to him being only twenty-four and having completed his master’s degree earlier in the year. Naeun especially was peeved at having him dumped into her department.

He was a bewildering presence anyhow, entirely emblemed in ink and sultry, and even when he took the jewelry out of his face there were small chinks in his lip and eyebrow. The air around him had proven persistently languid, all gum-chewing naiveté and a boredom so direct that it was offensive. Bets about when he would quit had already been made in his second week on set, and Naeun Bae placed thirty thousand won on ‘until September’ then and lost, because it was already September and instead of a resignation letter there were dressing room rumors about how he’d seduced half the talk show staff. Perhaps due to the hearsay, he seemed to change more recently from simply flippant to downright and impervious.

“You’re a sunbae,” you told her.

“Don’t start with me.” She leaned closer and the bangles on her arm clattered, air cloying with the note of iris in her perfume.“Minji from archives told me the other day she suspected he snuck in there for his rendezvous. She hasn't caught him yet but an employee pass is missing.”

“You think he’s getting it on next to financial reports.”

“I think I’m getting him fired.”

Both your hands wrapped around the cup. “Do you think the editors will give you those thirty thousand won back?”

“The way I see it,” she smiled, “they’ll all be treating me to a meal.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“I’m in a good mood this week, naturally.” When you said nothing, she fixed you with a sceptical eye, as if you had blundered at picking up a thread or failed to react appropriately to some particular allusion, but you did not know what she meant even as she gave pause, a moment of extra leeway for you to continue where she’d left off. “Are you not?” she said then.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” she repeated. “We have everything well underway and you’re fine. You in particular should be ecstatic.”

“Because of what?”

“Because,” she began, and then sighed. Her bangled hand came to rest against her forehead like she was nursing an impending migraine. “Have you heard nothing from Namjoon?”

You could say nothing, because indeed you had not heard a word from Namjoon, and you suspected you should have known something that was well underway and would make you ecstatic and that others already knew. Naeun took your hand and when she looked at you, because it was very hard for Naeun not to, she failed to avoid looking superior, soft fingers bringing yours into her lap.

“Well, he’s been so busy. He’s surely planning on telling you one of these days.” Then, leaning, she said, “He has to tell you, I mean. We can’t do the segment without our star anchor. Mido Nang will be green with envy when she sees it in a few weeks, that’s a promise.”

━━━

“I’VE BEEN BUSY,” quite funnily, was what Namjoon said the following evening, while you dined at Pierre Gagnaire in Executive Tower 35F, just off the Namdaemun road. You weren’t quite so fond of the floor-sweeping, white tablecloths or the chandeliers looming overhead, but he insisted on going there and you supposed the landscape of Seoul from so far up was nice. You were wearing, you realized only then, a babydoll dress from black chiffon he had bought you last summer. “There has been an offer for one of our series to be broadcast in America but I’m sure you don’t care for the details.”

Repeatedly he ordered an entire feast, numerous plates of roasted scallops, smoked eel, and a tenderloin steak which he now cut into morosely, face sullen as he stopped a dashing waiter and ordered another bottle of wine. Dessert, too, was to be brought out soon, but you had already stopped eating at the second course. “I don’t feel so good,” you said. “I can’t drink any more wine.”

“Then don’t drink it.”

“I mean,” you leaned over the table, “I don’t feel so good and I want you to take me home. I’m too unwell for dessert.”

“You have a delicate palette,” he said, and it did not seem like a compliment. “Stay put a bit longer. Chaulkin, the American, has a reservation here at eight. I have to speak to him. Then we’ll see.”

“Speak about what.”

“The series, Y/N. I just told you about it.”

“Why do you have to speak about it now.”

He lowered the silverware. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” you told him after a while, and stabbed the sea urchin floating in your consommé. “I didn’t mean it. I’m tired.”

“You always say things you apparently don’t mean.” Namjoon retired his fork and knife entirely in pursuit of the wine glass. “When I’ve spoken to Chaulkin we’ll go. We’ll go home and spend time alone. I’ll make you some tea. Will that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then please try to stay put until we’re done. I have enough problems as is.”

Conversations with Namjoon, as it were, often bore an illusion of a problem having been solved. There was nothing else to say now and you reposed on the chair, continuing to pick on the food. You desperately wanted to order water but felt that doing so now would seem frivolous.

He noticed and then he said, “When the American comes over, please don’t look so hostile.”

You left the Haute French restaurant at quarter to ten, after finishing the bottle the American Chaulkin had ordered, and at the end of nearly two hours plump with conversation it remained unclear whether they would be picking up the series; there was a dreadful altercation about a translation issue, talk about censoring a scene in which a character gets assassinated. “Too much blood,” he had said in clumsy Korean. “This is, how do you say, a purple-rated channel, and that is leaning towards a Tarantino film. And you.” He turned to you. “You said you’re an actress. You act in this show?”

“A news anchor,” you told him for the second time.

“Shame. You should be an actress,” he said for the third.

Namjoon was quiet then and he was quiet in the car.

When you arrived at his house in the Cheongdam area, Gangnam, he did not make you tea. Instead he sat on one of the lounges in his living room, all of which were dressed in cowhide and made an ellipse around the fireplace, and stared up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and you knew the vein in his temple was pulsing. “Listen,” he said. “Come here.”

You did come, sitting beside him.

“I mean closer.” He still did not look at you when he pulled you by the waist, until you were cradled against his hip. He sighed and opened his eyes. “Listen. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered.

“Right.”

His hand settled on the back of your head to pull you closer, but he did not kiss you until you kissed him.

“I really love you,” you breathed against his lips.

“I know you do.” He led your hand to his belt. “Take it out.”

“Namjoon,” you said.

“What?” He was preoccupied with kissing your neck, and when you weren’t fast enough he pulled on the thick leather strap until it popped off the buckle.

“Nothing.” Your hand dawdled reaching into his underwear. His skin was hot, almost scorching. “I love you.”

Later, while you lay across his bed, studying the books trapped inside his vitrine which had been organized in the same way since you’d known him (English ones in alphabet, Korean by width), you asked him about the well underway project everyone knew about aside from you.

“I was under the impression that it involved me directly.”

“Nobody told you about it. I’m certain I delegated someone to tell you.”

“Tell me what.”

“There’s this uncharted island between Jeju and Fukue. Staff from some cargo ship noticed people. Turns out it’s populated by a tribe, all Korean-speaking.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re going.” He rested against the headboard, naked, and put down his cigarette to chase a pain pill with wine. “Next Monday. You’re going with someone from the camera crew alone, the tribe chief wouldn’t allow it otherwise.”

“Why not some on-site reporter?”

“Because,” he said. “The footage needs a star.”

━━━

“LET’S GO TO ITAEWON TONIGHT,” Seokjin said when he picked you up in his Corvette the next morning. You could see through his sunglasses that he was eyeing the spotty discoloration on the back of your neck, but it was too hot to let your hair down and hide the marks. He would know they existed anyway.

“Why?”

“To grab drinks, listen to music, I don’t know, have fun. Seems like something you would need.”

“You think I don’t have fun.”

His hand wandered out of the car in greeting, then draped across the door. The roof had been brought down and wind was mussing his hair. “You’re cranky. We’ll fix that.”

“Do you think he knows?”

There was a long silence. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Maybe he knew for a long time.”

“We’re going to Itaewon,” he decided.

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Yes you do.”

━━━

FOUR DAYS BEFORE DEPARTURE, the cameraman chosen to accompany you ended in a small traffic accident which dislocated his shoulder. He had been a bulky man with a bent nose, your senior by a decade, and had years of experience on the scene. Seldom you’d spoken to him in the genesis of the station and remembered liking him. Somebody told you he’d been shot at before while filming. “Look,” Naeun said, tapping a mechanical pen against her desk in a deliberate, mind-numbing rhythm. There was a fleeting impression she was looking at you as she studied her hair in the wall-length mirror. “We need someone who can protect you.”

Her office occupied the highest floor in the building and was three doors away from Namjoon’s, on the corner which looked at the Jeongdong park. There were no curtains, abstract brush-stroke artwork occupied the indigo walls, and incense permanently burned in the enamel censer upon her desk.

“Don’t tell me that.”

She shrugged. “It’s true. You should know how this goes, you used to be a reporter.”

“And then I became an anchor, thinking I wouldn’t get demoted out of nowhere.”

“You’re not demoted.” She focused on you. “Listen honey, you’re not seeing this the correct way. This is a good thing for your career, this is a story nobody in the nation got a hold of yet. When the ratings skyrocket, it’ll be your face everyone remembers, and it’s nice having a documentary under your belt anyway. We’ll twist a spiel about how you’d chosen to do this yourself. Being humane is the chic thing to do right now.”

You sighed. “Just tell me who’s going with me instead.”

Naeun opened a drawer and gave you a file. Black and white headshot paperclipped to the carton. Jeon Jungkook.

“You’re serious.”

“About that. Someone from technical forgot to return their pass.”

“Who are you putting on air instead of me?” you snapped.

“Just someone.” When Naeun spoke again, her voice was flat and preoccupied. “We’re still seeing about it.”

You left her office and tried to see Namjoon, but his secretary told you he was having lunch with the American and head of the programming department and you left three messages on his machine, none of which he returned. That afternoon the bank called about your overdrawn account, your stockings ripped while filming the evening news, and once you left the dressing room you encountered Jungkook smoking at the back of the building with an apprentice journalist on his arm.

“Good night, sunbae,” he said, unconcerned with hiding the sneer in his voice. The girl untangled from him and bowed but you refused to look at her, in fact you refused to look directly at either of them and vaguely nodded, pulling hair over your neck. While you walked off there was a sigh, a relieved chuckle, the wet, wicked sound of a kiss.

━━━

IN A DISPLAY of what Seokjin had told you was a “self-destructive personality” streak and reason enough to “consider seeing a shrink,” in the days leading up to departure you began harboring great regard for the cameraman who’d help with the perilous expedition. Mechanics of him interested you, why the snark on his face, why join this broadcasting house in particular. There was no sleep, or hardly any at all, a continuous hovering over the coffee table, the scratch of pen as you wrote down, in order, everything you could remember he’d said or done. On Friday Seokjin copied his employee file and brought it to you, which he’d easily done not because he was the Chief Marketing Officer but because everyone knew he was Namjoon’s confidant. Just that morning there was a column about them in the tabloids, a photograph from a party of which you’d refused the invitation, with a starlet whose name you didn’t recognize.

“There’s some principle in here I’m not grasping.” He sat on your sofa, rolling a cigarette. “I’d really like to understand the inner workings of your mind.”

Papers were spread across the table, over the floor, all gridded scraps from notebooks, half-written pages that revealed nothing much in conclusion. “There’s nothing to understand. We’re going together. I want to know.”

He tapped the cigarette butt against the table, lit it, and watched you search through the file. After a time he said, “You never asked how the party went last night.”

“How did it go?”

“We went to my place afterwards.”

He left half an hour later when his phone rang, and he spoke to the person on the line all the while he put on his jacket and shoes. There was a tousle of hair, a promise he would call you later. The door banged. Silence fell upon your apartment again.

File belonging to ‘Jeon, Jungkook’ listed his place of residency as Nowon, the neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, nearly bordering Gyeonggi. He was born on the first of September, 1997. His social security number and financial information were scratched out with a blue pen. Korean by birth, but his education history suggested he’d lived in Australia, spent several years in Japan, and previous work experience was notched with helping his father on various documentaries, the last of which explored a jungle on the west coast of Tahiti and won numerous awards. When you searched his father’s name on the internet you found he was rather well-situated.

There were notes from HR about suspicions of “unprofessional conduct” in the workplace but no definite proof, and aside from those notes he appeared entirely clean, even competent. You copied his phone number and in the afternoon you called him.

“When we board that boat on Monday,” you told him. “I don’t want to see you being late.”

There was a smile in his voice. “I don’t know if you know this, sunbae, but you’re calling me on my day off.”

“I’m not your boss. I don’t have to call during working hours.”

“Then why are you calling me at all.”

“Because this is an important story,” you said. “Because you’re a novice.”

“I didn’t even know a celebrity had me on her phone, my heart is pounding with excitement. Who gave you my number. Naeun-sunbae?”

You paused. “Someone in HR the other day.”

“This is too fun.” His voice had a particular condescending quality that never really waned. “Am I allowed to save your number as well. Will you respond if I text you.”

You said nothing.

“It will be all right if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve filmed documentaries, I know how to make it look good.”

“All right is not good enough, this has to be great.”

He laughed and you could hear him do something, perhaps unload a car. “You’re not a fan of me, sunbae. But I’m a fan of yours. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

After the call ended you stared for a long time at the list you’d compiled, of various names which had claimed an affair with the cameraman. In the administrative department were three names, five in marketing, and in programming there were twelve. You did not know what the name of that apprentice journalist was.

━━━

WHEN THE TELEPHONE RANG on Sunday, it was four o’clock in the morning, before dawn, and you untangled the cord in darkness. The evening had been hot and your skin was wet beneath the blanket, a dreamy lethargy you’d imagine of a snake poison permeating your muscles. In those days you did not sleep in your bed but on the leatherbound, glossed couch which made a terrible creak with every dip of pressure. The dreams which played when you slept there were terrors of Mido Nang and KBS, but you continued to doze off on the couch, in a convoluted pretence of an accident for no one but yourself. The ritual eventually began to seem penitent.

No sound came from those cords until there was a long, desperate draw on a cigarette. “You may be the only person in Seoul who continues to keep a landline,” the voice said, draggy, and then came a quiet, rustling sound of moving clothes. There was only one telephone in Namjoon’s home and it was in his office on the second floor, in the room with a window that overlooked his garden, which was the only place he didn’t allow visitors to roam.

“Besides you,” you said.

“Besides me,” he repeated. “People who do business have it. You have no need for it other than the fact you’re used to it. You keep it because you have trouble letting go.”

You lay very still on your back, brushing off a lock of hair that had stuck to your forehead. “Why aren’t you sleeping.”

He sighed. You could imagine him hunched over the grand mahogany desk. “I’m depressed.”

“What for.”

“I don’t know,” he said, then silence.

You didn’t want to rush him.

“This station would be shit if I hadn’t brought you on,” he said after a while. “You know that. Everything would be shit.” You could hear him take off his glasses, and when he spoke next it was with a careful, sensible voice of declaring condolences. “Listen, Y/N. I’m not good to you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Maybe it was a mistake to mix business and feelings.”

You had always imagined that hearing him say this would hurt more than it did. “People do it all the time.”

“They do. People do all sorts of things. A little number of them are right.”

“You want me to resign,” you concluded.

“God, no,” he sighed again, “but I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.”

Silence. Something awful was happening.

“Maybe we could try,” you said.

“Maybe we could.”

For a long time both of you thought of what to say next.

Namjoon took the coward’s way out. “Listen. Look pretty for the party today.”

Before you could get another word in, the call ended, and you stared at the telephone pensively for several minutes before you pulled the cord loose from the jack and turned around. No sleep came for you that morning, no matter how much you goaded the punishment of dreaming about Mido Nang replacing you on national television.

━━━

THAT AFTERNOON, fifteen hours before departure, the starlet you had seen in the tabloid was oiling her legs across the pool. Namjoon had thrown a party in honor of the brewing documentary and populated it with people you didn’t much like; now he spoke to an executive from Mnet two feet away from the chair she lounged on, but he didn’t seem capable of seeing her, as if she were spectral.

Her name was Binna and her last name used to be Lim, Naeun had told you so, and she was experiencing a crisis after a divorce with a B-rated movie producer which, she said, you could see in how her thighs had become rough. Now her agent begged for jobs to be given to her “as a favor to Donggeun.”

“That’s tragic,” you said, and meant it, but Naeun derived the sort of enjoyment from your words that made the lines around her mouth crease. Her eyes were not on you but on the girl’s legs. She was putting down the bottle of oil and turning to an actor’s assistant who’d been trying to get her attention for the past several minutes.

“When I see how dry her calves are, I feel almost… frightened.”

About the party there were crowded tables and a band and a thousand white napkins folded into doves, as if the courtyard had been dressed for a wedding. Nobody milling around registered to you as anything other than a foreigner, a hussy or a gangster, and there was a circle of people who’d gathered on the long cantilever deck and danced what seemed to be the tarantella. Someone, a girl, had stumbled and fell into the pool, and two or three people jumped after her, their costumes soaked as they dove out of the water and began to play Marco Polo. The ruckus made Namjoon’s forehead crease and he murmured something to the executive before they disappeared inside.

The crowd and the noise had made you queasy, and for a long time you listened to Naeun report on who was coming and going and pretended to study the small letters on the card, the digest of the upcoming documentary where “the star anchor Y/N” would uncover the traditions of a previously unknown tribe. This woman written about on the card seemed to you someone other than yourself, a grinning television representative you might see if you switched on any channel other than the one you acted for. You wondered if Mido Nang would be sent to a deserted island with only one cameraman.

“Your first documentary,” someone said behind you, and when you turned you saw that it was Min Yoongi. “Looking good, baby. It’s going to look great. Superb.”

Seokjin stood beside him and flicked the gold lighter closed, smiling as Yoongi kissed you on both cheeks like a European.

“How’s Namjoon?”

“Namjoon’s around,” you told him, but Min Yoongi was staring at the very young girl who’d fallen into the pool.

His head canted to get a better look. “I’d like to get into that,” he said contemplatively to Seokjin.

“I wouldn’t call it an impossible mission.”

“Not much competition tonight, mostly sissies. Foreigners.”

“Maybe she’d go for a sissy.”

“Maybe I show her what a good time looks like.”

“Riddle of the week, Min.” Naeun showed her polished teeth and leaned over the table. “Whose ex-wife has been spotted whoring herself out at this very party?”

“Let me guess.” He searched the courtyard until he spotted Binna Lim kissing the actor’s assistant and looked wayward at Seokjin, allowing him to light his cigarette. “Your friend from the tabloids?”

“Friend?” Naeun was scoffing now. “Did you enjoy fucking her?”

He smiled. “Not particularly.”

Min Yoongi was staring at the girl again. He absently patted your arm. “How’s it going, baby? How’s Namjoon?”

At the table on the terrace where Naeun and you sat for dinner, aside from Seokjin and Yoongi, there were a Japanese actor, the director of his latest film, and two talk show hosts who lived in the skyscrapers across from Samsung Town. You sat next to the director, who spoke no Korean, and during dinner Seokjin and the Japanese actor disappeared into the house. You could see the white specks under their noses, the thin red fissure of vessels on the cornea, but this was not mentioned on the terrace. The director and two talk show starlets were discussing the dehumanizing aspect of film succumbing to westernism, in Japanese. When the actor got up to dance with a girl in a red halter dress, you excused yourself to the bathroom, only to find once you stood before the mirror that your eyes were wet, and the mascara was beginning to blotch beneath them. Why were you crying, you wondered. You couldn’t think of an answer.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts reactions #bts fic #bts jungkook #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #just my luck (bts)#masterlist: fic

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ghosty-fics · 4 months ago

Text

Dean Winchester- Injured Big Brother

M4A/Gender Neutral-Masc Leaning/Toddler Reader/ Kid Dean

Dean is a flip; regressing in this fic

-Names used: Baby, Little guy-

Word Count: 889

(@littl3babybug ‘s Dean headcanons have had a chokehold on me the past couple of days. I might write more about flip Dean with sibby reader. Maybe a one with CG Castiel!)

____________________________________________

The last hunt was an absolute mess. Not only was there an unexpected demon connection to an already difficult monster, but you and Dean had gotten hurt fairly badly in the process of finding and killing the nasty thing. You had minimal scratches and cuts along your arms, but Dean’s leg was fairly hurt. Since you both were stressed over it all, it wasn’t a surprise that you both were regressed the next morning.

It all started when you woke up and heard Dean whisper muttering little curses under his breath in the bathroom as he cleans his wound. You crawl out of bed grabbing your stuffie as well as Dean’s Scooby. You watch him struggle to wrap his leg again, mumbling tiredly. You walk over to help. Your walking a bit wobbly at best as you plop on the edge of the tub, surprising Dean who mumbles a ‘Good Morning’. You huff wordlessly, pushing Scooby into his arms before trying your hand at wrapping up Dean’s injured leg.

“Hey! I had it. Babies shouldn’t be-” Dean said, his childish voice revealing his regressed mindset.

You shake your head, babbling a bit as you struggle as well but eventually get it on good enough. You stood, toddling a bit to Dean’s side to help up with one arm, the other holding tight to your stuffie. Dean reluctantly used you as a prop, holding Scooby in his other arm. You both make your way to the living room. Dean plops onto the couch, groaning.

“Ouch..” He whimpers, tears welling up in his eyes due to the pain.

You whimper as well, hating to see Dean in such pain. You try your best to get him as comfortable as possible, limited on what you can provide due to your own mind space, setting your stuffie next to him to keep him company. You wobble to the kitchen to get breakfast. Thinking the safest thing was cereal, you do that. You pour the colorful circles into two bowls and try your best to not spill the milk as you pour. Of course you spill a bit but you can clean it later, your big brother needs his loops.

You carefully walk with both bowls, spoons stuck into the cereal already. As you inched forward, Dean watched you with wide eyes, praying you didn’t spill any. Dean cheers and praises as you reach the couch, handing him one bowl and setting yours on the coffee table.

“Awesome, little guy!” Dean praises, starting to eat his food, using his arm to help you up onto the couch. He grabs the remote, always having control of the tv when you both are regressed. He’s the older brother, of course he gets to pick. Babies can’t pick good TV, he says.

Dean switches on the TV switching to the cartoon network which has an episode of Tom and Jerry on at that time. You grab your cereal and silently eat, listen to Dean ramble on and on about the show, explaining that babies shouldn’t do what was in the show then rambling about why Tom was his favorite which got you to babble/argue that Jerry was better.

For hours, you two go on like this. Cartoon after cartoon on the channel. Dean talking for the both of you most of the time, especially if it was one of his favorite shows, explaining everything to you even if you fully understood. You just listened and nodded to him, amazed by all his knowledge.

“Bubba know a lot..” You mumble as the credits play for an episode of Power Puff Girls.

“Well yeaaah. I’m bigger than you, baby.” Dean says proudly.

“I not a baby.” You pout.

“Yeah you are. You are a baby. I a big kid.”

“Noooo! I big too!” You huff.

Dean just laughs, “No you are smaller than me. See.” Dean sits up straight, smiling.

You just huff, knowing he’s right. He is definitely bigger than you, both physically and mentally. You yelp, holding your stomach as it growls.It was getting dark and the two of you neglected to grab lunch.

“Oh you hungry, little guy?” Dean watches, humming. “I have idea. Get me Sammy’s phone.”

You nod and hop off the couch going to grab one of Sam’s many phones, waddling back and handing it to him, curious on what he’ll do. Dean taps on the phone and goes silent for a few moments before excitedly looking to you.

“Food be here in a second. Think you can wait that long, baby?” Dean teases.

You huff, nodding as you sit back next to him. Soon, the food arrives and the two of you feast on chicken tenders and fries and burgers and pie, of course. With all that food, you start to feel sleepy. Dean’s childish rambling and talking about the Scooby Doo villain on screen acting as a noise machine to your indepening slumber. It’s a good hour or so until Dean even realizes you fell asleep.

He shifts, whimpering a bit at his leg, but he couldn’t let you be uncomfortable. What kind of big brother would do that? He pulls you up, making sure you have your stuffie in your arms, setting Scooby on your head, giggling to himself slightly as he continues to watch his shows, quietly for once.

#sfw agere #fandom agere #agere fic #kidregressor!deanwinchester #little!reader #supernatural agere #gn reader

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boxboxblog · 9 months ago

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How Do F1 Cars Work?: Braking, Cooling, Sensors

I never know how to start these posts. Let's dive in.

Braking and Cooling

Brakes are an incredibly important part of any car, but most especially in F1. With the speed and power the cars have a sensitive, sturdy, and strong braking system must exist. In the case of modern cars, F1 uses an extremely efficient and durable carbon-carbon disc brake system. This allows the car to screech to a halt in a split-second, and allows drivers to use their speedy reaction times to the best of their ability. When the driver steps on the brake pedal, it compresses two master brake cylinders, one for the front wheels and one for the rear, which generate fluid pressure.

For the front tires, the fluid pressure is delivered directly to the front brake calipers (part that houses brake pads and pistons). Inside each caliper, six pistons clamp pads against the disc and it is this friction that slows the car down. For the rear tires it is a bit different.

At the rear, the car can brake by three separate sources: friction from the brakes, resistance from the spinning engine (engine braking) and electrical braking that results from harvesting energy from the MGU-K . Although the driver can adjust each of these on his steering wheel, when he presses the brake pedal, the three systems work together via the Brake By Wire (BBW) system.

When the driver presses the pedal, the fluid pressure generated in the rear braking circuit is picked up by an electronic pressure sensor. The signal from this sensor represents the overall rear braking demand from the driver and is passed to the Electronic Control Unit (ECU) where it is turned into a series of commands to brake the rear of the car. The ECU distributes its efforts to the three systems according to the the set up of the car and this is altered by the way that the driver has adjusted the switch settings on the steering wheel. This is what teams mean when they say changing the setting on the car.

Going hand-in-hand with braking, cooling is another important part of the car, especially for brakes. Basically, there is a series of systems that cools the power unit, brakes, and electronics. If the car overheats, it can lead to damage and lack of performance. There are a few ways to cool. Radiators cool the engine and hybrid system. Intercooler cools the air that the turbocharger compresses before it enters the engine. Brake cooling ducts bring air to the brakes in order to stop them from overheating.

2. Electronics and Sensors

So i'm sure many of you have looked at the steering wheel and been baffled that this thing that looks like a Nintendo Switch steers that car. The F1 steering wheel is incredibly complex and has a variety of buttons, screens, and knobs. For example, on the steering wheel is an area for strat settings, where their plans for all eventualities are mapped out. There is also a rotary knob for MGU-K settings, where drivers can switch around when faced with possible failures. The menu allows drivers control over every setting in the car. Beyond that there is the pit lane speed button, gear change buttons, race start button, energy recovery button, and brake balance knob, among others. It really tells you how much drivers do in a race beyond racing.

Other than the steering wheel, there is also the telemetry, over 300 sensors which gathers race data and sends it back to engineers on the pit wall. This way, engineers can either remotely alter settings and strat, or advise the driver on what to do. F1 uses a customized mesh wireless network system based on WiMax 802.16 at each racetrack. The sensors record data, which is then temporarily stored in the Electronic Control Unit (ECU), which controls functions like engine performance and power steering. That sensor data then travels wirelessly to a centralized location managed by F1. F1 then sends the data to the relevant team, of course very securely. Teams then use a system called Advanced Telemetry Linked Acquisition System (ATLAS) to view and analyze sensor data.

The final pretty important electronic devices on an F1 car is the many many cameras. The most recognizable camera is found in the "T" structure that sits atop of every F1 car. It gives viewers that top-down, forward facing view used often by broadcasters. this is also how viewers often distinguish between cars of the same team. One driver will have a yellow camera, the other has black. The two nose cameras provides a view of the front wing and low circuit. The 360 camera is on top of the chassis and provides a wide view of the race track, and everything else around the car. The driver facing camera is pointed directly at the driver and helps keep track of how they are doing, and in the event of the crash helps marshals and rescuers figure out the best way to help. The two rear cameras are settled on a rear facing structure, and allows the pit wall to see what is going on directly behind the driver and advise. Beyond these ones, drivers also have cameras inside their helmets, showing exactly what they see. Can't get away with much in an F1 car.

3. How They Work Together

So, we now know the basics of most parts of the car. But these parts all must work together before that car will go anywhere. How do they do it?

One of the more obvious relationships is between aerodynamics and power. The better the aerodynamics, the more usable the power is. They also work in tandem around different parts of the track. On corners the aerodynamics keep the car stable while the power peters off. On straights the power keeps the car boosted. Suspension and tires are also very connected. It is the suspension that keeps the tires on the ground. A good suspension will also mean that the tires are easier to manage, something any driver knows is highly important. Brakes and ERS are also connected because the brakes help recover ERS, pretty simply. Also the cooling system works with most of teh car, cooling engine, tires, and brakes. The biggest connection is probably between all the sensors on the car. They are connected to every single part, and even a small bit of damage can destroy them. The non-sensor components have to accommodate for the sensors and work perfectly with them in order for proper data to be sent back.

The ultimate goal of engineers is to create a car that works in harmony all together. The integration of the engine to the chassis is highly important. There have been cars that the parts were fantastic on their own, but the minute they were put together stopped working completely. Its why teams that produce their own engines have such a leg up over non-manufacturers. Its also why sometimes you will see a car that is running poorly until one small thing is changed, and then suddenly its brand new. Car harmony really is terribly important.

Alright, done! While I covered most of the important stuff, as always if there is any particular part of the car anyone wants me to dive deeper into, please let me know.

Cheers,

-B

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 cars #how do f1 cars work?

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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As the Trump administration's Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) continues to rampage through the United States federal government, essentially guided by Elon Musk, the group has also been upending traditional IT boundaries—evaluating digital systems and allegedly accessing personally identifiable information as well as data that has typically been off-limits to those without specific training. Last week, The New York Times reported that the White House is adding Musk-owned SpaceX’s Starlink Wi-Fi “to improve Wi-Fi connectivity on the complex,” according to a statement from White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt. The White House's Starlink internet service is reportedly being donated by the company.

Spotty internet is an annoying but highly solvable problem that WIRED has reported on extensively. Of course, the White House is a highly complex organization operating out of a historic building, but network security researchers, government contractors, and former intelligence analysts with years of experience in US federal government security all tell WIRED that adding Starlink Wi-Fi in a seemingly rushed and haphazard way is an inefficient and counterproductive approach to solving connectivity issues. And they emphasized that it could set problematic precedents across the US government: that new pieces of technology can simply be layered into an environment at will without adequate oversight and monitoring.

“This is shadow IT, creating a network to bypass existing controls,” alleges Nicholas Weaver, a member of the nonprofit International Computer Science Institute's network security team and a computer science lecturer at UC Davis. He adds that while secret and top secret information is typically (but not always) processed only on special, separate federal networks that have no wireless access, the security and uniformity of White House Wi-Fi is still extremely important to national security. “A network like the White House unclassified side is still going to be very sensitive,” he says.

“Just like the Biden Administration did on numerous occasions, the White House is working to improve WiFi connectivity on the complex,” White House spokesperson Karoline Leavitt tells WIRED in a statement.

A White House source who asked not to be named supported the switch, arguing that in some areas of the campus, “the old Wi-Fi was trash.”

Researchers point out that while Starlink is a robust commercial ISP like any other, it is not clear that it is being implemented in compliance with White House Communication Agency requirements. If the controls on the White House Starlink Wi-Fi are more lax than on other White House Wi-Fi, it could introduce security exposures and blind spots in network monitoring for anomalous activity.

“The only reason they'd need Starlink would be to bypass existing security controls that are in place from WHCA,” claims former NSA hacker Jake Williams. “The biggest issues would be: First, if they don't have full monitoring of the Starlink connection. And second, if it allows remote management tools, so they could get remote access back into the White House networks. Obviously anyone could abuse that access.”

One baffling aspect of the arrangement is that Starlink and other satellite internet is designed to be used in places that have little or no access to terrestrial internet service—in other words, places where there are no reliable fiber lines or no wired infrastructure at all. Instead of a traditional ISP modem, Starlink customers get special panels that they install on a roof or other outdoor place to receive connectivity from orbiting satellites. The New York Times reported, though, that the White House Starlink panels are actually installed miles away at a White House data center that is routing the connectivity over existing fiber lines. Multiple sources emphasized to WIRED that this setup is bizarre.

“It is extra stupid to go satellite to fiber to actual site,” ICSI's Weaver says. “Starlink is inferior service anyplace where you have wire-line internet already available and, even in places which don't, inferior if you have reasonable line of sight to a cell tower.”

Weaver and others note that Starlink is a robust product and isn't inherently unreliable just because it is delivered via satellite. But in a location where fiber lines are highly available and, ultimately, the service is being delivered via those lines anyway, the setup is deeply inefficient.

While Starlink as a service is technically reliable, incorporating it in the White House could create a long-term federal dependence on an Elon Musk–controlled service, which could create future instabilities. After European officials raised concerns earlier this month on whether Starlink might stop serving Ukraine, Musk posted on social media: “To be extremely clear, no matter how much I disagree with the Ukraine policy, Starlink will never turn off its terminals … We would never do such a thing or use it as a bargaining chip.”

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aneurinallday · 19 days ago

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2099

2.2 = THE LOCK

“Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?” Maura approaches the control panel where Daniel is at work.

“I don’t know how, but he’s forcing a reboot.”

As if on cue, the dead generator sputters and flickers to life.

“Surveillance is back on. Fuck!” Daniel’s fingers fly over the buttons and switches, labouring without success. “I don’t understand! This is the only control panel for the generators. There’s no way for him to interact with them remotely. Unless…” he hesitates.

“Unless what?” Maura prompts him.

“Unless he’s already here. Maybe he’s hacked into this panel from somewhere nearby. He could be just feet away from us.”

Maura looks down at the floor, trying to visualise the panel’s wires and cables burrowing away into the metal.

“There should be a way into the utility chase,” Daniel says, “I’ll go and see if he’s in there.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“It could be dangerous - ”

“I don’t care. This whole time I’ve been helpless, just standing around watching you risk your life. Let me do something useful. Please.”

“Alright, alright.”

They re-enter the tunnel and search for the nearest hatch.

“The air’s growing warmer,” Maura remarks as they crawl towards it.

With some difficulty, they open the hatch and climb out. What they enter isn’t a room, but an in-between gap: a liminal space between the generator room and the rest of the ship. They emerge among huge bundles of cables which stretch from the floor to the ceiling, emitting the constant buzz of electricity. This is where the glowing tubes of the generators are physically attached to the Prometheus’s various networks.

Maura glances left and right. The utility chase stretches in both directions as it wraps around the generator room.

“You go that way, I’ll go this way,” she says. “If he flees, he’ll be caught between us.”

“Be careful,” Daniel begs her as they part ways.

Maura ventures further. It’s uncomfortably warm - the heat radiating from the massive electrical cables leaves the narrow space stifling and oppressive. Rows of cooling fans circulate stale, dusty air around the room. She’s already broken into a sweat.

“Where are you, Ciaran?” she murmurs.

Looking over her shoulder, she can no longer see Daniel, and her heart beats faster as her fear grows. As she rounds a bend, her gaze falls on a socket which has been torn out of the wall, pulled apart to expose the wires inside. She understands what’s happened. While Daniel has laboured at the control panel, Ciaran has cut out the middle man and hacked directly into the generator itself.

She considers calling out Ciaran’s name, but decides against it, and proceeds deeper into the tangled forest of cables. The heat grows stronger. She feels beads of sweat tickling her eyelids, and wipes her forehead on her sleeve.

Amid the buzzing and humming of the cables comes a new noise: footsteps walking towards her. She tries to discern if they sound familiar. Has Daniel already finished his circle around the room? Surely not.

Before she has time to decide whether to confront the person or turn back, they’ve already turned the corner in front of her.

She can’t remember the last time she saw him, yet she knows him immediately. Her heart could never forget her brother. He has her blue eyes, her pale skin, her mother’s features. His brown hair falls in soft, careless waves which curl gently around his face, gathered at the back into a messy tuft of a ponytail. His cheeks are roughened by slight stubble, yet his tatty T-shirt and oversized white trainers make him seem smaller and younger than he is.

Around his neck, on a thin black cord, hangs a small device. A Shell.

She’s not quite sure what she’s expecting. A villainous speech, perhaps, or a trap. But Ciaran looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. For a moment he just stands there, his mouth open as if trying to find something to say. Then he wheels around and walks quickly away.

“Stop!” she shouts, but he’s already breaking into a run.

She pursues him, stumbling over cables that snake across the floor. Ciaran suddenly ducks through a low shaft, barely more than a crawlspace, and disappears from sight. Dropping to her knees, Maura squeezes through after him, and emerges behind the machinery in the generator room.

“Ciaran, stop!”

Now that he’s out in the open, Ciaran is sprinting for the exit. A long, tubular corridor leads out of the generator room, and ends in two doors - one on the left, one on the right. He dithers for a moment, debating which way to go, then veers to the left; but the time it takes for him to open the dividing door allows Maura to close the distance.

With both hands, she grabs his arm and tries to pull him back over the threshold. He’s stronger than her, but his leg catches on the high lip of the door-frame, and he trips. With a savagery that only two quarrelling siblings could have, they struggle on the floor, clawing and yanking at each other until he manages to extricate himself from her grip.

“Get off me!” he grunts.

He elbows her aside, and she falls hard against the wall, slamming her shoulder at a painful angle and bumping her head. Her vision clears, and she sees his Shell dangling in front of her. She snatches at it, trying to yank it off his neck, but the cord is too strong to snap. He pushes her away, his white trainers squeaking on the floor.

Exhausted, both of them stop to catch their breath. Maura slumps into a sitting position, nursing her head, while Ciaran rests on one knee. Panting heavily, he shoots her a vicious glare.

“You should’ve stayed asleep,” he says. He rises unsteadily to his feet, and stands over her. “You should’ve never - ”

Suddenly, Ciaran is tackled and knocked to the ground. Krester has come barrelling around the corner.

“Din morder!” he yells. “Morder!”

He takes a wild swing, but Ciaran knocks his arm aside and shoves him down, kicking him as he lies on the floor. For a moment, Maura thinks her brother is unscathed. Then she sees the bloodstain forming on his T-shirt, and realises Krester is holding a knife.

“Ciaran…” she gasps.

Ciaran looks down and realises he’s bleeding.

“Fuck…” He paws at the dark patch on the front of his T-shirt as it rapidly expands, and sucks in a gasp of air as the pain hits him. “Oh fuck…oh…”

Hunched over, he gropes his way along the wall, leaving bloody handprints in his wake. Reaching the door he opened, he stumbles away from them down the corridor. Maura picks herself up and races after him. He’s almost at the next junction when Eyk Larsen appears, running from the opposite direction. Ciaran is caught. He flails for a moment, trying to arrest his momentum. With nowhere else to go, he turns towards his only option: the nearest airlock. He lunges for the airlock door and slams his hand on the Open button.

“Wait!” Maura calls out, but he ignores her.

As soon as the door starts to open, Ciaran squeezes through the narrow gap, turns, and starts hammering the Close button. His bloody hands leave red smudges on everything he touches. Before Maura can reach the door, it shuts in her face, and the button doesn’t respond to her touch.

“Ciaran!”

The door has a tiny window, and she peers through, craning her neck to see what he’s doing. The interior is small and white, containing only a bench and a couple of bundled-up space-suits. Ciaran has bunched up the blood-soaked fabric of his T-shirt and pressed it tightly to his chest with both hands, trying to absorb the flow. He looks around for anything else to stem the bleeding with, but there’s nothing. His only way out is Space.

“Maura!” Eyk reaches her side. “Did he hurt you?”

“I fell - he pushed me.”

“Bastard. I’m sorry, Maura. We were waiting for him to show himself, but then the doors shut and we were sealed off. He must’ve done something. We couldn’t get back to the generator room - we had to take the long way around to the other side. Krester ran ahead…”

“It’s alright. You’re here now.”

She can see in his eyes how badly he wants to hug her. He opens his mouth to speak, but then:

“Maura!” Daniel comes running from the generator room. He grasps her arms, checking her for injuries, “Maura, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine - Ciaran’s not.”

“He’s trapped in there?”

“Yes. He’s locked himself in.”

Daniel tests the unresponsive button.

“All the blood - he’s hurt?”

“Krester slashed him. Across the chest.”

Daniel looks Krester up and down, eyeing the knife, gauging his mental state. The boy’s eyes are wide and frantic.

“How are you doing?” Daniel asks cautiously.

Krester blinks rapidly, and seems to be startled out of his trance. He stares down at the bloodstained blade in his grasp.

“Where did you get the knife?”

“...Franz. To protect Tove.”

“Ah. You should probably give it to me, don’t you think?”

He eases the weapon from Krester’s trembling hand, and the boy sinks into a sitting position on the floor.

Daniel presses another button on the wall - intercom.

“Ciaran, can you hear me?” he says. “You need to open the door.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’ve got nowhere to go. It’s over. Why don’t you open the door so we can help you?”

“I said fuck off! I don’t want your help.”

“I’m seeing a lot of blood out here. You must be badly hurt. Eventually you’re going to pass out, and we won’t be able to stop you from exsanguinating. Your virtual self will disappear and your real body will spend the rest of its lifespan in a coma. Do you understand that?”

“I’m not stupid - I know you want the exit code from me. You’re not getting it.”

“Let’s just forget about the code for a minute and focus on helping you, okay?” says Daniel patiently. In a quiet aside to Maura, he adds, “I can get the door open. Just give me a minute.”

She nods, and he moves aside so she can take his place at the window.

“Ciaran, don’t be an idiot,” she says, “Open the door.”

“No.”

“Open the door, Ciaran.”

“No.”

“Why can’t you realise how pointless this all is? It doesn’t have to be this way!” she hisses.

“Just leave me alone.”

“You’ll die in there, and I know that’s not what you want. You care about your own life! If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have sent Sebastian to do your dirty work while you hid in the shadows.”

She glances towards Daniel, who’s used the knife to pry away the button, revealing the electrical workings behind it. He pulls the green insect out of his pocket.

“Good luck,” he whispers before placing the tiny robot amid the wires. It scuttles out of view.

Holding their breath, they listen to the faint tapping and scraping of the beetle as it finds its way through the door’s locking mechanisms. They hear a metallic clunk as the lock disengages; but Ciaran is already furiously mashing the Close button. The door re-locks before it has a chance to fully unlock, and the green bug is crushed with an audible crunch.

“No!” Daniel cries out in dismay.

“Fuck all of you!” Ciaran shouts over the intercom. “You’re never getting out of here! You’re never waking up! You’ll sleep forever and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Ángel and Ramiro finally arrive. Ramiro is walking slowly, nursing his swollen, mottled hand to his chest. Ángel has an arm around him.

“You’re hurt? What happened?” Maura asks.

“When he saw the door closing, he tried to stop it. Tonto.”

“You’re lucky those fingers are still attached. You should get him to the medical bay.”

“Estou bem,” Ramiro shakes his head. “Estou bem…”

Seeing them, Ciaran grins.

“Ah, yes, the lovers. You couldn’t stand each other, but you couldn’t tear yourselves away from each other, either. A relationship so miserable, so far beyond couples counselling, you had to put yourself in a fucking simulation to try and fix it! Pathetic!”

Losing patience, Eyk switches off the intercom so that Ciaran can no longer hear them.

“There must be something else we can do,” he says, “The generator room? Daniel, can you cut the power to the door?”

“To a specific door? I’m not sure. It’d most likely disable all the doors in this module, or even the whole ship. And I’d rather not mess around with any airlock systems while he’s inside one. There’s too much risk of…well…”

“Let me talk to him some more,” says Maura, “We’re family. There must be some small part of him that’ll listen to me.”

“Alright. Just don’t let him get in your head,” Daniel says as he struggles with the useless wiring.

She switches the intercom back on.

“Ciaran, talk to me,” she says, “I want to understand your side of things. I’m sure you’ve been under a lot of stress, trying to keep all the simulations running while everybody works against you. Why don’t you tell me about that?”

Ciaran leans against the door, resting his head against the window so that they’re face-to-face. He’s breathing heavily.

“What do you care what I’ve been through?” he says. At odds with his boyish appearance, his voice is a low rumble. Unlike Maura, his English accent is overlaid with an Irish brogue that comes and goes inconsistently. “Just fuck off and keep scurrying around with your little friends until the clock runs out. You’ll lose all the same.”

“Fine. Perhaps you’d prefer to die alone.” She starts to walk away - not because she intends to leave, but to demonstrate that her tolerance has limits.

“Wait. Come here,” Ciaran says, “Let me see what’s on your neck.”

Maura hesitates, then turns her head to show the triangle tattooed under her left ear.

“Incredible. Your body is trying to remember itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got that tattoo the day we founded our company. Once you left the 1899 dream behind, it reappeared.”

“But how?”

“The body remembers what the mind doesn’t,” Ciaran muses, “Memories can be erased, but some things can never be forgotten, and even in a dream state, they linger. All these marks and scars…they’re just your pain expressing itself. Look at the bruises on your wrists. Your whole life, you felt like you were trapped, constrained - not just by being a woman, but by being Henry Singleton’s test subject. The bruises are just the manifestation of that feeling.”

“And the others…?”

“The others are the same. Lucien has been in and out of rehab for substance addiction. He couldn’t face going through the agony of withdrawal again, so he decided to spend it asleep, hoping that when he woke up, his body would be cleansed. But even in a dream world, he couldn’t escape the symptoms - the sickness, the reliance on medication. It’s the same story for all of them. The burn where Danny’s wedding ring used to be, Ángel’s flagellation scars, Krester’s burned face, Tove’s pregnancy…it’s all just shame and self-loathing made manifest.”

Hearing his sister’s name, Krester rises to his feet, ready for violence. A smile spreads across Ciaran’s face.

“Oh, should I talk about Tove? She and Franz were falling apart at the seams. She was pregnant, he was driving, they were fighting. He lost control of the car and their child paid the price for it. She blamed him for driving recklessly, he blamed her for distracting him, and both of them blamed themselves. Love turned to loathing. They came to you for help - the brilliant Doctor Maura Franklin who could fix any broken mind. They went to 1899 hoping to fall in love with each other again. Instead, all they found was more reminders of their pain. The blood and dirt that he could never wash away…the pregnancy that haunted her body…”

“What about you?” Maura asks, “Where are your scars?”

For a long moment, Ciaran doesn’t answer. Then he laughs a hollow and joyless laugh.

“I haven’t been asleep long enough for them to form. Given time, I’m sure something will appear.”

Krester is eyeing the controls on the wall, and Maura realises he’s trying to figure out which one will vent the airlock and flush Ciaran out into Space. She quickly moves to block him.

“Ángel, Ramiro, you should go to the medical bay,” she says, “We’ll meet you there once we get my brother out.” She lowers her voice. “Please, take Krester with you. He shouldn’t be around here right now.”

The trio leaves, but must pass by the airlock as they do.

“Look at the lot of you,” says Ciaran as he peers at them through the window, “What a sorry sight.”

They glance back at him as they walk away, but don’t take the bait. He cranes his neck to watch them until they’re out of view. Maura slaps the window with the palm of her hand, yanking his attention back to her.

“How can you be like this?” she demands, “For God’s sake, Ciaran, I loved you! I wanted you to be okay, to be safe. Back in 1899, I believed you were missing, so I set sail for New York to find you. That’s how much I cared about you.”

“You thought you were searching for me,” Ciaran corrects her, “Really, you were just running away. From home, from the truth, from your responsibilities. Not that anyone should be surprised - you’ve always preferred to run away from your problems, haven’t you? Isn’t that right, Maura Henriette Franklin?”

He puts sour emphasis on her middle name - reducing her to just a younger, female version of their father.

“When your son died, you fled! You fled a hundred years into the past, to a different time and a different place, rather than deal with your grief like the rest of us. It was the same when Mother died, and when - ”

He stops.

“When what?” Maura prompts him, but he doesn’t continue.

Daniel gives up on the wires, cursing.

“Enough, Ciaran!” he sighs, exasperated, “Enough stupid games. Come out so we can talk properly.”

“Oh, fuck you, Danny!” Ciaran spits, “You’re not even fucking real. As much as you want to believe it, as much as you cling to the delusion of having a soul, you’re nothing. Not a man, not a husband, not a father, not the love of my sister’s life. You’re just a program. A bundle of data, a bunch of numbers somebody typed into a computer.”

“Stop,” says Maura.

He scoffs.

“How sad. A dreamer who can’t let go of her dream, and a dream who fell in love with his dreamer. Pathetic all around. But do you know what the saddest part is? It’s what you did to that boy. To Elliot.”

“Stop!” Maura repeats, but he ploughs on recklessly.

“You’re a monster, Danny. You believed you were real. You believed you had a dead son and a mentally ill wife and a responsibility to save her. Yet look at what you did. Look at what you did to Elliot. Your own son whom you claimed to love, your own child, and you erased the last trace of him from existence. What kind of father are you?”

Daniel trembles.

“Speaking of children - ” Ciaran turns his attention back to Maura, “Did he tell you he killed that Danish girl? Ada? She was an addition of his own design. He needed something that would shock the Kerberos into action, and nothing causes public outrage like the death of a little girl. So he wrote her into the program, gave her sentience and an identity and a personality, just so she could die at his own hand. Did he tell you that? Did he tell Krester?”

“Yes, he did,” Maura says curtly.

“And you still let him sleep at your side? You still let him call himself your husband?”

“Daniel’s done nothing but risk his life to save the people you’re keeping trapped. Everything he’s done, he’s done to help us. I trust him completely.”

“You’re a fool, then. Or delusional. Or both. Daniel’s only motivation is his programming, and his programming is telling him to help you. He doesn’t care about you, he doesn’t love you, and if you wake up in the real world, he won’t be there.”

Ciaran has been so caught up in his rambling that he’s almost forgotten his pain. Then it comes back in a wave, and he lets out a wordless cry of pain. Despite everything that’s happened, and against her logical brain, the sound fills Maura with a deep and almost primal distress. She hammers on the button again, hoping illogically that it’ll work this time, but the door refuses to budge.

“Keep talking,” she pleads, trying to focus him. “Is our father on this ship too? Is he in stasis somewhere?”

“What? No.” Ciaran seems confused for a moment, then chuckles. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Henry Singleton is dead. He’s been dead for a while now, in fact. You didn’t know it, and even he didn’t know it, but his body died while he was inside 1899.”

“Our father…” Maura is quietly reeling. “The Henry I met…he was nothing but a ghost?”

“Yes, yes,” Ciaran says impatiently, “He was dead all along. When he realised he couldn’t wake up, he couldn’t understand why. He thought something was wrong with his key. So he tried to take your key instead. But I couldn’t let that happen.”

Ciaran’s thoughts, contained for too long, are flooding out of him. Ever since Sebastian’s erasure, he’s been alone with no-one to talk to. This is the first chance he’s had to bloviate, and Maura can sense his relief.

“I got Sebastian to send you the letter with the golden locket, containing a fake exit code which would’ve brought you here, to 2099. That way, you would’ve escaped Henry while still remaining in a simulation. But Danny kept getting in my way. He thought he could outsmart me - he rewrote the real exit code into your wedding ring. And he came so close...you came so close to waking up. I had to reprogram the ring to do what I wanted.”

“And when 1899 was deleted…”

“So was Henry,” Ciaran finishes her sentence. “That’s two members of our family whose final traces were erased forever. You can thank your so-called husband for that.”

“I…I’m so sorry, Maura,” Daniel says, “I had no idea. If I’d known, I…I would’ve tried to bring him with us. I never meant - ”

“You did nothing wrong,” she assures him.

“Nothing wrong?” Ciaran laughs, “It was his meddling that erased our father forever. The man who raised you, Maura, the one who made us what we are.”

“Daniel, let’s talk,” Eyk pulls Daniel away. “Ignore him.”

The two men retreat to the end of the corridor where they can talk privately.

“Did you kill him?” demands Maura.

“What?”

“Our father, did you kill him?”

“Of course I didn’t! I’ve never fucking killed anyone! Not in the real world, anyway. Even in here, I’ve only done it indirectly.”

“Does that make it better?”

“Yes. Yes it does, in fact. A person’s virtual self is just…nothing. Bits of data that look human. It’s not really them, it doesn’t have a soul. Killing in here is no different from deleting an unwanted program or a corrupted file.”

“Except when that person is trapped in stasis, and you won’t allow them to wake up in their real body. Then you might as well be killing them.”

“Maura, come here, please,” Daniel calls.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” she tells her brother before leaving his sight. She heads to the end of the corridor where Daniel and Eyk are standing. “What is it?”

“We’re running out of time, Maura. The bleeding is bad, but it’s not as bad as it could be, and Ciaran could hold out for hours in there. Every minute we spend standing around is a minute wasted. We have to get back to the others.”

“So what do you propose?”

Eyk and Daniel glance at each other.

“We threaten to open the airlock,” Eyk says, “He might think he can stop the bleeding, but he can’t stop decompression. If he wants to remain intact, he’ll have no choice but to come out.”

“I’d prefer not to threaten my brother.”

“Well, our only other option is to leave him there,” says Daniel, “We tell him that we don’t need him, and that we can escape the simulation on our own. Once he comes out, he’ll be too weak to run or fight, and we can subdue him.”

“And what if he doesn’t come out?”

“Then he’ll die. I’m sorry, Maura.”

Ciaran’s voice ventures over the intercom.

“Maura? Are you still there?”

Maura hurries to the window and peers inside, but can no longer see Ciaran. She realises he’s sitting on the floor, below her eyeline.

“Yes, I’m here,” she says.

“There’s a lot of blood. I tried to get it to stop but I can’t.”

“How do you feel?”

“Light-headed. It hurts.”

“We can make it stop hurting. All you have to do is cooperate. Help us and we can help you.”

Ciaran looks down at his hands, covered in his own blood.

“Maura?” he says, and his voice sounds different this time - unsteady, breaking. She can hear the resignation.

“Yes?”

“What happens if I open the door?”

“We’ll take you to the med-bay and get you patched up. You’ll probably need a transfusion or two.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll have a conversation. You, me, and Daniel.”

“If you had to choose between me and the others, which would it be?”

“What do you mean?”

“If your friends decided to kill me. Would you choose me or them?”

“They won’t kill you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your sister and I won’t let them. I don’t want you to die. You might not believe it, but I’m telling the truth.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course. Of course I do.” She smiles weakly. “You’re my brother, aren’t you?”

He hears the smile in her voice. There’s silence for several seconds, then a wheeze of exertion as Ciaran manoeuvres himself off the floor.

“Shit,” he groans. Clinging onto the door for support, he rises to his feet. “Even if I open the door, it doesn’t mean you’ve won. You know that, right?”

“Ciaran, this isn’t about winning or losing. This is about fixing the mistakes we’ve made.”

Dizzy, Ciaran sways. They hear the lock disengage. Daniel motions for Maura to back away, his fist clenching in readiness for a fight.

“Back away from the door,” he orders, and Ciaran obeys, retreating across the airlock.

The door opens, and Daniel steps cautiously inside onto a white floor that’s slick with blood. Ciaran is backed into the corner, pressed up against the wall. His face is pale, and his left hand is clutching his Shell protectively.

“Remember what you promised,” he says, and raises his right hand to his neck. Between his thumb and fingers glints a black syringe.

youtube

How long could you wait for someone you love? Just looking for the tunnels of light coming down from above I was waiting by the phone The moment you called, the moment you caved Just tell me all your secrets and lies, your barricades

When it gets dark, streaking the youth Hold me back from falling Through tunnels of light emitted from you I was waiting by the phone The moment you called, the moment you caved Where would I be without your secrets and lies, your barricades

Don’t run away Don’t run away Don’t run away Don’t run away Just barricade now

A memory of you plucked from the pool Just tell me have I met you before Did we play the fool Serenade me while I sleep Ripple the walls, keep us out of sight My memory’s playing tricks and games The madness you loved, the tunnels of light

Don’t run away Don’t run away Don’t run away Don’t run away Just barricade now

#2099 #1899 #1899 netflix #daniel solace #aneurin barnard #maura franklin #emily beecham #eyk larsen #andreas pietschmann #ciaran singleton #fanfic #fic #TW blood #TW mention of miscarriage

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endless-summer-soldier · 2 years ago

Text

dr. feelgood - chapter nine

pairing: Surgeon!Bucky x SurgicalIntern!Reader

summary: Y/N has a one night stand with a handsome stranger the night before starting her new job as a surgical intern. Little does she know, the handsome stranger also happens to be her new boss

warnings: must be 18+, drinking, some surgery descriptions, smut, self-pleasure, praise kink, oral sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, PTSD, choking

word count: 2.8k

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taglist: @tellmealovestory @mrs-bucky-barnes106 @charmedbysarge @theroyalmanatee @ozwriterchick @aya-fay @differenttyphoonwerewolf @sebsgirl71479 @notmeddy @drewsuncrustables @lokidokieokie @hextech-bros @nats-whore @m4nulup1n @arcanebabe @tanyaspartak @jackiehollanderr @princezzjasmine @pono-pura-vida @mavrellover91 @helluvapimp @almosttoopizza @esposadomd @zannemes

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After checking on my patients and changing out of my scrubs, I walked into the parking lot to find Bucky leaning against the side of a shiny black jeep.

“There she is!” he announced, straightening his posture to greet me. “I was starting to wonder if you were standing me up.”

“I would never,” I feigned offense.

“I have a hard time believing that.”

I considered my dating history, “Sure, I’ve ghosted guys before. But I’ve never actually stood someone up. That’s just cruel.”

“Fair enough, but don’t even think about ghosting me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I winked at him. He opened the passenger side door for me, like a true gentleman, and I climbed into the car.

The drive to his place was short and we made easy small talk on the way. I was expecting to feel nervous in the lead up to our arrival at his place, but I wasn’t. He pulled into the driveway of a brick row home, with navy shutters and white accents along the windows. I let myself out of the car before he could open the door for me and he led me up the couple stairs to the front door. There was a welcome mat on the front porch that read The Neighbors Have Better Stuff and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Is this your version of home security?” I asked, pointing to the mat with my toe.

He chuckled, “My sister got that for me when I bought the house. And I have to say no burglaries yet so it must be working.”

When he opened the front door, I was surprised to find that his house felt very homely. I was expecting a bachelor pad, with hard edges and several shades of grey. Instead, I was met with neutral colors, tasteful art, and warm lighting. Bucky placed his keys on a hook by the front door and told me to make myself at home. I shrugged my jacket off and before I could find a spot for it, Bucky took it from my hands and put it on a hanger in the hall closet. I slid off my ankle boots and found a seat on the very comfortable sectional, as Bucky flipped a switch that started a flame in the fireplace.

“Here’s the remote, you can find something to put on the TV while I grab us a few drinks.”

I clicked on the TV and was met with a wide selection of programs. “You have all the streaming services…” I spoke in disbelief.

“And cable,” he added.

“Sheesh, living the dream over here.”

“You know what’s embarrassing about that? I almost never watch TV,” he admitted.

I gaped at him, thinking about the intricate network of log-ins I’d collected and bartered for over the years.

He sat next to me on the couch with a decanter of red wine and two crystal glasses.

“Let me guess, this is a vintage sangiovese from a little village in the south of Italy?”

He poured a sample into a glass and handed it for me to try before adding, “Don’t give me too much credit, it’s a midrange bottle. A Spanish tempranillo.”

“Mmm,” I replied, before imitating a sommelier, swirling the wine around before taking a big whiff. I took a sip and contemplated before making my assessment, “I’m getting strong notes of grape.”

Bucky let out a chuckle before topping off my glass and filling his own. He leaned deeper into the couch and I did the same, keeping about a foot of distance between us.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to impress me, Barnes,” I declared.

He shrugged, “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little.”

He pulled his phone out and tapped a few buttons, before smooth jazz started playing over the speaker system in the house.

“How about now?”

“Why have we been spending all this time at my place when you live in this literal smart home?”

“I had to make sure you weren’t after me for my money,” he joked.

“Oh, is that not clear? I’m definitely only interested in you as a sugar daddy.” He gave me a look and I was pleased to have grated on his nerves just a bit. “But seriously, your house is incredible.”

“You haven’t even seen the whole thing.”

“Are you going to give me the tour?” I smiled.

He nodded, “I can give you a tour.” He stood up and held his hand out for me. We started on our current floor, where he showed me his incredibly clean kitchen and back deck, overlooking the water. Then he took me into the basement, where he had a room that could only be described as a mancave, with a big screen TV, comfortable seating, and a small stocked bar. There was also a small room in the back that had a home gym, full of free weights, a treadmill, and a Peloton.

Next we headed toward the second floor, which contained the laundry room, home office, and the master bedroom. We paused when we reached the master bedroom, as I entered the room and decided to look around.

“Does this meet your standards?” he joked. I smiled at him as I walked around the bed and peeked into the bathroom. It was immaculate. Perfectly clean and tidy, well decorated, and aesthetically pleasing. I was impressed.

“Are you always this clean?” I asked, still in disbelief.

“Ever since the military. They ingrained cleanliness into me, despite my protests.”

“Remind me to thank them. Most guys I know live in their own filth.”

“Well I’m not most guys,” he said, stepping a foot closer to me. “You want to know the best part about this room?”

“Does music magically play in here too?” I asked.

“It does, but that’s not the best part.” I tilted my head, waiting for him to explain further. He didn’t speak more, but ushered me to come to him. I complied, standing about a foot in front of him, dying in anticipation. He placed both hands on my shoulders and gently guided me backwards, until the back of my legs hit the mattress. Then he pushed me down so my knees buckled and I was sitting on the bed. As I sunk into the soft mattress, I felt like I was sitting on a cloud. I instinctively leaned back so that my torso was on the bed and let out an unconscious sigh.

“This is amazing.”

I heard Bucky chuckle as he watched me, “After I got back from my deployment, all I wanted was a soft bed. I didn’t want any reminders of lumpy cots or sleeping in the desert.”

“I don’t think I can go back to my bed after feeling this one.”

“Well it’s a good thing you don’t have to,” Bucky flirted. He slowly crawled on top of me and my hands instinctively found their way around him. I gently scratched the hair at the back of his neck and studied his face, trying to read his expression. His pupils were wide and were focused on my eyes, flashing briefly to look at my lips. I could sense his heart beating out of his chest, matching my rhythm, and he let out a deep exhale that barely reached my mouth. We were in a stare off, taking each other in and waiting on edge to see who would make the first move. The edges of his mouth slowly turned upward into an amused grin and that was it for me. I pulled him towards me, desperate to feel the caress of his soft lips. His touch did not disappoint. As soon as we connected, I probed my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss. He placed his strong hand on my jaw and entwined his fingers into my hair.

We moved together slowly, savoring the moment instead of rushing to the finish line. Bucky had moved from my lips to my neck, planting wet kisses down to my collar bone, where he lingered, doing things that would surely leave a mark. I ran my hands up the back of his shirt, needing more skin to skin contact. I scratched small circles around his back before I whispered, “Can I take this off?”

He pulled away to catch his breath and grabbed the collar of his shirt from the back and easily pulled it over his head.

“Your turn,” he said smugly. I rose to his challenge, propping myself on my elbows to pull off my top. While I wish I’d been wearing some lacy lingerie, I was clad in a ribbed bralette in heather grey.

“I’m sorry I’m not in lingerie, but I didn’t expect-”

He cut off my defense with a kiss, massaging my lips with his and sending his tongue in to explore my mouth.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he breathed in between kisses. “Don’t ever apologize for how you look.”

That statement turned me on even more, if that was possible. I pushed him off of me and directed him to lay next to me on the bed. I unzipped my jeans and shimmied out of them, then climbed on top of Bucky so I was straddling him.

“Please don’t make me wait any longer,” he begged. I wanted to tease him more but I wasn’t sure I could hold it together much longer either. I hovered over him, planting a few kisses on his lips before making my way down his body to his pelvis. I playfully nipped at his hip bones before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down his muscular legs. I could see his erection through his boxer briefs and wasted no time massaging his bulge.

His head dipped back into the mattress in pleasure, and I had barely even started. I pulled down the waistband of his boxers, freeing his erection from its confinement. I gripped him firmly, sliding up past the tip and back down in a fluid motion. Bucky let out a contented sigh, giving me the confidence I needed to continue. I leaned forward to take his shaft in my mouth, bobbing my head up and down as I massaged his member with my tongue. He reached down and tangled his hand in my hair, gently massaging my scalp.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he breathed. I continued blowing him, paying special attention to the tip and fondling his balls. I heard him grunt and tasted the slightly salty taste of his semen. I eased working his shaft with my mouth, opting to clasp him with my hand, as I swallowed down his load. He guided my head up off of his penis and pulled me up towards him, squeezing me into a tight bearhug.

“You are amazing,” he gushed, kissing my cheek and neck repeatedly. I wiggled out of his tight grasp to reposition myself so that I could see him better. I placed a hand on his jaw and pulled him toward me, kissing him with vigor yet again. He placed a hand on my hip, gently running his thumb over my pelvic bone. He pulled away sooner than I wanted, and I tried to pull him back to me. He recognized the look in my eyes, and gave me a soft smile as he brushed a few loose strands of hair behind my ears.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll make it up to you.” He gently laid me down on the mattress as he shifted his weight on top of me. He started with my lips, exploring my mouth with a slow, lingering kiss. Then he peppered kisses along my jaw, up to my ear. He tugged my earlobe with his teeth and then planted soft kisses behind my ear. He moved down my neck, applying pressure with his tongue. As he continued south, briefly teething on my clavicle before journeying down to my sternum. He slid his hands up my sides and under my bralette. He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow, as if asking for my permission to proceed. I gave him a quick nod and he peeled the bralette up, freeing my breasts. I pulled the bralette over my head and shivered slightly at the cold air caressing my nipples. Bucky picked up on my momentary discomfort and acted quickly, bringing his mouth to my left nipple as his hand massaged my right breast. I let out an unconscious moan and noticed a smirk on Bucky’s lips before he switched sides to the other breast. Things started to get fuzzy as I was entering a natural high.

Bucky moved down lower, teasing my abdomen, pelvis, and inner thighs along the way. He pulled my thong off slowly, teasing me, but then his tongue found my clitoris and I was sent into orbit. He managed to circulate the use of his fingers, lips, and tongue to all my sensitive areas. My fingers were digging into the bed sheets, looking for something to grasp as I teetered on the edge of my orgasm.

Bucky took me by surprise when he inserted a second finger and I let out a heavy breath. I shifted my gaze down toward Bucky and was met with his ocean blue eyes looking up at me. I could’ve sworn he was smiling too, even though his mouth was focused on pleasuring me. And that was all it took. I succumbed to my orgasm, shuddering and releasing all the tension in my body as Bucky lapped up my juices, savoring every drop. I felt light headed from the intense orgasm that came quickly. I’d never finished like that from oral stimulation alone. I blinked rapidly up at the ceiling, trying to refocus my eyes and sighed, “Oh Buck.”

I felt his weight shift up as he crawled up beside me, “How was that, my little sex goddess?”

I turned toward him and couldn’t hide the smile from my face. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. I nuzzled into him and said, “I don’t ever want to leave this bed.”

“Me neither.”

I was startled awake by my own gasping. My eyes bugged and I struggled to breathe as the pressure increased to my throat. Bucky was on top of me, his legs straddling my waist, but not in a fun way. He had me pinned down to the mattress and his forearm was pressed into my windpipe. His eyes were glazed over, almost like he was possessed.

I tried to call his name but it came out as more of a gasp. Then I made the mistake of trying to push him off me. I should’ve realized fighting back would just make him push harder, but I wasn’t thinking, I was reacting.

His hands were now enclosed around my neck as he started to squeeze harder. My first instinct was to panic, but I knew that wouldn’t help break him from his trauma-induced haze. If I could just talk to him, maybe it would wake him up. Maybe my voice could break into the nightmare he was having, even just to serve as a distraction. I tried to speak again, but all that came out was a squeak.

I needed to pull him back to reality, so I tried something unexpected. If he thought I was a dangerous enemy, the last thing he would expect would be affection. I gently placed my hands on his jaw. His expression shifted slightly and his grip on my neck loosened a bit. I took the opening and carefully pulled his face closer to mine, rubbing little circles behind his earlobes with my finger tips. As his face drew nearer, his forehead and nose connected with mine and his hands released my neck. I barely brushed my lips against his mouth and felt all the tension in his body melt away. I took in a few deep breaths, relieved to have de-escalated the situation. Bucky rolled back to his side of the bed, but curled into me. I directed his head to my chest and ran my fingers through his hair, giving him a scalp massage. He fell back asleep with ease, his breaths and body weighing heavy on me.

Despite the soothing sounds of his breathing, I was wide awake. Adrenaline was still coursing through my veins from the attempted strangulation. The strangest thing was, I wasn’t upset with Bucky. That wasn’t the Bucky I knew, it was just a PTSD flare up. I should’ve been scared of him, of another attack. Yet, I couldn’t imagine leaving him. He talked a little about his time in the military but he never got into any of the specifics. PTSD never even crossed my mind, Bucky always seemed so put together. And now that I saw the darker side of him, all I wanted was to help him and protect him from his haunting thoughts.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes doctor au

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jerzwriter · 2 months ago

Text

FROM ALT NATIONAL PARK SERVICE

IMPORTANT: Please read & share!

Please share! ICE agents are now wearing masks and everyday clothing, grabbing individuals in public or at home—often without ID, a warrant, or any visible identification. This is creating an increasingly dangerous situation, especially as copycat impersonators are appearing across the country.

Many people are switching their phones from FaceID to a passcode—you are not legally required to provide a passcode. Others are carrying pepper spray or bear spray, which can be highly effective in disabling an attacker.

Americans are witnessing these incidents and stepping in—but that’s creating volatile and risky situations. If you choose to get involved, demand proper identification. Without clear documentation, there’s no way to tell if it’s a legitimate agent or a copycat. But above all, prioritize your safety.

We strongly recommend live streaming any of these encounters to social media. If the Trump administration disappears you, there needs to be a record—so people know to look for you.

This is becoming extremely dangerous for everyone involved.

How to protect yourself against ICE:

- You have the right to remain silent. You do not have to answer questions about your immigration status or birthplace.

- You do not have to open the door unless ICE has a signed warrant with your name and address from a judge.

- You have the right to speak to a lawyer and to refuse to sign any documents without one.

- Carry a red card or rights card: These cards assert your rights in writing, which you can hand to officers instead of speaking.

- Have a family preparedness plan: Decide who will take care of children, pets, or finances if someone is detained. Keep emergency contacts written down and memorized.

- Know your A-number (if undocumented or pending): This 8–9 digit number is essential if someone is detained and needs legal help.

- Use strong phone passcodes (not FaceID or fingerprint): ICE can’t force you to reveal a passcode.

- Avoid saving sensitive documents in cloud storage apps: Use encrypted local storage and consider apps that allow remote wiping.

- Limit location tracking: Turn off unnecessary app permissions, Bluetooth, and location sharing.

- Avoid traveling alone when possible.

ICE often targets people in isolated settings.

- Join or create a rapid response network:

Many cities have local groups that monitor ICE activity, provide legal support, and assist families.

- Document and report all encounters:

Take videos when safe. Share with local immigration attorneys or watchdog groups.

- Memorize hotlines: Such as United We Dream’s MigraWatch: 1-844-363-1423

- Do not sign anything without legal counsel. You might be signing away your right to a hearing.

- Request a bond hearing and legal representation.

- Let someone know your location: Detainees are often moved quickly between facilities, and it can take time to locate them.

THIS is where we fucking are, people!

#us politics #america #usa #resist

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i-identify-tanks-in-posts · 1 year ago

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Less of an ID here, but what are your thoughts on the AbramsX, both as a platform as whole, and what technologies from it do you think will show up on future upgrades to the Abrams?

Oh boy, the Abrams X tech demo.

AKA: "Oh, so that's what the FCS program was for."

I have a lot of thoughts on the Abrams X, so, if you don't care to read all that, I'll leave a tl;dr at the bottom, in case someone wants to know my opinion without wanting to know why I have that opinion (for some reason.)

The Abrams X incorporates a lot of technology that excites me an awful lot. However, there are three things that stick out the most, so I'm gonna talk about them:

#1. The engine. The Abrams X uses a hybrid diesel engine (designed by Cadillac, if I remember correctly), which is a massive improvement over the current Abrams' gas turbine, which is less fuel efficient than just about every other MBT around. The new engine solves this problem by both switching to a hybrid design, which has greater performance, lesser noise, and lesser fuel consumption.

2. The turret/gun. It's remotely controlled, and miles better than the current m256, being lighter and even further integrated into optics/targeting. While I expect the real next-gen tanks to be equipping larger bore guns (in response to Russia and China looking to up-gun their next-gen MBTs), this Cannon is a fantastic intermediate step, and a great test bed/proof of concept for a remote-operated, auto-loading turret. This also drops the required crew down to 3, which may not seem like a big deal, but actually represents some pretty big stuff.

3. The integration. Ah, the "system of systems", come at last. Full integration to a combat network of drones, CAS fighters, other tanks, and in the future, perhaps fully autonomous ground vehicles. This is the thing that excites me most, as it means a truly massive level of integration and cooperation between every element of a combined arms forces, allowing every part to operate at a greater capacity. I've actually spoken with M1 tankers, and they seem most excited about the new Airplane-style helmets, and the level of coordination and targeting and spotting ability supplied by integrated drones.

However, it's not all sunshine and roses. With any massive leap forward in technology, this introduces a thousand thousand new potential points of failure into the system of every Abrams tank, which can cost lives when it counts. In addition, concerns have been expressed over the lowered crew count, saying that three people is not a reasonable number to expect to service and maintain a tank of the Abrams size out in the field, even with the supposed lower maintenance requirements of the Abrams X. Additionally, the smaller crew size and heavier focus on technology could indicate a shift in American tank ideology, towards the tanks being put out by other geopolitical powers, like China, Russia, and others.

So, to summarize, (here's that TL;DR I was talking about.) I think the Abrams is an incredibly promising test bed that is the culmination of the 1999-2009 Future Combat Systems program, and am excited to see how the technology will develop into the next generation of MBTs. However, I am cautious, as I can see several possible downsides to a lower crew size and a heavier reliance on tech.

#tanks #us tanks #Abrams tank #Abrams X

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kaywavy · 1 year ago

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transforming soffits reorganizing keys formalizing immersion joints justifying kick extractors advising aggregates managing elbows recasting connectors achieving aluminum trowels officiating disks exhibiting absolute spigots progressing coil hydrants jerry-building reflectors informing casters inventing rubber hoists performing wrenches judging chalk adapters upgrading ignition paths

regrowing flashing recommending ratchets approving barriers sweeping impact fillers sewing mirrors detailing collectors enforcing measures distributing systems presenting plugs interwinding registers piloting ash diffusers gathering cranks supplying eave pockets undertaking scroll stops accelerating straps designing fittings protecting diamond boilers logging downspouts correlating shingles uniting mallets qualifying electrostatic lifts sharing clamps obtaining circular fluids ranking foundation gauges sensing miter brackets originating space networks translating drills regulating guards selecting gable padding utilizing pellet dowels reconciling artifacts altering pulleys shedding space filters determining vents representing mortar remaking flash rakers supporting funnels typecasting rotary chocks expressing junctures resetting auxiliary vises professing strip treads inlaying matter trowels questioning drivers forming edge fittings sketching blanks overshooting spark breakers rewriting controls playing tunnels inventorying buttons enduring joint handles effecting ratchet bibbs unwinding couplings forsaking vapor conduits defining sockets calculating heaters raising grids administering tiles measuring resources installing ignition remotes extracting corners manufacturing ventilators delegating consoles treating mounting stones enacting jig deflectors intensifying alleys improvising cargo pinpointing bobs prescribing arc masonry structuring metal chucks symbolizing lathes activating plumb kits adapting coatings fixing channels expediting cordage planning compressors enlisting hangers restructuring keyhole augers shearing ridge hardware collecting reciprocating bolts maintaining corrugated dimmers whetting hole collars conducting mandrels comparing assets compiling sealants completing paths composing equivocation wheels computing dampers conceiving electrostatic treatment ordering cotter grates organizing ties orienting ladders exceeding materials targeting thermocouples demonstrating emery stock expanding latch bases training wardrobe adhesives overcomming[sic] fasteners streamlining storm anchors navigating springs perfecting turnbuckles verifying gate pegs arbitrating arithmetic lifts negotiating outlets normalizing strips building surface foggers checking key torches knitting grinders mowing planers offsetting stencils acquiring bulbs adopting rivets observing avenues ascertaining coaxial grommets slinging wing winches instituting circuit generators instructing wicks integrating pry shutters interpreting immersion lumber clarifying coils classifying wood bits closing cogs cataloging matter strips charting holders conceptualizing push terminals stimulating supports overthrowing shaft spacers quick-freezing connectors unbinding ground hooks analyzing eyes anticipating gateways controlling proposition rollers converting power angles coordinating staples correcting benders counseling joist gaskets recording gutter pipes recruiting drains rehabilitating rafter tubes reinforcing washers reporting guard valves naming freize sprues nominating rings noting straps doubling nailers drafting circuit hoses dramatizing flanges splitting framing compounds refitting stems interweaving patch unions placing sillcocks sorting slot threads securing mode cutters diverting catharsis plates procuring load thresholds transferring syllogism twine directing switch nuts referring time spools diagnosing knobs discovering locks dispensing hinges displaying hasps resending arc binders retreading grooves retrofitting aesthetics portals seeking stocks shrinking wormholes assembling blocks assessing divers attaining lug boxes auditing nescience passages conserving strikes constructing braces contracting saw catches serving installation irons recognizing fluxes consolidating fuse calipers mapping shims reviewing chop groovers scheduling lag drives simplifying hoists engineering levels enhancing tack hollows establishing finishing blocks

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officialbambiprescottdeardearest · 4 months ago

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PlayStation 7 RC Drone Controller – Advanced Combat Defense Edition

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dxfiedfxte · 27 days ago

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"We turn now to a developing story that’s sending shockwaves through Japan’s entertainment industry. This evening, a figure known only as ‘X’ has come forward with serious accusations against renowned former pop idol and current dance academy head, Narumi Iwasaki. The whistleblower, whose identity remains hidden for their protection, claims to have firsthand knowledge of abusive practices taking place within the walls of Royale Studio Dance Academy—a prestigious institution long associated with grooming Japan’s next generation of female idols. X appeared earlier today in a recorded video broadcast aired by a legal transparency network on online platforms. Speaking in silhouette with a digitally distorted voice, the individual introduced themselves as a a seeker of truth, stating:" the news switched immediately to a clip from a video from online that was uploaded a few hours ago. “What the public sees is a carefully maintained image—a warm, motherly figure guiding Japan’s brightest girls to fame. But behind closed doors, it’s a nightmare. I watched students starve themselves. I saw them cry, collapse, even question their own worth... all because one woman demands perfection above humanity.” after the clip was switched back to the news. "The video, which has since gone viral across social media, includes what appears to be internal documents, surveillance footage, and several anonymously sourced testimonies from former students—alleging verbal abuse, body shaming, and forced malnourishment under the direction of Iwasaki herself. X alleges that Narumi Iwasaki maintained a 'regime of fear' inside her academy, insisting that only the ‘most flawless girls’ were worthy of success. Some students were reportedly instructed not to eat before major performances, while others were subjected to training sessions lasting for hours without breaks or hydration. Public reaction has been swift. Hashtags such as #ExposeRoyaleStudio and #JusticeForTheGirls have begun trending across Japanese and international platforms. Activist groups, child protection agencies, and entertainment unions have also begun calling for a formal investigation. So far, Narumi Iwasaki has not responded to the allegations directly. Her legal team issued a brief statement earlier today, saying that Ms. Iwasaki categorically denies all claims made in this unverified video. She views that this as a malicious attempt to smear her legacy, and legal action is being considered. Despite the denial, public scrutiny is intensifying as more former students step forward. According to sources familiar with the matter, legal representatives for X are preparing to file a formal lawsuit against Iwasaki within the coming weeks, citing a pattern of systemic abuse, negligence, and exploitation within the academy. Whether the case will reach the courts remains to be seen—but for now, the carefully polished image of Narumi Iwasaki, once considered a pillar of idol culture in Japan, is beginning to unravel. We will continue to follow this story as it develops. For Tokyo World Report, this is Ayaka Mizuno." As the newswoman said while stating all of this.

Random Ask

[{ 🦋 }] - "......"

Grabs the remote and turns the television off.

[{ 🦋 }] - "Too much information to process, I'm going to bed."

If this really was serious, it would be on the news again tomorrow.

#anonymous #Fᴏʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ Mʏ OWN Fᴀᴛᴇ (IC)#//Minato's response is a MOOD #//I did not know what to do with such a random and abrupt ask #//sorry nonny I do not have the necessary amount of brain energy for this lol

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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The tricky thing about generating electricity is that for the most part, you pretty much have to use it or lose it.

This fundamental fact has governed and constrained the development of the world’s largest machine: the $2 trillion US power grid. Massive generators send electrons along a continent-wide network of conductors, transformers, cables, and wires into millions of homes and businesses, delicately balancing supply and demand so that every light switch, computer, television, stove, and charging cable will turn on 99.95 percent of the time.

Making sure there are always enough generators spooled up to send electricity to every single power outlet in the country requires precise coordination. And while the amount of electricity actually used can swing drastically throughout the day and year, the grid is built to meet the brief periods of peak demand, like the hot summer days when air conditioning use can double average electricity consumption. Imagine building a 30-lane highway to make sure no driver ever has to tap their brakes. That’s effectively what those who design and run the grid have had to do.

But what if you could just hold onto electricity for a bit and save it for later? You wouldn’t have to overbuild the grid or spend so much effort keeping power generation in equilibrium with users. You could smooth over the drawbacks of intermittent power sources that don’t emit carbon dioxide, like wind and solar. You could have easy local backup power in emergencies when transmission lines are damaged. You may not even need a giant, centralized power grid at all.

That’s the promise of grid-scale energy storage. And while the US has actually been using a crude form of energy storage called pumped hydroelectric power storage for decades, the country is now experiencing a gargantuan surge in energy storage capacity, this time from a technology that most of us are carrying around in our pockets: lithium-ion batteries. Between 2021 and 2024, grid battery capacity increased fivefold. In 2024, the US installed 12.3 gigawatts of energy storage. This year, new grid battery installations are on track to almost double compared to last year. Battery storage capacity now exceeds pumped hydro capacity, totaling more than 26 gigawatts.

There’s still plenty of room to expand—and a pressing need to do so. The power sector remains the second-largest source of greenhouse gas emissions in the US, and there will be no way to add enough intermittent clean energy to sufficiently decarbonize the grid without cheap and plentiful storage.

Power transmission towers outside the Crimson Battery Energy Storage Project in Blythe, California. Photograph: Bing Guan/Bloomberg via Getty Images

The aging US grid is also in dire need of upgrades, and batteries can cushion the shock of adding gigawatts of wind and solar while buying some time to perform more extensive renovations. Some power markets are finally starting to understand all the services batteries can provide—frequency regulation, peak shaving, demand response—creating new lines of business. Batteries are also a key tool in building smaller, localized versions of the power grid. These microgrids can power remote communities with reliable power and one day shift the entire power grid into a more decentralized system that can better withstand disruptions like extreme weather.

If we can get it right, true grid-scale battery storage won’t just be an enabler of clean energy, but a way to upgrade the power system for a new era.

How Big Batteries Got so Big

Back in 2011, one of my first reporting assignments was heading to a wind farm in West Virginia to attend the inauguration of what was at the time the world’s largest battery energy storage system. Built by AES Energy Storage, it involved thousands of lithium-ion cells in storage containers that together combined to provide 32 megawatts of power and deliver it for about 15 minutes.

“It was eight megawatt-hours total,” said John Zahurancik, who was vice president of AES Energy Storage at the time and showed me around the facility back then. That was about the amount of electricity used by 260 homes in a day.

In the years since, battery storage has increased by orders of magnitude, as Zahurancik’s new job demonstrates. He is now the president of Fluence, a joint venture between AES and Siemens that has deployed 38 gigawatt-hours of storage to date around the world. “The things that we’re building today, many of our projects are over a gigawatt-hour in size,” Zahurancik said.

Last year, the largest storage facility to come online in the US was California’s Edwards & Sanborn Project, which can dispatch 33 GW for several hours. That’s roughly equivalent to the electricity needed to power 4.4 million homes for a day.

It wasn’t a steady climb to this point, however. Overall grid battery capacity in the US barely budged for more than a decade. Then, around 2020, it began to spike upward. What changed?

One shift is that the most common battery storage technology, lithium-ion cells, saw huge price drops and energy density increases. “The very first project we did was in 2008 and it was on the order of $3,000 a kilowatt-hour for the price of the batteries,” said Zahurancik. “Now we’re looking at systems that are on the order of $150, $200 a kilowatt-hour for the full system install.”

That’s partly because the cells on the power grid aren’t that different from those in mobile devices and electric vehicles, so grid batteries have benefited from manufacturing improvements that went into those products.

“It’s all one big pipeline,” said Micah Ziegler, a professor at Georgia Tech who studies clean energy technologies. “The batteries in phones, cars, and the grid all share common characteristics.” Seeing this rising demand, China went big on battery manufacturing and, much as it did in solar panels, created economies of scale to drive global prices down. China now produces 80 percent of the world’s lithium-ion batteries.

The blooming of wind and solar energy created even more demand for batteries and increased the pressure to improve them. The wind and the sun are often the cheapest sources of new electricity, and batteries help compensate for their variability, providing even more reason to scale up storage. “The benefits of this relationship are apparent in the increasing number of power plants that are being proposed and that have already been deployed that combine these resources,” Ziegler said. The combination of solar plus storage accounted for 84 percent of new US power added in 2024.

The Los Angeles Department of Water and Power’s biggest solar and battery storage plant, the Eland Solar and Storage Center in the Mojave Desert. Photograph: Brian van der Brug/Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

Battery solar energy storage units, right, at the Eland Solar and Storage Center in 2024. Phtogoraph: Brian van der Brug/Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

And because grid batteries don’t have to be small enough to be mobile—unlike the batteries in your laptop or phone—they can take advantage of cheaper, less dense batteries that otherwise might not be suited for something that has to fit in your pocket. There’s even talk of giving old EV batteries a second life on the power grid.

Regulation has also helped. A major hurdle for deploying grid energy storage systems is that they don’t generate electricity on their own, so the rules for how they should connect to the grid and how much battery developers should get paid for their services were messy and restrictive in the past. The Federal Energy Regulatory Commission’s Order 841 removed some of the barriers for energy storage systems to plug into wholesale markets and compete with other forms of power. Though the regulation was issued in 2018, it cleared a major legal challenge in 2020, paving the way for more batteries to plug into the grid.

Eleven states to date including California, Illinois, and Maryland have also set specific procurement targets for energy storage, which require utilities to install a certain amount of storage capacity, creating a push for more grid batteries. Together, these factors created a whole new businesses for power companies, spawned new grid battery companies, and fertilized the ground for a bumper crop of energy storage.

What Can Energy Storage Do for You?

Energy storage is the peanut butter to the chocolate of renewable energy, making all the best traits about clean energy even better and balancing out some of its downsides. But it’s also an important ingredient in grid stability, reliability, and resilience, helping ensure a steady flow of megawatts during blackouts and extreme weather.

The most common use is frequency response. The alternating current going through power lines in the US cycles at a frequency of 60 hertz. If the grid dips below this frequency when a power-hungry user switches on, it can trip circuit breakers and cause power instability. Since batteries have nearly zero startup time, unlike thermal generators, they can quickly absorb or transmit power as needed to keep the grid humming the right tune.

Grid batteries can also step in as reserve power when a generator goes offline or when a large power user unexpectedly turns on. They can smooth out the hills and valleys of power load over the course of the day. They also let power providers save electricity when it’s cheap to produce, and sell it back on the grid at times when demand is high and power is expensive. It’s often faster to build a battery facility than an equivalent power plant, and since there are no smokestacks, it’s easier to get permits and approvals.

Batteries have already proven useful for overstressed power networks. As temperatures reached triple digits in Texas last year, batteries provided a record amount of power on the Lone Star State’s grid. ERCOT, the Texas grid operator, didn’t have to ask Texans to turn down their power use like it did in 2023. Between 2020 and 2024, Texas saw a 4,100 percent increase in utility-scale batteries, topping 5.7 gigawatts.

Jupiter Power battery storage complex in Houston in 2024. Photograph: Jason Fochtman/Houston Chronicle via Getty Images

Grid batteries have a halo effect for other power generators too. Most thermal power plants—coal, gas, nuclear—prefer to run at a steady pace. Ramping up and down to match demand takes time and costs money, but with batteries soaking up some of the variability, thermal power plants can stay closer to their most efficient pace, reducing greenhouse gas emissions and keeping costs in check.

“It’s kind of like hybridizing your car,” Zahurancik said. “If you think about a Prius, you have an electric motor and you have a gasoline motor and you make the gas consumption better because the battery absorbs all the variation.”

Another grid battery feature is that they can reduce the need for expensive grid upgrades, said Stephanie Smith, chief operating officer at Eolian, which funds and develops grid energy storage systems. You don’t have to build power lines to accommodate absolute maximum electricity needs if you have a battery—on the generator side or on the demand side—to dish out a few more electrons when needed.

“What we do with stand-alone batteries, the more and more of those you get, you start to alleviate needs or at least abridge things like new transmission build,” Smith said. These batteries also allow the grid to adapt faster to changing energy needs, like when a factory shuts down or when a new data center powers up.

On balance this leads to a more stable, efficient, cheaper, and cleaner power grid.

Charging Up

As good as they are, lithium-ion batteries have their limits. Most grid batteries are designed to store and dispatch electricity over the course of two to eight hours, but the grid also needs ways to stash power for days, weeks, and even months since power demand shifts throughout the year.

There are also some fundamental looming challenges for grid-scale storage. Like most grid-level technologies, energy storage requires a big upfront investment that takes decades to pay back, but there’s a lot of uncertainty right now about how the Trump administration’s tariffs will affect battery imports, whether there will be a recession, and if this disruption will slow electricity demand growth in the years to come. The extraordinary appetite for batteries is increasing competition for the required raw materials, which may increase their prices.

Though China currently dominates the global battery supply chain, the US is working to edge its way in. Under the previous administration, the US Department of Energy invested billions in energy storage factories, supply chains, and research. There are dozens of battery factories in the US now, though most are aimed at electric vehicles. There are 10 US factories slated to start up this year, which would raise the total EV battery manufacturing capacity to 421.5 gigawatt-hours per year. Total global battery manufacturing is projected to reach around 7,900 gigawatt-hours in 2025.

Lithium battery modules inside the battery building at the Vistra Corp. Moss Landing Energy Storage Facility in Moss Landing, California, in 2021. Photograph: David Paul Morris/Bloomberg via Getty Images

There’s also a long and growing line of projects waiting to connect to the power grid. Interconnection queues for all energy systems, but particularly solar, wind, and batteries, typically last three years or more as project developers produce reliability studies and cope with mounting regulatory paperwork delays.

The Trump administration is also working to undo incentives around clean energy, particularly the 2022 Inflation Reduction Act. The law established robust incentives for clean energy, including tax credits for stand-alone grid energy projects. “I do worry about the IRA because it will change the curve, and quite honestly we cannot afford to change the curve right now with any form of clean energy,” Smith said. On the other hand, Trump’s tariffs may eventually spur even more battery manufacturing within the US.

Still, utility-scale energy storage is a tiny slice of the sprawling US power grid, and there’s enormous room to expand. “Even though we’ve been accelerating and going fast, by and large, we don’t have that much of it,” Zahurancik said. “You could easily see storage becoming 20 or 30 percent of the installed power capacity.”

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