#fic: born or created

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Born or Created - a post-apocalypse au (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC)

Summary: The monsters invaded five years ago. Creatures like the ones native to our world, but just slightly off. And exceptionally deadly. No one knows where they came from, and at this point, no one cares enough to ask. The cities lay abandoned, the forests deadly quiet, and what of humanity that's left is scattered - focused only on survival.

Pairing: Jake Seresin x OC (Ronnie Bradshaw)

Word Count: 6199

Warnings: flashbacks in italics throughout, violence, gore, horror creatures, the end of the world, guns, car crash, blood mention, pregnancy mention, early/premature labor/birth (in a world with no nicu...hopefully you can see where this is going)

ONE | TWO | THREE

-> likes are great but comments/reblogs are even better!

-> this was born from a made-up fic title sent in by @newlibrary and i just took it and ran (also thank you for beta reading bestie)

-> please let me know if you want more of this!!

“Ronnie? Ronnie, can you hear me?” Jake spoke frantically into the phone as he fished his keys out of his pocket. “Darlin’ where are you?”

“I-I’m at the house,” she replied, voice high-pitched and wavering through the phone speaker. “Jake, what is — ?”

There was an explosion somewhere in the background, she screamed. Her breaths still came in heavy against the speaker, static and rough. 

“Look, just — just stay where you are. I’m comin’ to get you,” he said. 

His hands were shaking. He finally got his truck door open before he jumped inside, slamming it shut behind him. Something fell out of the sky and landed right next to him in the parking lot. The truck rocked back and forth at the impact. But Jake tuned it out, all he could hear was Ronnie’s terrified whimpers through the phone. 

“I’m scared,” Ronnie whispered. 

Jake screwed his eyes shut. “I know, baby. I’ll be there soon. Get somewhere safe in the house, okay?”

“Okay — “ 

The line went dead. He looked down at his phone — no service. A cell tower must have gone down. Jake started the truck, felt it rumble beneath him as it turned over. He wrapped both hands around the wheel…

And he hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, back at the air base he just ran from. Helicopters were slowly rising into the air. He flinched as one got blown out of the sky, exploding into a ball of flame, by one of the unknown objects. He took a vow to protect and serve his country. Had dedicated nearly his entire life to it.

Jake turned back around, his eyes catching on the black band on his finger. He took a vow to protect and serve her too.

His choice was already made.  

Something banged against the truck’s window, cracking the glass into a spider web. Jake turned, jumped back away from the broken window, and he saw a deer. Or what could have been a deer. Accept there were too many horns, too many eyes — and when it opened it’s mouth, the teeth were sharp and deadly. And he watched, something like ice gripping his heart, as it rose up onto its hind legs. 

“Oh, fuck!”

Jake grabbed his rifle and checked the clip. Plenty of shots left. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it or any of the spares that he had in his backpack. Things were usually calm at that time of day. Slinging the gun and the bag over his shoulder, he exited the tent. 

The sky was overcast. Painted in shades of grey, blotting out the sun. That meant the Crawlers may come out of their dens. Maybe there would be some use for his rifle after all.

As he moved through the grid of tents, boots sinking slightly into the wet earth, he nodded in greeting at the other people milling about. The women washing their clothes in the basin of dirty water. The men chatting over a shared canteen. He passed through the tents and came out onto the main road, a wide path tred so often the grass refused to grow. 

The Big House loomed on top of the hill to the north. A giant brick colonial covered in creeping ivory, looming like a beast with too many eyes over the tents and farmland that spread out below it. To the south, The Gate stood as a mouth wired shut. Meant to keep everything out and let nothing escape.

Jake avoided looking at the house as he turned towards The Gate, adjusting the pack on his shoulders. 

People were screaming, running with anything they could grab in their arms. Several houses on their street were burning, smoke rising into the bright blue sky. What might have been a bear ran past the truck as Jake sped down the road, but he didn’t have time to look.

Their house seemed intact save for the windows being blown in, though their neigbors’ front room was gone and a great smoking crater took its place.

Jake parked the truck in front of the house haphazardly. Tires up on the sidewalk before he cut the engine and lept from the vehicle. Another explosion went off somewhere, the screams echoed through the neighborhood. Somewhere, he heard a baby crying.

The front door was unlocked and he didn’t even notice until he barreled into the living room, eyes frantically searching for any sign of his wife. 

“Ronnie! Ronnie, where are you?” he yelled into the house as he ran down the short hall to check the spare room for her. 

“Jake!” her voice replied. “I’m up here!” 

He bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A flood of relief washed over him when he finally saw her. Standing in the middle of their bedroom with fear in her eyes. There was a cut on her cheek, the blood running down her face dried like a tear. They crashed into each other, tide to the shore — his arms banding around her shoulders and holding her to him like he needed her to breathe. She shuddered as she gripped him back just as tight, burying her face into his chest. 

“Come on.” Jake pulled away first, stepping back to retrieve a bag from their closet. “We need to get outta here.”

“What about Brad? Did you see him?” she questioned.

Jake paused, hand white-knuckled around the door handle. “He stayed. He’ll be safe there.”

She nodded and left it at that.

“Where are we gonna go?” she asked, even as she opened up a drawer in their dresser and started pulling out clothes. 

“I don’t know. It’s the same everywhere — we — we were getting reports from all over,” he said, tossing her the bag before kneeling down to reach under the bed, then he paused. “Have you…Seen any weird animals?”

Ronnie began stuffing the clothes inside. “A-After the Cole’s house…I thought I saw a bear with six legs.”

“Yeah. Saw a deer like that — it tried to kill me.”

From beneath the bed, he pulled out the case for his hunting rifle.

The Gate was heavily guarded. Twelve feet high and made out of dense layers of pine wood and sheet metal. Jake remembered the day it was finished and people cheered. He couldn’t help but feel, however, like they were being locked in instead of being kept safe. Men supplied with automatic rifles and tac vests stood in pairs inside and outside the gate, and then on either side on top of the wall.

Jake approached with unease weighing heavy in his gut. This was his least favorite part of the job. But at least he was the last to arrive. The rest of his team already stood at The Gate waiting for him. They said their hellos and then went over their plan of action. Which locations they were going to check out for anything of value. 

Then they turned to the guards and asked that The Gate be opened. The guards did as they asked, undoing the many bolts as thick as a man’s arm, and pushing open the doors. 

“Scavengers,” one of the guards scoffed to the other as the group went past, the two of them chuckled to one another.

Jake felt the group around him tense, but no one said anything until they were several paces into the field that surrounded the wall and they heard The Gate clang shut behind them. 

“Big House Thugs,” Natasha grumbled under her breath, flicking her dark ponytail over her shoulder. “I’d like to see them try to survive without us.”

“Yeah, who do they think finds all their bullets and shit?” Javy joined in irritably. 

Mickey opened his mouth to join in, but Jake cut him off, “Guys, just drop it.”

The scavenger team moved into the treeline and Jake unshouldered his rifle. The other three followed his lead, holding their weapons ready to fight off whatever creatures may appear now that they were truly in The Wilds. Dense, overgrown, forest that was once tamed by man. But was now ruled by horrible creatures, designed to kill.

“You tellin’ us their shit doesn’t bother you, Jake?” Mickey asked, voice hushed and somehow dampened in the close air of the trees. 

“Oh, it fuckin’ bothers me,” he replied, eyes alert as he took lead of the group. “But we all know complainin’ is a good way to disappear.” 

Natasha snorted. “They can’t hear us out here.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Jake took the backroads, assuming that the highways were going to be packed and dangerous. He still didn’t know where they were going. But it didn’t matter as long as they were together. 

They were driving through a forest on their way out of town, the road practically deserted. And already it was calmer here than it was just a few miles back. They could still see, above the canopy of the trees, the fire raining down from the sky. The drive could feel almost normal if it weren’t for that. 

“Any signal at all?” Jake asked for what felt like the thousandth time since they left the house. 

“No. Nothing,” Ronnie replied with a sigh, locking her phone once more. “Jake, where are we even going?”

“I don’t know! Just…Somewhere. Somewhere safer than back there until all this blows over,” he said. 

She looked down into her lap with a shaky breath. “Do you really think all of this is just gonna blow over?”

“No. No, I don’t.” 

They kept driving. Further and further away from the chaos and everything they once knew. Jake gripped the steering wheel tight, the leather squeaking beneath his fingers, as a guilt burned inside him. Made his stomach turn, made his limbs feel heavy. 

He didn’t regret his choice. Looking over at Ronnie sitting in the passenger seat, cleaned of blood and alive and safe with him. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he stayed. If he didn’t know if she was alive or dead or hurt. He just knew that would’ve been the case, and he wouldn’t have been able to bear it. But he can bear this guilt now. This guilt over leaving his duty and fellow man behind.

Coward. Deserter. Traitor.

Ronnie pried one of his hands off the steering wheel. He hadn’t even noticed his knuckles turning white or the pain forming in his joints until his fingers were free. She slipped her own fingers between his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. And when he looked over, her smile was soft — understanding. She knew. Of course she knew. Ronnie knew him better than anyone, even himself. He squeezed her hand back. 

He looked back at the road. His eyes widened. Ronnie gasped. He slammed the brakes.

“Jake!” 

As scavengers, they would be gone for days at a time. Trekking out miles away from the safety of The Big House and The Gate and the walls. Searching for anything of use or value they could bring back. Last time they went out, they found a house on a large piece of land that was once a farm, but they did not have time to check it out. Now, it was their main goal.

The group of four walked through the dense foliage in a line, each of them with a weapon raised and eyes sweeping all sides from any signs of danger. They would switch off every hour who took the lead. The house was eight miles east. They could get there by sundown.

Here was the thing about The Wilds: the further in they went, the more dangerous things became. The trees grew closer together, taller, wider. Nearly like they were walking deeper into an ocean made of green. The air became dense. Noises echoed in a strange way. Eventually, the sky would be blotted out entirely by the canopy of leaves high above them. 

Whatever happened that day all those years ago changed the very chemistry of the whole world.

The usual noises of the forest remained. Birds chirped and small animals skittered about the foliage. It was when the world went silent that there was reason to worry.

He woke up slowly, mind slipping over reality like wet soap. Blearily, he saw the cracked windshield, the crumpled up hood of the truck, the giant smoking crater that was once the road just beyond. There was something in his hand, woven between his fingers. He looked over, and Ronnie’s hand was still held tightly in his own.

Ronnie was bleeding again. This time in a stream down the entire left side of her face. The blood coming from her hairline. Her eyes were closed and Jake didn’t like it. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice screamed for him to move. To grab Ronnie and run. So he started moving. His limbs felt stiff as he unbuckled and pushed open his door. It creaked in a way that made the ringing in his ears stop. Jake fell out of the truck onto his hands and knees, legs too unstable to keep him upright. The asphalt tore into his palms. Embers burned everywhere.

He knew he was moving too slow, but he couldn’t get his body to go any faster, as he got up from the ground and moved around to the other side of the truck. Prying the passenger door open, he reached across Ronnie’s lap and unbuckled her seatbealt.

“J-Jay?” she mumbled out just as her eyes blinked open. 

Everything snapped back into focus. His brain finally caught up. He could feel the pain in his chest, hear the crackling of fire, and the distant echoing roar of some beast. But most of all, he could see Ronnie looking over at him with brown eyes glazed over and blood drying on her face. 

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he said as he reached out to cup her cheek. “You okay?”

“I — I don’t know.” She flexed her fingers. “I think so.” 

“Can you stand?”

She nodded as she took his hand. He helped her down from the truck and made sure she was steady on her feet. 

Touching his face, she whispered, “You’re bleeding.” 

“So are you,” he chuckled, smearing the red on her cheek with his thumb. 

She laughed too. At least they were alive. Together. 

They grabbed their few precious things from the truck and headed into the woods. Not knowing where they were going, what dangers or safety they would find, but that was okay. They were together. The two of them against a world changed forever. 

Climbing a steep hill, they reached the eastern edge of the forest. Where the trees grew thick and tall as skyscrapers. Down below in the valley was the farm, just a few acres of now barren land with a dilapidated house at its center. From this angle, they could see the crack in the trees where the road now cut through like a canyon. 

The sun was setting. Painting the sky in shades of purple, pink, and orange. It would have been a beautiful view, except that Jake noticed large black shapes moving close to the house. 

“Mickey, can we get a closer look?” he asked as they all looked down into the valley. 

The younger man nodded, black curls bouncing, as he fished the binoculars from his pack. He held them up to his eyes, and they all waited on bated breath. 

“Yep, we’ve got Crawlers,” he said after a minute of searching. “Three of ‘em. From the looks of it they found somethin’.”

“Poor whatever it is,” Natasha grumbled, lip curled as she looked down at the scene. 

Eventually, they watched as the Crawlers stalked off — dragging two lifeless forms behind them. Back to their den to feast.

“We clear?” Jake questioned as he looked back at Mickey. 

“Yeah. We’re clear.” 

The group started down the hill.

A year. They did alright for themselves in a year. Found a hunting cabin to take refuge in. Figured out the patterns of the strange creatures that now roamed the forest. Watched as the trees grew taller, as the woods grew into something gnarled and twisted. But they endured. They adapted. They found a way to survive. Together. 

Just like it was supposed to be. 

Jake knew that something was wrong. Heard voices in the trees, and it definitely wasn’t the voice of his wife coming back from her foraging trip. Taking up his rifle, he followed the voices. The sounds of snapping twigs and brushing foliage that he had learned to avoid.

He came upon one man at the edge of a clearing. He could have sworn he heard two voices, but at that moment he didn’t care. For just beyond the man’s shoulder was Ronnie, unaware of the strangers presence as she squatted down to the forest floor — picking mushrooms. 

Jake was soundless as he stepped up behind the man, as he raised his rifle and cocked it. 

“Get any closer and you die,” Jake warned as the man looked over his shoulder at him, hands raised in surrender. 

Ronnie gasped as she finally took notice of the intruder, of Jake holding him at gunpoint. She rose to her feet, laying a hand on the swell of her stomach where new life was taking form. An accident. One they both feared but Ronnie still accepted, still loved. While Jake couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to remorse. 

“Put down the gun,” another voice said from behind Jake, the distinct sound of a gun cocking echoing through the trees. “Or she dies.” 

“J-Jake?” Ronnie whispered, voice shaking. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, baby daddy’s gonna give it up nice and easy. Ain’t that right?” 

Jake felt the muscles in his jaw clench, teeth nashing against teeth, as he shifted on his feet. Then he lowered the gun, raising it into the air along with his other hand. The first man turned and snatched the rifle away. Jake kept his hands up as he was searched for any more weapons. They found none besides a pocket knife. 

“We don’t want any trouble,” Jake said. 

“Oh, come on now, you really think we’re trouble?” the second man questioned mockingly as Jake was shoved in the direction of the clearing. 

Jake pulled a hand through his long hair after he caught his footing. Then Ronnie was at his side, taking his hand, pulling reassurances from him. He tugged her in close. A protective hand rising to her bump. But he kept his eyes on the men who just grinned at them. 

“We’re the good guys here. We’re here to save you.” One turned to the other. “Go get the boss — he’s gonna wanna see them first.” 

One left, but the other stayed to keep watch. Jake curled his hands around her tighter as he kissed her forehead.

“It’s okay, darlin’. We’re okay.” 

“What the hell did he mean by save us?” she questioned quietly, tugging at the fabric of her shirt that barely still fit. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. 

He stiffened when they heard someone approaching, pulling Ronnie in tighter against him just in case. The man from before broke through the treeline, followed by another.

It felt like the breath got snatched from his very lungs as Ronnie pulled away from him. 

“Maverick?” she questioned softly, remaining in the security of her husband’s arms. 

His dark hair was long, but he kept his face clean. It was definitely him. He was even still wearing that same leather jacket. Blue eyes ever observing and calculating. But he stopped once he came into the clearing, his head cocked to one side as he smiled.

“Ronnie?”

“Oh, my God! Maverick!”

She broke away from Jake and met the other man in a laughter, tear-filled embrace. While Jake remained rooted to the spot. He never thought he would see his old Captain again — see any of them again.

“Wow, look at you,” Maverick said as he held Ronnie out at arm’s length. “Do you know how far along?”

“Maybe halfway? We’re not entirely sure.” 

“Bradley’s gonna be so excited to see you.” 

She made some choked noise that made Jake’s stomach drop. “Brad’s with you?”

“Yeah. He’s back with everyone else.” 

“Who’s everyone else?” Jake asked from where he stood.

Maverick looked around Ronnie’s form, brows furrowed, almost like he hadn’t even realized Jake was there until that moment. His face set, he walked around her and came to stand toe to toe with Jake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Maverick punched him — or pulled the gun he clearly had on his hip on him. Jake could sometimes still hear Maverick calling for him to stay at the base, to man his post.

But he didn’t. He ran. And he hadn’t stopped running since. 

Surprising Jake entirely, Maverick reached out and took his hand. “It’s good to see you, Liuetenant.” 

“Uh, y-yeah.”

“And everyone else —  “ Maverick let go of his hand, smile back on his face. “Is Eden’s Shore. Only, we’re still looking for a safe shore to land on. Survivors. 

“It’s better if we stick together, right?” 

It took them another twenty minutes to get down the hill, and by that time, the sun was set. The world cast into darkness. They turned on their flashlights as they approached the house. It was eerily quiet. Now that it was truly dark, the Crawlers could come back. More of them come out to hunt. They took caution as they walked around to the front of the house, seeking the shelter they would find inside until morning. 

“You guys hear something?” Javy asked in a hushed whisper as they crept along the edge of the house. 

Jake stopped, and they listened. Yes. There was a noise.

“Sounds like it’s coming from inside,” Natasha said.

“Eyes on, everybody.” Jake moved the party forward. 

They rounded the northernmost corner of the house. There was a covered front porch. The path leading up to it glistened with blood. And a lone severed, human arm rested on the front steps. 

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey hissed as they took in the carnage. 

Jake toed at the arm. It had been ripped from the body, flesh hanging off the shoulder like lunch meat. 

“Must’ve been hiding out here,” he commented. “Didn’t know the Crawlers could come out during the day.”

“Let’s get inside,” Natasha said wearily as she moved past Jake and up the steps onto the porch. 

They packed up their things for the first time in a year. It brought back all those horrid memories of the first time. The fear. The unknown. The hurt. The guilt.

“You’re moving slow on purpose,” Ronnie pointed out as she pulled back the curtain from where they kept their preserves. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

Jake sighed. Hands paused in packing their few precious items away. Of course she knew. She always knew. 

“Something doesn’t feel right about this, Ron,” he admitted, and it truly did feel like a confession. 

One to a god who just wouldn’t listen. She only smiled at him, small and understanding, as she crossed the room to hold his bearded face in her hands. But still, he leaned into her touch. Let his eyes slip shut as she held him, as she stroked his cheeks and felt their child kick against his abdomen. 

“They’re family. Maverick and Brad — hell, even Javy is with them. Besides, we’ll be safer with them. Mav even said they have a midwife in their group.” 

He relented. There was no use in arguing. All her points were valid. Were probably right. But still, the feeling, deep in his gut, remained. 

Eden’s Shore walked for three more days until they found their safe haven. A large patch of land that once could have been a farm. A big brick colonial house stood at the northern edge, on top of a gently rising hill.

It was perfect. 

Everyone pitched their tents around the house. But Jake noticed when the sun went down that Maverick and Brad, along with several other men, went inside the house. 

And no one else was allowed in. 

When they passed through the front door, the noise became louder — more distinct. It sounded like a crying child. But they couldn’t take any chances. It very well could’ve been a Decoy. A creature that looked like a bobcat, but the body was too big, the fangs were too long, and it could mimic any sound it liked. Often using it to lure in unsuspecting prey. Jake had heard them sound like a woman calling for help or a chirping bird. 

Using hand signals, Jake told Natasha and Mickey to stay on the main floor of the house and keep watch. He and Javy would go upstairs to check it out.

The walls and The Gate were finished that morning. A way to keep the creatures out and keep the people of Eden’s Shore safe. People cheered and booze had been passed around. Jake saw no reason to celebrate. It was like prisoners screaming in joy at being behind bars. 

But he kept up appearances for Ronnie’s sake. Who was just so happy to have her brother back, her uncle back, to be with people again. It had been just the two of them for so long. But now there was an entire colony to find support in, to lean on one another. Humans were pack animals by nature. And Jake had to admit it felt good to know where their next meal was coming from and to know that, for the most part, they were safe. 

It really was just a bad feeling. A few odd things here and there. He would get past it eventually, he was sure of it. For Ronnie’s sake. For his own sake. For the sake of their child. 

“Mm, J-Jake?” she spoke quietly into the darkness of their tent. 

He stirred from his spot beside her on their cot, hand reaching out to touch, still half asleep. “What’s it, baby?”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” she replied, instantly he was more awake. “Feels wet…” 

Jake sat up and turned on the solar powered lantern that hung above their cot. The heat drained from his face, his stomach dropped, an ice ran through his veins. Ronnie laid on her side, holding her swollen belly, and the inside of her bare thighs were covered in blood. She reached down a hand between her legs and brought it up to her eye level — trembling fingers coated in crimson. A choked sound slipped past her lips.

“I’ll go get May.” 

After throwing on a shirt and pants, Jake ducked out of the military issue tent they had been given when they joined Eden’s Shore. He hated leaving her scared and alone, but he was of little use to her now and they both knew it. 

If only all the tents lined up in rows didn’t all look exactly the same. If only he could remember exactly where the midwife’s tent was located in the grid. Gritting his teeth, he set out in the direction he thought was right. His heart beat rapidly inside his chest. Sweat accumulated on his palms. Panic filled his mind like a fog. 

He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her.

When he finally reached what he hoped and prayed was the right one, he pulled back the flap and called inside. The figure laying in the cot grumbled that she was the next one over. Thank God. He moved on to the next tent and followed the same steps. 

“May?” he spoke into the darkness, trying not to let the panic show. 

The older woman sat up. “Yes, what is it?”

“I-It’s Ronnie. She’s bleeding.”

The way she instantly threw back the covers and grabbed her bag of supplies didn’t help his anxieties. 

“How much?” May asked as she passed him to go outside. 

“A lot, from the looks of it,” he replied as he followed her. 

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Must be going into labor — didn’t think she was far enough along for that.” 

When they finally made it back to their tent, Ronnie was sitting at the edge of the cot, breathing deep and cradling her belly in her hand. Sweat had already started to accumulate on her brow. The blood was now everywhere. The cot, her legs, her hands, her neck, the towel she had tried to clean up with.

“Alright, Mama, how’re we feelin’?” May asked in her usual gentle way as she got down on her knees in front of Ronnie and opened her bag. 

“Scared,” Ronnie admitted bravely, glancing up at Jake who remained glued to the entrance of the tent. 

The panic had subsided. Now that he saw her again. Now that she was looking at him and flashing him a small smile. But then a new sort of guilt stabbed him in the heart. Not once did he think about the life and health of the baby. Didn’t even cross his mind. What was wrong with him?

They talked about starting a family before they were even married. He used to look forward to this. To becoming a father, to seeing Ronnie or himself in their children. But that was before the world ended. Before their lives were nothing but survival.

“That’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.” May pulled out the stethoscope and put the plugs in her ears. “Alright, honey, let’s check on baby.” 

She pressed the diaphragm onto her bump, reassuring grin falling as she moved it around — searching. It always took a minute. It wasn’t an exact science. So many other noises going on in there. Eventually, she put the stethoscope away, saying that her not being able to find the heartbeat was nothing to worry about right now. But Jake could see it. The concern on May’s gently wrinkled face. The terror crashing in Ronnie’s eyes.

Ronnie’s face collapsed in pain, the heels of her hands digging into the cot as she tucked her chin to her chest and whimpered. Jake crossed the tent in an instant. Kneeling at her side and cupping the back of her neck with one wide palm.

“Jake, please,” she whispered. 

He didn’t know what she was asking for. But he wanted to give it to her. Wanted to make this stop. Wanted to go back to a lifetime ago when everything was happy, when everything was good. 

All he could do was press his forehead to her temple and mutter his reassurances, as hollow and empty as they felt.

Jake and Javy crept up the stairs, guns held aloft. The house was old, falling apart at the seams. Each step creaked and groaned beneath their weight. But still the noise persisted, somehow getting louder. 

As he listened, Jake wondered if it really was a Decoy. There was always a repeat point. Like a track resetting, or the needle skipping over the grooves in a record. This noise didn’t have that. It just kept going, never repeating the same thing twice.. A high pitched wailing. Sucking gasps for breath. More crying. 

He readjusted his grip on the rifle as the stairs opened up into a hallway.

There was only one way to find out. 

Ronnie wailed, head thrown back against Jake’s chest. The contractions were right on top of each other now, constant and even stronger than the ones she had been dealing with for hours. 

The flap to the tent was ripped open and someone ducked inside. Jake sat up straight, holding Ronnie’s body up as they sat on their cot, ready to dive for the pocket knife just out of reach. The stranger straightened back out. 

It was Bradley. Only some of the tension released from Jake’s shoulders. 

There was no greeting. No expressions of his excitement or love or worry for his sister. Only: 

“You need to find a way to keep her quiet.” 

“W-What?” Ronnie questioned as she wreathed in her husband’s hold. 

“It’s still dark out — the noise could attract those giant bug things,” he said, hands on his hips. 

Jake could only look at him bewildered. “She’s in labor.”

As if on cue, another contraction started. She tensed in his arms, pushed back against his chest as she groaned low in her throat — already trying to keep herself quiet like her brother demanded. 

“Yeah, I get that. But she’s gonna get all of us killed.” He then looked at Ronnie, his expression softening. “You understand that don’t you, Ron? Just tryin’ to keep everybody safe.” 

She nodded. And he left. May came back into the tent just as he was leaving, carrying blankets and water warmed over the fire. It was time to start pushing.

Ronnie took Jake’s hand frantically as her body convulsed uncontrollably. Her voice came out in a strained whisper, “I can’t  — I can’t keep quiet. I’m gonna…”

Jake didn’t want to. But there was truth behind Bradley’s words. They had experienced the giant bug-like creatures before. Knew just how deadly they could be. And he could see it on her face. She desperately wanted to keep quiet, but she just couldn’t. There was no way she could as she propped up her legs and began to push. 

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He grabbed the damp cloth that he had been using to keep her cool, and pushed it into her mouth. She took it with no fight, clamping her teeth down on the gag hard just as she bore down. She screamed, and the rag muffled it just enough. 

They stalked down the hall, heel-toe, letting the noise lead them. It was coming from the closed door on the right. 

From the looks of it, the door would swing in to the right. So Jake signalled that he would go ahead and flank its other side. Javy would open it, and Jake would go inside first. 

Javy counted down from three silently, then he reached out and opened the door. Jake stepped inside, gun raised and ready to open fire. 

He was so small, skin bright pink. May laid him on Ronnie’s still heaving chest. Something wasn’t right. His body was tiny in comparison to his head, the ears weren’t developed, his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath. Like he was fighting for it. 

“Why — Why isn’t he crying?” Ronnie asked, her voice hoarse. 

May looked up at them somberly as she cut the cord. “Because he can’t, honey. His lungs…He came into this world too early.” 

Ronnie sobbed, shaking hands curling around his tiny body. Holding him to her chest. Jake could only stare. Kiss his wife’s face in what he hoped was a comforting way as she continued to cry. Watch as that too small hand wrapped around Ronnie’s finger. 

His son. That was his son.

Jake cupped the back of that tiny baby’s head. It fit entirely in his palm. He wasn’t going to make it. There wasn’t anything to be done. If they were in a hospital, maybe there was a chance. But they weren’t. They were at the end of the world instead. And Jake felt…

Relieved. It washed over him and then it twisted inside him like a knife. 

“We never decided on a name,” Ronnie spoke quietly, tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“Darlin’...”

“I know…I know. But he still deserves a name.” 

Asher. Happy life.

They held him until morning. Until his body finally gave up the fight. Jake had to pry him out of Ronnie’s hands. 

He buried his son outside the camp in silence. He didn’t mark the grave. And he did it all with a guilt and relief weighing heavy inside him. A stone. A mountain. A grave.

It wasn’t a Decoy. Jake didn’t know if what was actually standing in the middle of the room was any better. 

He instantly dropped his gun, mouth falling open in shock. 

A baby stood there, red faced and crying. They were holding themselves, tiny arms wrapped around their middle, as tears and snot streamed down their face. 

Javy followed Jake into the room with a furrowed brow. Then he noticed the child and whispered, “Ah, shit.”

The baby instantly ran up to Jake. Wails still tumbling endlessly from their mouth as they came up to him with arms raised — wanting to be held. Jake could only fumble for a moment. Glancing over at Javy with questioning eyes. What was he supposed to do?

But then the child began to cry, “Up! Up!” 

And Jake caved. He handed off his gun and bent down to pick them up. The baby curled into his chest, wails reduced to whimpers as they buried their face in the fabric of his jacket. Jake stood back to his feet, mind reeling, as his body swayed in some natural soothing instinct. 

An unmarked grave but he still remembered where. That even after all these years he still visited from time to time. A relief. A guilt. Heavy as a child in his arms.

I no longer have a taglist, please follow @anniesocsandlibrary and turn on notifications for updates! would love to hear y'all's thoughts on this!

[bougiebutchbinch]

horrid little brainworm

Frenchie is still green at the start of the Kraken era.

He isn't, by the end.

But back then, when it all begins - when he isn't used to the sting of kohl-mixed sweat dripping into his eyes - he makes mistakes. Lots of them. Simple little things - fluffing a knot in the rigging that has their sail unfurling midway through the dogwatch, goods left unstowed to roll with the list of their ship.

Most of the time, Izzy yells himself hoarse for five minutes, then shows Frenchie how to fix it, interspersing his lecture with expletives. Whatever. That's fine. Let the little man scream - he's not the scariest thing aboard anymore.

Never was, really.

But then Blackbeard (Ed? The Kraken?) stomps out of his cabin, hair a black thundercloud, and snarls 'which one of you men is responsible for that fucking mop', pointing to some cleaning equipment Frenchie forgot to pack away.

And everything goes still, as if they're becalmed.

[CW: whipping, abuse, non-explicit mentions of Frenchie's past locked-box traumas]

No one says Frenchie's name - not even Izzy. He just ducks his chin and refuses to look his captain in the eye. But the eyes of every other crewmember jump guiltily to Frenchie, at least once - and Blackbeard is too smart to miss such a tell.

"A ship needs discipline," he says. "Isn't that what you always tell me, Iz?"

"I'll attend to it," says Izzy, voice scratchier than ever. Frenchie knows this is a bad fucking situation - memories battering against the inside of his locked box, trying to get out - but somehow he can't feel fear. Can't really feel anything.

"With the cat," says Blackbeard. "Give the culprit fifteen. Really make the lesson stick."

Ah. There's the fear.

Frenchie's breath stifles itself halfway up his throat, as screams sneak through the keyhole of his box, along with the crack of a whip -

No. No, no, no. He can't. Not again, he can't -

Izzy glances up. Frenchie expects him to grin, all vindictive sadism - but whatever he sees on Frenchie's face has his mouth pulling into a tight line.

"Yes, sir," he says, though Frenchie barely hears over the dull roar of his heart.

He casts his gaze about, looking for an escape. Over the side? They're too far from land, but fuck, if it isn't tempting -

Jim fondles their knives, glaring mutinously at Blackbeard's back as he returns to his cabin. They don't spring after him (though Frenchie selfishly wishes they would). They're well aware - as is everyone - that right now, with Blackbeard black-eyed and bloodthirsty, they'd lose.

Izzy swallows. Shuts his eyes. Then calls for Fang to fetch the cat.

Frenchie loses time then. Scarcely a blink passes before Fang reappears above the deck, the strings of the knotted whip scraping the floor like the tentacles of a shrunken sea-monster.

They're flaky with rusty residue. Old, dried blood.

Frenchie's fingers twitch in the chords of the first song his Ma taught him. No rituals or superstitions will save him. Nothing will. Because his old crew are marooned, almost certainly dead, and his new crew are - with the exception of Fang and Jim and Ivan - fucking monsters.

He's going to be whipped (again). He's going to shred open all those old scars. The box is going to open, and -

Oh, God. Oh God. Fifteen lashes is survivable (Frenchie knows, he knows) but he's still not sure if anything of himself will emerge from the other side.

He's still frozen, staring at the whip held in Fang's big hands, flat out like he's presenting it to Izzy. Only... Izzy doesn't take it.

No, Izzy moves to stand in front of the mast. Walking stiff, with a bit of a limp. While Frenchie's reeling, struggling to process what's happening, he yanks off his shirt. And - fuck, his back is almost as ugly a sight as Frenchie knows his own would be, if he could bear to study it in a mirror.

A few of the crew draw shocked inhales. Most don't look surprised.

Frenchie is one of the latter group. Sound travels, on a ship.

"Um," says Fang, cat dangling limp. "Boss?"

Izzy grabs the hawsers wrapped around the mainmast. Heaves a deep breath. Rests his forehead against the wood.

"You heard the captain," he croaks. "Fifteen lashes."

Fang's eyes are moist - though they are more often than not, nowadays. "Boss - "

"The captain wants the culprit disciplined," Izzy says. His muscles flex beneath their coating of scars. Bracing himself, Frenchie's mind supplies. For the oncoming pain. Not that any amount of tensing is ever enough. "First mate's responsible for maintaining a tidy deck."

This turn of events finally settles into Frenchie's bones. The whip's not for him, thank everything. His key slides gratefully into the lock of his box and turns, ensuring it's shut tight.

Still, sickness churns in his guts. Last week, sleep eluded him. He'd intended to skulk above decks and breathe the sea air to clear his head. He never made it - because who should stagger out of the captain's cabin, so dead-eyed he didn't even notice Frenchie lurking in the shadows of the galley door, but the Revenge's thrice-cursed angry gremlin of a first mate?

Izzy hadn't looked much like a gremlin then, though. Doesn't now, either. Just looks. Tired. And old. And bruised to shit beneath his shirt, and not all of those lash marks are old, weathered scars, and -

Frenchie's fingers twitch more rapidly, pressing through their imaginary chord sequence.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit -

"Fifteen lashes," Izzy reminds Fang. "If you can't do it, anyone else is free to step up. I'm sure there'll be fucking volunteers."

Frenchie eyes Jim. They and Izzy aren't exactly friends - not when Frenchie has heard them mumble a word that sounds horrifically close to 'Oluwande' in their sleep.

But Jim stays right where they are. Hand on the hilt of a knife. Ivan emulates, and, well, Frenchie's feet have damn near put down roots. He couldn't move from this spot if he was ordered to.

Fang's tears well over, and his hand shakes on the whip handle to the point where Frenchie thinks he might drop it.

A clash from the great cabin has them all jumping - all but Izzy, who rests his cheek on the mast like it's a particularly splintery pillow, eyes drifting shut. Blackbeard barges back out, sousing the air with body odour and smoke and self-hatred and whatever the fuck else he's been marinating in.

"What's the fucking wait?" he demands. "I expected way more screams by now." He halts, frowning at the sight of Izzy, stood where Frenchie ought to be (because fuck, he shouldn't have left that mop and bucket out; how many times has Izzy told him - ). For a moment, the harsh line of his brows crumples on itself in something that could be mistaken for regret. But then that dark sneer crawls onto his lips, the one with which the whole crew is becoming familiar. "Can't pick who gets the privilege, eh? Well, lucky for the lot of you, that's what a captain's for."

He stalks forwards, feline-graceful. Frenchie scuttles from his path. When Blackbeard snatches the whip from Fang (not seeming to notice his whimper, his flinch) Frenchie fully anticipates that he'll turn on Izzy, not him.

He certainly doesn't expect Blackbeard to smile, cold and white as a toenail moon, and thrust the whip towards him, hilt first.

"Oh, no." Frenchie raises both hands in surrender. "No, no, no. I couldn't. Awful with a whip, me. Wouldn't, um..." There's the noise of it again, slithering out through the keyhole of his box. The swish. The crack. The scream. "Wouldn't be able to strike hard enough," he stutters. "No upper body strength, yeah."

Blackbeard doesn't approach Frenchie. Just keeps the whip held out towards him, like the accusative finger of a god.

"You give him fifteen," he says, gently. "And make each one count. Or I give him fifty."

Against the mast, Izzy makes a sound - not quite a whimper. Worse; it's far too much like relief. His hands don't shake, but only because they grip the hawser tight as rigor mortis.

Fifty can kill. Has killed before. Frenchie's seen it.

But Blackbeard doesn't want Izzy dead, right? Who would he torture then?

Blackbeard's blank, lifeless eyes pour into Frenchie's.

Who indeed?

Fuck. Frenchie swallows dry. He tells himself it's for self-preservation that he unsticks his boots from the deck and shuffles forth to take the whip. Not for Izzy. Not like he likes the angry little prick. Man's vicious as a cat and thrice as cursed.

Maybe, if Frenchie tells himself that, it'll make this memory easier to lock away with all the rest.

"Ready?" he asks Izzy, softer than he intends. Izzy twists over his scarred shoulder. He looks at Frenchie - really looks at him - for what feels like the first time. Not even glancing to his left, where the Kraken lurks.

Frenchie can't decipher his expression. Pity, for whatever made him offer himself up in Frenchie's place? Frustration, that Frenchie prevented Blackbeard from whipping him into the grave? Misery and fear - no, that's far too sane for a guy like Izzy.

Izzy turns back to the mast.

"Give me your worst," he says.

Frenchie breathes in, breathes out, and obeys.

[taking-shots]

yall: omg we love “born to love you” natemac is our fav, we can’t wait for part 2 🥰

me with a trevor zegras fic, a trevor zegras + jamie drysdale fic, jack hughes fic, and a luke hughes fic in the drafts:

there’s honestly more but they haven’t been formed into fics yet

[obwjam]

I know you haven’t seen Jurassic park, but seeing these Jurassic Park posts made something in my brain explode and I have to get it out. Thank you for your patience and your cooperation. 🫡

I love the idea of a tiny coming to the island with Ian. Like they’ve known each other for a little while and are super playful / snarky with each other.

But around other giants, the tiny clams up.

So when they’re in the helicopter the tiny peeks their head out of Ian’s pocket and is immediately noticed.

They duck back down but Ian’s like “haha she’s just shy” and fishes her out, much to the tiny’s anger / annoyance.

Alan would be so baffled and awkward. Ellie would be very friendly. Hammond would be SO fascinated and Gennaro would not know what to think. (Muldoon’s not here rn but I think he would be very respectful of a tiny.)

As the movie goes on I imagine Alan and Ellie see the tiny how they see children, respectively. Alan really wants nothing to do with the tiny, not out of any disgust, he just doesn’t trust himself. He’s not good with them the same way he’s not good with kids. Ellie teases him for this and befriends the tiny after they start to come out of their shell.

I think the tiny would be super wary of Lex and Tim bc they’re kids and kids are grabby and dangerous. But once dinosaurs break out, kids seem to be the least of the tiny’s problems.

The tiny’s prob just chilling in the car with Ian, Ellie, and Alan, testing out the waters, trying to calm their nerves around new giants, when the whole break out situation happens.

Ian knows what he has to do, so he quickly shoves the tiny into Alan’s hands, much to the tiny’s AND Alan’s protests, while Ian runs with the flares.

The tiny is stuck with Alan, Lex, and Tim, and Alan and the tiny have to learn to overcome their respective problems.

And obv Ian and the tiny are SO worried about each other the whole time

I don’t write and I’ve never written fanfic but I might actually HAVE to write this fic bc I’m going feral.

i literally read through this ask like three times because i love it LOL even with zero context and understanding none of the characters, i just feel all of this 😭 lately ive been so into scenarios where the tiny is friends with a specific giant and has to get used to others. if you wrote this i would break down and cry i think i would be so excited

[lover-of-mine]

Re: the timeline - I think everything pre-season 4 is supposed to be counted as "present day" (at the time of airing), so 3x18 should be (roughly) taking place in spring 2020 (sans pandemic) and then, yea things get a little weird after that with the beginning of S4 being set in Sept 2020, but airing in Jan 2021. But I think you can solidly consider everything pre-season 4 to take place similarly along the date it aired.

I remember there being some timeline confusion this season in 6x11 (March 2023) when Bobby tells the hospital staff that Buck is a 30 y/o male. Which, if each season is roughly set against the time it's airing, I think is hard to figure when Maddie says Buck is 28 in 3x01 (Sept 2019).

But I do think the writers screw up their own timelines sometimes - ex: I think Buck should have been 31 if not 32 in 6x11, I also don't think Eddie and Buck are meant to be the same age even though the glimpse of Shannon's headstone in S6 would indicate they are closer in age than what's been implied in several previous eps/seasons. So, TLDR; Idk if the writers/producers keep as close of a watch on little timeline details as we do to know when they're contradicting themselves lol.

Yeah, I think s4 screwed up their time line plans and they kinda said fuck it by season 6 because to give us a definitive date for Shannon's birthday and death really messes with things there, they put a definitive date on the s2 finale, they defined Eddie's age, when they haven't really defined it for anyone except for the occasional mention to Buck's age and the general Bobby is in his 50s along with Athena. And like, Buck being 28 before the tsunami, 29 when he finds out about Daniel and 30 by the lightning really compresses the timeline there, even if we assume he had just turned 28 in s3 and is about to turn 31 during the lightning (which doesn't make a lot of sense in regards of when Buck's birthday would be, not that I actually think they have a set birthday for any of the characters) that's still a lot things happening in the middle, because there's also Jee being born, so if they really pushed s3 back, like, how old is Jee supposed to be at the end of season 6? Because she's walking and toddler talking by the end of 6a, so she has to be close to 2 around there? With her being born end 2020/beginning 2021, it has to be 2023, but Maddie left a few months after she was born and she was way for 6 months, so Jee is pushing 1 by the time Boston happens, which kinda adds up considering the time jumps that are established around the shooting, but also with Buck being 29 while Maddie is pregnant, how can he still be 30 and Jee be almost 2? And there's also the way another whole baby is created and born during 6b. Because eve. considering the way the baby is born early, it has to be what? 8 months from cursed to the finale? The more I think about the more knots are created in my brain.

And even more so considering the injuries at the bridge and the way the season ends with Chim coming back and Eddie already there, when the recovery time for broken ribs is close to 2 months in real world but maybe not in 911 world because Lena broke her ribs during the tsunami but she's perfectly fine the next episode. So, like, what's the truth?

I feel like the whole time line I created is around Buck's age and I'm starting to believe Buck may need to be even younger than we assume, because if he's 26 in s1, 28 in s3 and he's still just 30 in s6, the math stops mathing somewhere along s5. Because, like, either things are happening real quick during 5b or the time line is just wrong. But I agree, I don't think they've been all that careful with the dates there, and they didn't think about the implications of giving us the Shannon related dates.

[kayrma]

kids on tiktok really turned regulus black into their timothee chalamet oc like aw baby he would have joined the death eaters for his family no matter what he only went against voldemort because he thought his only friend kreacher the house elf might get killed he would never have associated with lily let alone be in a polyamorous romantic relationship with her and james 

[samatheia229]

Story Prompt: Rise Dark Gods AU w/ a side of TMNT mega-crossover

Summary:

Participants, the Bale welcomes you. Only one can reign supreme in the Battle Nexus. Will it be you?

In a world where everyone is either immortal or a god, life and death means very little. Nobody's had a good grasp of the sacrality of life in at least five millenia.

To a society that cannot die, certain death is fascinating. It is why Lady Octavia's Battle Nexus is so widely celebrated; her team does a phenomenal job of creating the illusion of certain death. Yet an illusion can only sate their obsession for so long. The surge of offerings at Leo's temples is a sign that people have gotten bored.

Perhaps it is time for the Battle Nexus to go multi-dimensional. Surely, the people will enjoy seeing alternate versions of their princes battle to true death.

⚠️TW: suidical undertones, blood, gore, graphic depictions of violence, MCD (but kudos to you if you somehow manage to get around it)

Themes:

Reckless endangerment in the first degree - Beings of power blatantly disregarding the preciousness of life, either because they do not care or do not understand it. Either way, life is meaningless to someone who can live forever.

Hints of classism - Beings of power using the lower class for their own entertainment. The Battle Nexus exemplifies this in its mirroring of the gladiator fights of Ancient Rome. The noble and powerful (gods, immortals, yokai) place bets and spectate the event from comfortable seats high above whilst the gladiators (mortals, in the case), typically slaves or of a lesser background, battle to the death for a prize/the title of champion.

-

The idea is that several TMNT iterations of your choosing are summoned to play a twisted, deadly version of the Lair Games in this Dark Rise AU's Battle Nexus. Their opponents are both each other and this AU's Rise boys, who control the arena and created the games being played. There are six rounds: one round against a space made by each brother, a fight amongst the players, and a final battle with the four gods in the flesh.

The space created by each brother reflects the domain they govern. Raph's round, for example, might involve facing childhood fears because he is the Patron of Childhood. Similarly, Leo being the Patron of Games and manipulative bastard that he is, would have his round be 4D chess, with him (White) as the opponent and the players (Black) as living pieces. Like the chess game from Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone except they actually die.

[omeleting]

when are they gonna make the machine that'll take the fics i wanna read from my brain and create it without me having to do any of the work

[nodominion]

#VCselfrecsunday 

Thank you to @covenofthearticulate for tagging me!

I'd like to self-rec Ménage à Quatre. It's completed. It's a foursome of Armand/Daniel/Viktor/Rose. It's set at New Year's. There's a bonus Rose/Viktor pegging chapter. It feels like a good time all around.

Tagging @teethingpains @kaelio @suikamelon6

Ménage à Quatre (9145 words) by NoDominion Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Vampire Chronicles Series - Anne Rice Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Armand/Daniel Molloy, Rose/Viktor (Vampire Chronicles), Armand/Rose (Vampire Chronicles), Daniel Molloy/Viktor Characters: Armand (Vampire Chronicles), Daniel Molloy, Rose (Vampire Chronicles), Viktor (Vampire Chronicles) Additional Tags: Foursome - F/M/M/M, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Blood, Vampires, Fangs, Blood Sharing, Rimming, Pegging, Blood As Lube, Smut in the last two chapters Summary: Armand can't get the idea of corrupting Viktor and Rose out of his head.

[chrollosbm]

now that i’ve created a gojo smut i should probably create a master list

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Born or Created - Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC (a post-apocalypse au)

The monsters invaded five years ago. Creatures like the ones native to our world, but just slightly off. And exceptionally deadly. No one knows where they came from, and at this point, no one cares enough to ask. The cities lay abandoned, the forests deadly quiet, and what of humanity that's left is scattered - focused only on survival.

Beyond the boundaries of Eden's Shore - a survivor's colony - is called The Wilds. Where the monsters roam and your chances are slim. Those in charge of the colony say everyone is safer within their borders, under their protection, but is that really true?

Jake Seresin and Ronnie Bradshaw are starting to question that fact when the rations start getting low. When people start disappearing. When they find a child abandoned.

So where are the real monsters? Are they born in The Wilds, or are they created by man himself?

@newlibrary sent in a made-up fic title and I blacked out idk y'all

this is potentially going to be a full fic series, but we'll see. do you guys have any thoughts? I would love to hear them!

I no longer have a taglist, please follow @anniesocsandlibrary and turn on notifications for updates!

[yellow-faerie]

Early Morning Walk

A snippet from a fic I'm currently working on where I give Fëanor and Nerdanel 12 kids (as that's considered a lucky number by many elves due to the Awakening at Cuiviénen) - I do this by putting all my various Fëanoriel OCs into the family at the same time :)

“Don’t take this personally or anything,” Findekáno starts, finishing the last half of the fifth bottle of wine, “but my darling, you really need to get a life beyond your family.”

Maitimo, who had finished the other half of the bottle, lets out a weary sigh and sinks back against the grass. The dew seeps into the back of his shirt. “They would kill themselves without me Finno. I couldn’t in good conscience leave them.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean leave them, just…” Findekáno wrinkles his nose before waving the wine bottle dangerously close to Maitimo’s head as he fails to find the right word. “Just.”

“I don’t have the time for that.”

“See!” Findekáno sits up, letting the bottle roll away from him and drip the last dregs of the wine onto the ground. His eyes are bright and burning and his face is alight in a righteous fury. “See this is what I mean! You do all this stuff for them and you don’t have any time for yourself.”

Maitimo smiles, a little indulgently. “Dearest, I don’t think you quite understand how my family works.”

“Then tell me,” Findekáno rocks forward to take Maitimo’s hands in his, “I want to know how anything on this earth could be more important than your time.”

Findekáno’s hands are warm in his, and Maitimo gently squeezes them. “Later, dearest, you’re really rather too intoxicated to remember this in the morning anyway.”

“I would for you,” Findekáno promises boldly and leans forward with the clear intention for a rather drunk kiss – but Maitimo is a few bottles short of being as intoxicated as he, and deftly avoids the affection by leaning forward to pick up the wayward bottle and returning it to the basket they’d brought them in.

He gets Findekáno to his house around the third tolling from the belltower, and makes sure Turukáno finds him before he falls asleep in the garden, and then Maitimo makes the long, winding way back to his own house.

It is by no means the same as Formenos, a place that had started as a sprawling family home for Fëanáro and Nerdanel’s ever-growing family and had slowly become a bustling town over the years, but it has its own unique charm.

Fëanáro had had it built soon after the triplets had been born and it sat just beyond the great walls of the city so that it had space for the large gardens and the sprawling mess of rooms, for Fëanáro had made sure each of his children would have both a bedroom to themself and a space for them to devote to their craft (and he had made sure that his and his wife’s studios were quite the opposite side of the house).

Maitimo walks down past the industrial district, quiet at this point at Telperion’s height, and through the market, still colourful despite the few vendors around. He gets past the few residential houses before reaching the last great gate to the fields beyond.

“Late night?” Silnendo asks, as he unlocks the side door for him. He is an old friend, so Maitimo does not let himself get to up-in-arms about the gentle teasing.

“Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens, whatever you suggest.”

“I was suggesting nothing.” Silnendo sniffs, as if finding suggesting things to be entirely beneath him, and gives the door a hearty push to dislodge it. “Get some sleep! And you can use me as an excuse if your father catches you sneaking back in!”

“Thanks,” Maitimo replies dryly and keeps walking, Silnendo’s quiet laughter trailing behind him.

He should have told Silnendo that he doesn’t need an excuse anymore, not since he had had to quick talk an excuse a few months prior, but he and Silnendo see each other so much less since when they were both little that it seemed entirely defunct.

He walks past the gates of the house, and glimpses the grand front doors through the trees that bow and bend over the driveway. It takes him an extra few minutes to get around the side of the garden but he ends up at the small bit of fence that had started to collapse in and Curufinwë, with a new born son to care for, had not yet got around to fixing it.

He hops over it, and follows the path that so many pairs of feet had trod on their ways back from clandestine meetings much like his. It’s a wonder neither of his parents have noticed yet.

Telperion’s light is dark through the leaves of the trees but Maitimo has picked the lock on the kitchen side door so many times, he does not need to be able to see what he is doing.

The door clicks, echoing through the quiet house, and Maitimo winces at the sound as he closes it behind him as quietly as he can.

“Nelyo,” someone whispers from the shadows and Maitimo nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Altë, don’t scare me like that,” he scolds, giving his littlest sister his best scowl. She frowns, and despite being so close to her first majority, Maitimo can see tears shining in her eyes.

“I had the nightmare about the dark again and when I woke up, I couldn’t find anyone. Atto and Ammë weren’t in their room and I was lonely so I came down for a glass of water, because that’s what you always do when we have a nightmare.”

Maitimo softens – he always softens when it comes to his little siblings. “That’s right, a glass of water always helps. Water helps wash away the darkness, it’s why it was so difficult for Morgoth to corrupt the Maiar of Ulmo back in his war with the Valar.”

He takes a glass down from the top shelf of the cupboard and scoops some up from the bucket Maitimo had drawn from the well before going to meet Findekáno. He dries it off on towel and hands it to her.

“Let’s go back upstairs,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We can read something together until the nightmare goes away.”

[lieutenant-amuel]

If I seem inactive, just know that I'm now writing a 350+ words essay about how awesome I am.

[myname-isnia]

Just cried for two hours straight. It seems that no good mood of mine can last for too long.

[getsusun]

There is silence, there is cold.

0.5 whump points out of ten. A little more than an eight hundred of years before main Bleach storyline.

It takes Naumi almost two weeks to require his zanpakuto actually to be present in shinigami’s inner world. Koigetsu can’t say that he is surprised. He also can’t say that he anticipated the call. Koigetsu returned to his shinigami, of course, not like there was a lot of choice. Things were already tense between them, and now, after…

white pillars / scorching sun / hands tied up / pain / humiliation / hot breath on his neck

Koigetsu shuddered and forcefully stopped this line of thoughts. While his back was healing, although Koigetsu could already feel that it would scar badly and that he was in for a long time of movements restricted by pain, it was not the blade of sword that made the deepest wounds. And these wounds were more on the souls than on the body. Koigetsu took a deep breath and tried to relax his mind.

He was standing on the top of one of the thousands of mirrors filling in Naumi’s inner world. Everything around was familiar to Koigetsu, the scenery he had spend all his time before they with Naumi mastered manifestation, and most of the time before zanpakuto spirit himself learned to materialize without help of his master. The cloudy darkness of endless space – was it really not that dark before, was it barely of light shade of gray? - and, of course, the mirrors.

A long, long time before Koigetsu loved them. The mirrors, all of different colors, could work as windows into the real world as much as in Naumi’s memories and thoughts, allowing Koigetsu to accompany his shinigami in everyday’s life with ease. Naumi himself, when visiting his inner world, could use the mirrors as a tool to master his emotions, to understand himself.

Naumi barely did.

Now, however, Koigetsu rarely caught a glimpse of image in the dark depths of the mirrors. They never reflected zanpakuto spirit fully, usually showing him a blurry humanoid shape instead. Now, when almost all his body was covered with cloth, Koigetsu couldn’t see more than a hint of movement. He prefers not to look into the mirrors much anymore.

While the mirrors varied in sizes, from small ones, barely of child’s height, to the large ones, ten times higher than Koigetsu was, and some wide enough to reflect a whole street, the one detail all of them had in common. They had narrow edges, not even flat ones – tapering into sharp blade-like lines.

When Koigetsu only started to be aware of his existence, when he first realized that he had a body, legs to walk and eyes to see, these edges were like streets for him. He had no footwear then, also no long sleeves and collar, and he felt light enough, like a feather, so he could step on sharp upper edges of mirrors and walk on them. He could sit on them, lay down, do whatever he wanted.

Koigetsu remembers quite clearly when did it changed. Well, may be not exactly the date – the year or even the decade, he still had difficulties tracking the passage of time. But Koigetsu remembered that it was soon after he mastered the trick of helping Naumi with manifestation. His shinigami was happy. Naumi was still in Academy then, just a student, but as a Kuchiki he got separate room, and Koigetsu had spent a lot of time in this room. Koigetsu was happy to be with his master, even if already not all Naumi’s choices of activities were quite… Pleasant. But it was enough that Naumi was enjoying himself.

That was what Koigetsu said to himself then, and that was what he thought he believed. But one night after returning to Naumi’s inner world a single misstep left Koigetsu with a deep wound on the sole of his foot. It was sudden and scary feeling, even if Koigetsu already knew pain. He, however, never before had cut wounds not from training with Naumi, and at that time wound from Naumi’s sword never hurt and never stayed for long. There was also rarely blood shed, at least more than a couple of drops of it.

The cut on Koigetsu’s foot stayed and scarred. He became more careful after, always protecting points of contact with sharp edges with additional layer of reitsu, and one day this protection just stayed, transformed into a pair of soft black boots. At that time Koigetsu was satisfied that at least Naumi was not affected by the strange behavior of mirrors. Also, with Koigetsu spending more time in manifested state, having a footwear was convenient.

Over the last hundred years Naumi’s inner world became a dark, lonely place. Koigetsu often contemplated on how it was his own fault. Zanpakuto should take care of their wielders, should support and help them to grow and master their powers. What had Koigetsu done wrong? Why everything seemed to became just worse and worse?

Strangely, Naumi didn’t actually seemed unhappy. Koigetsu felt him being angry – pretty often, on his elders, and on his – well, at this point their, considering how much paperwork Koigetsu had done over the last decades – Captain, and on Koigetsu himself. Bored. Joyful and satisfied, lately more often than not by Koigetsu’s expense, but… It still counted, right?

It is not like Koigetsu could actually die. Probably. Even with bankai broken – yes, Koigetsu was scared, and it was horrible and painful and wrong, but Koigetsu still could fight. Mostly. ...Good exercise in using his right arm instead of left one?

Koigetsu shuddered again and tucked his aching elbow closer to his chest. No, he could try to come up with any number of reasons, but the truth was that broken bankai was a big thing. A big bad thing which should never had happened.

Was it always that cold in here?

Lately Koigetsu sometimes felt a strange duality of his thoughts. One half of his mind diminished justified any tortures and cruelties Naumi performed, over his zanpakuto spirit and over others. The other half… The other half, which became stronger and stronger with every hit and every insult and each control collar being fastened on Koigetsu’s neck, was thinking about how it was not right. How it was not right for Naumi to be like that with his own soul, and – at the same time – how it was not right for Koigetsu to blame himself for all of it.

How it was wrong that Koigetsu loved being alone while manifested more and more. Away from his master. He shouldn’t be capable of being happy away from Naumi, and still. Somehow. He was.

Was it always that… Quiet?

Koigetsu frowned. He hadn’t paid attention before, but it was eerily quiet. It is not like Naumi’s inner world was a loud place, no, but there was always a peaceful hum of mirrors, and – and there were always echoes of Naumi’s thoughts, barely audible, not clear enough to distinguish words, but here, a background noise of emotions.

There was nothing now. Koigetsu could hear only his own breathing – a previously irritating, but lately calming habit of his, which he got after staying materialized for too long (after drinking tea with Juushiro, his mind suggests, but Koigetsu pushes that thought away). His breathing, occasional rustle of clothes, heartbeat becoming louder and louder with every passing second.

Koigetsu closed eyes and concentrated. The bond between him and Naumi was here, as it always was, but many years – decades – had passed since their bond was a thick and springy flow of energy. Now it is stretched to its limits. One moment it is barely perceptible, only the small fracture of reitsu from Naumi transmitting, the other moment – ready to burst from the volume of energy being drained out of Koigetsu. Koigetsu learned a lot about how to balance their bond, mostly through trial and error, and for a long time he was managing fine – they could fight, Naumi used shikai without thinking, they even had bankai, for hell’s sake!

Not anymore, apparently. Both about balancing and bankai.

The bond is weak, but it is here, and Koigetsu reaches out for Naumi, calls him – but there is nothing. A cold and rigid nothing, which is somehow worse than having energy drained out of Koigetsu.

- Master?

Koigetsu calls softly, long time of being used to speak seldom and quietly forcing his voice down. He feels how the bond shifts, reacting on his voice reaching to Naumi, and his shinigami should be able to sense that, but there is nothing, no spark of attention, not even an annoyed mental shrug. Emptiness.

Koigetsu spends a long time calling for Naumi. The time in inner world flows strangely, and what felt like days – weeks, even – could have been both hours and months in the real world. Koigetsu goes through negative half of spectrum of emotions, from anger to fear, from despair to denial. His throat aches, and it should be – must be – a fantom pain, because Koigetsu does not have a body now, is not manifested, but it still hurts.

Long, long time later Koigetsu not quite gives up, but more like spends all energy he had, mental and physical. He listens to the quiet of Naumi’s inner world for a while, surrounded by dark mirrors, and than whispers, softly, but with more power to break through the invisible shield to his master than he ever had.

- Can you hear me, Naumi?

Koigetsu does not care how furious could become Naumi after being called by name. Naumi may be his master, his wielder, but Koigetsu is also half of his soul, and even if he failed as a zanpakuto spirit, his shinigami should be still able to hear him.

Koigetsu waits. Calls. Waits and calls. But there is nothing.

Koigetsu feels like crying. But Naumi does not wants him to cry, and after dying from hunger, alone, in the stone pit Koigetsu really can’t anymore. But his eyes burn, and the scars in form of words on his wrists burn, and his back feels raw, like if the skin just melted, leaving inflamed flash exposed. The last one is not as far away from truth as Koigetsu would have liked. Yes, the pain lessened after Juushiro treated the wounds on his back, but it was still bad.

Koigetsu feels like a ruin. Wreck of a sword, like one of the debris that scattered on the earth when his bankai was broken. Koigetsu himself was broken, it seems, because what zanpakuto spirit he is, if he can’t even speak to his wielder anymore?

It takes a long time for the feeling of self-hate to stop being the strongest one. Even longer for sadness to settle into a calm shield around Koigetsu’s mind. But if he has something now, then it is time. A lot of time of being alone in the quiet darkness.

The darkness seems to become thicker, eating up even the sounds Koigetsu himself makes. At some point he starts speaking again, this time not to Naumi, to noone in particular. Quote poems from his memory, chapters from books he read. Koigetsu remembered a lot.

His voice dies down, and finally Koigetsu feels some kind of peace. He is getting sleepy, actually. Too tired to think, too tired to feel anything. Koigetsu is still standing on the mirror – not the same one, he may have moved around a little, trying to calm his thoughts. He is standing, perfectly balancing with the help of reflexes developed over the decades, but at one moment it seems easier to make one step ahead and just float in the empty darkness. Not much control and energy is required for that, and Koigetsu feels himself slipping into the sleep.

He wakes up – how long was he asleep? Does it matter? - and he is not floating, but falling down into the void, and it should bother him, but for some reason it does not. It is hard to think, and Koigetsu still wants to sleep – now even more than before, so he closes his eyes again. Not much changes.

[thevillainswhore]

New Tricks

Pairing: Virgin!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: After your brother has to cancel movie night, you’re ready to resign yourself to an uneventful evening back at your dorm, alone and dejected. But what you didn’t count on, is your brother’s best friend and roommate, bursting through the door and asking you to stay; to spend the night with him, instead

What unfolds, however, while you spend time with the star football player, both shocks and astounds you — one confession in particular. 

Bucky Barnes, the Prince Charming of campus, the man you have been crushing on for an eternity, is a virgin.

Warnings: first kisses, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, big brother!steve, college!bucky, shy bby bucky, mutual pining, swearing, pet names, huge ton of reassurances, lots of praise, big hints of subby bucky

Author’s Note: beta’d by my baby @rookthorne

Okay, so where to start with this… the idea for this fic sprung from a certain someone 👀 and I just had to write it. Thank you to my girl for being a huge support through this, I love you 💗

These two have my whole heart and who knows? Maybe more will come of them 😌 for all my playlist lovers, you’re welcome - new tricks playlist ❤️

New Tricks Masterlist

I hope you enjoy this as much as I’ve loved creating it 🥹

Standing outside of your brother’s apartment, your impatience starts to wane thin. For ten whole minutes, you have been waiting for Steve to open up. And knocking like a crazed woman is beginning to get old; so is waiting on the doorstep to his front door. 

“Oh, for–” You grumble, and you lift your arm up to bang against the door for the umpteenth time,  when your hand misses it entirely, owing to the fact it swings open to admit you with such enthusiasm, it creaks and threatens to bounce back off of the wall.  

Bucky — your brother’s roommate, best friend, and your crush — sheepishly smiles and scratches the back of his neck. 

The line of his shoulders slump when he lowers his arm, and you notice (and appreciate) just how broad and muscled he is. He must have just been working out, or you interrupted him — nonetheless, you’re thankful for the sight before you, and how it makes the crush you harboured for the brunette for years roar to life all over again. 

Excellent, you inwardly sigh.

“Buttercup,” Bucky says — the affectionate nickname born from his sappy personality always makes you swoon, and his hesitant smile morphs into a wide one. You’re left fighting  internally to keep your giddiness at the sight of him to a respectable level.  “Hey, you. Sorry I didn’t hear you; I was listening to music.” 

Your gaze continues up to his hair, finding it tied back with an elastic at the nape of his neck.  Oh, how you wished you could run your hands through–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, furrowing his brows. 

Embarrassment floods you and you realise far too late that he probably has asked you a question, or several, while you were daydreaming. “Sorry, Buck,” you squeak, praying that the heat crawling up your neck was not as obvious as it felt. “What was that?”

His soft, puppy-eyed expression brightens when you meet his gaze. “It’s fine, doll. Everything okay?” 

No matter how badly you want to stand and unashamedly stare at your brother’s best friend and roommate, your true intention behind your visit comes to mind. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, lifting the bag of snacks you brought up higher. Bucky’s eyes glance down at the bag, and then back up to your face. “Stevie planned our movie night and he isn’t answering his phone — I told him I was on my way and I asked him if he wanted anything else.” 

The confusion that creases Bucky's brows and downturns his lips in a small frown makes you narrow your eyes. 

“Surely he didn’t forget,” you accuse, still staring into Bucky’s face. “I make the trip down from campus every two weeks. It’s been two weeks.” A sudden, encompassing guilt fills Bucky’s eyes, and he starts to worry his bottom lip with his teeth — a sight far too hard to ignore. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Um– I just–” Bucky stutters, and you watch as his fingers twitch and fidget — a nervous tic. If he didn’t look cute while stumbling over his words, you would feel sorry for being so blunt. “I just thought that– Uh, I thought it was cancelled. The movie night, I mean.” 

You step forward slightly, and Bucky opens the door wider. A wordless invitation. 

Bucky rushes to clear a space on the entryway coat rack for you, when he suddenly says, “You know, because of his date, an’ all.” His words falter at the look you shoot him. You stop taking off your coat, and you drop the bag of snacks to the floor, ignoring the crinkle and rustle of plastic. 

“What do you mean date, Barnes?” The use of his last name causes a flush of deep red to pattern his cheeks, but you don’t let up. There’s music playing from down the hall of the apartment – right where Steve’s bedroom is. “What’s going on?” 

Bucky skittishly fidgets and glances around the apartment, before meeting your heated gaze. “I– Look, I didn’t know–” 

You silently mouth a curse, beyond frustrated with your older brother, and with yourself for taking just a second to indulge and admire just how sweet Bucky is when he is unsure. “Fine,” you huff, and you turn to walk straight towards the source and to investigate it yourself.

Bucky’s frantic footsteps behind you don’t deter your haste. “Wait, stop — Buttercup, wait!”

Forgoing a courtesy knock — having had enough of banging on his front door — you barge straight into the room with as little as a greeting call or warning. 

“What the shit–“ 

The door to Steve’s bedroom slams against the wall, and you come face to face with the blond in the middle of a dance off with himself in the mirror. “Sis! Hey,” he gasps, holding his hand over his heart in fright. “What’re you doing–?” 

In lieu of an answer, you cross your arms and stare at him, unimpressed and exasperated with his antics. “Don’t you hey sis me.” The fear in Steve’s eyes as you stomp towards him almost vindicates your indignation of being uninformed. “What do you mean you’re going on a date? It’s movie night!” 

Steve has the decency to look ashamed. “Flower, I swear, I’m sorry,” he rambles, and he takes your hand, directing you to sit down on his bed. “I would’ve called to let you know but everything was so last minute.” 

The grip he has on your hand is firm, assuring you of his true intentions, even when he turns the Roger’s charm up to an eleven to worm his way back onto your good side. “I swear sis, I wouldn’t bail on you without a good reason.”

“Okay,” you say, staring into his face — still not wholeheartedly convinced of his graces. A line of questioning is in order, you decide. “So, who is this good enough reason?”

“Natasha Romanoff.” The dreamy, love-struck sigh that leaves Steve’s lips after her name is uttered has you reluctantly trying to hide your giggle; the righteous anger and frustration slowly leaves your body in his admittance.  

The fact that he has been obsessed with the college’s most popular redhead since forever, was a balm to the annoyance. You truly did feel happy for him underneath it all. 

And, in the end, it’s how you decide to let him off the hook — though not without teasing him, first. “No way, the Natasha Romanoff? How the hell have you managed that one?” 

Steve pushes your shoulder, and the force of his shove knocks you sideways onto the covers of his bed. “Fine,” you grouse, sighing heavily and resigning yourself to a night on your own. “I’ll let you off this time.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Flower,” Steve promises. And you believe him. He has always kept his word; ever since the two of you were kids. 

“Good,” you say, smiling softly. “I expect an apology at my door in the next few days, though.”

Laughing, Steve nods, and then he stands from his bed. 

“I’ll leave you to it then, I hope you have fun, bro.” 

It is an impossible task for you to hide your dejected hurt from Steve, though. Clever and perceptive as he is, he detects the subtle sombre undertones underlying your reassurances, narrowing in on them like a dog to a bone. 

You get to your feet with a quiet sigh, and as you move, you miss the thoughtful expression on his face; the perk of his ears at the almost indistinguishable shuffling of feet just outside of his bedroom. “How about you have a movie night with Bucky, instead?” 

You stop in your tracks, frozen in shock at the sudden and downright surprising suggestion. “Stevie,” you admonish, “Bucky does not want to waste a Friday night with me–“

“I don’t mind!” Bucky shouts eagerly from the doorway, and you spin around to face him. The nervous fidget of his curls his fingers and hands around one another, over and over. 

Had he been listening that whole time? 

Guilt begins to flood you. Imposing on any plans Bucky  may have made was a burden you did not want to bear,  and you couldn’t fathom who would want to spend the night with their best friend’s little sister. “Thank you, Bucky, that’s really sweet of you,” you placate, smiling at him. “But I know you’ve probably got better things to do on a Friday night than be with me.”

Bucky seems to swell in the doorway, his chest puffing up and he sets his jaw, a determined glint in his eyes. “Actually, Buttercup,” he retorts, crossing his arms in a decisive move. “A movie night with you sounds perfect.” 

The confidence in his tone takes you by surprise, and you flounder for a second while you stare into his steel blue eyes. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”

His words, and charming smile, ultimately win you over.  

With your attention wholly focused on Bucky as he begins to talk about what movies to watch, you miss the knowing, victorious smirk that curls Steve’s lips.  

“Okay,” Steve calls from the doorway, looking back at the two of you, and you can’t help but be frustrated by his stalling. “Be good and behave while I’m gone. Oh, and, no staying up past your bedtimes — Bucky, her bedtime is ten o’clock sharp.”

The scowl on your face only serves to make him laugh, and you huff your exasperation before your hands grip his biceps; the only way to get him out the door is brute force. “Get out, Stevie,” you grunt, pushing with all your might, but it is to no avail. Steve is as immovable as a statue made of marble. “Don’t you have to go see Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and you hear the rustling sound of fabric. “Don’t you?”

Instinct tells you to duck, and you do so, just in the nick of time to avoid the pillow Bucky launches across the room from his place next to the couch. The pillow hits Steve square in the face with a comical thump. 

You burst into laughter at the stunned look of disbelief on Steve’s face, and you look over at Bucky, who is leaning against the sofa; a smug grin pulls his lips up and scrunches his nose.  “Get the hell outta here already, punk.”

With Steve distracted by Bucky’s betrayal, you take the chance to shove him out of the front door and watch delightedly as he stumbles in the hallway. “Hey–!” The door slams shut behind him, cutting him off. 

Giggles shake your shoulders as you put your back to the door, leaning against it with all of your strength as Steve turns the handle — evidently not finished in the war of quips. 

Bucky’s laughter from his place by the sofa makes your stomach flutter, and he walks closer, just as Steve stops attempting to break down the door. 

With the end of Steve’s attempts to forcefully open the door, you turn and face the wood and peer out of the peephole. A blond mop of hair is just within view. “Bye Stevie!” you call through the door, “Have fun, wear protection!”

Steve’s reply is muffled by the wood, and he flips you off before walking away.  

Shaking your head, you turn back to face the living room, and you see Bucky fussing around the sofa and coffee table. The strong aroma of a sweet, spicy scent fills your senses and you inhale deeply, letting the tantalising smell fill your lungs, before you ask, “Bucky, what are you doing?”

He sends you a furtive glance before looking back down at the snacks laid out on the coffee table, neatly placed next to two already filled glasses of drink. A bag of popcorn threatens to spill from his arms. “I’m, uh– I’m setting up? For the movie–?”

You could not help but notice how fast the bravado and confidence he displayed in the presence of Steve vanishes when he was with you, and you alone.  

“Oh, sweetie,” you coo, walking closer. “I thought we could watch the movie in your room, instead of out here. It’ll be more comfortable, at least, and we can spread out. Is that okay?” 

The popcorn bag that threatened to spill from his arms bursts instead, scattering the popped kernels all over the floor, making him yelp. “Ah! Uh– Okay, we… We can if you want?”

You nod once. “Absolutely. I’d rather be in your bed any day, then out here,” you tease, amused by the way Bucky’s eyes bulge and his cheeks flush. Then you look down at the popcorn all over the floor, and add, “But first, let’s clean this up.” 

Bucky starts to clean up the mess, and he tells you to grab the movies you agreed upon from the collection in the bookshelf. 

The selection to choose from is packed, as it always is. “Why don’t I grab a couple?” 

“Sure,” Bucky answers, sweeping the popcorn into a dustpan. “I mean, why not? May as well go all out.”

You grin and grab a couple of cases. “Do you need some help–”

“No, I’ve got it, Bubs,” Bucky interrupts. You look over your shoulder at him to see the blankets bundled high in his arms, and before you could protest and insist you help carry them, he shuffles off in the direction of his bedroom. 

Then, you glance down at the coffee table to see that the snacks and drinks are missing. “Did you grab the snacks?”

“Yeah!” Bucky calls back, muffled by the walls between the two of you. 

A fond sigh falls from your lips and you follow after him, DVD cases in hand.  

The tension in the air of his bedroom is charged with something you could not quite describe, and the butterflies in your stomach roar to life for it. You square your shoulders, and smile through it. “It’s no different, it’s no different,” you mutter under your breath; a mantra for confidence. 

Though, it is short lived. 

Bucky throws the blankets onto his bed with a grunt, and both the TV and DVD player switch on, ready to accept one of the disks you held in your hand. 

A shuddery breath falls from your lips, and you make your way to the player to place the first disc in. It whirrs to life as you turn to look at Bucky, who is placing the snacks on a tray table, his tongue between his teeth as he works. 

“Okay,” he hums, turning to face you, a shy smile on his face. “You ready, Bubs?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks past you to the light switch, his index finger poised to flip it off. 

You look down at your body, the warm outerwear you had thrown on to get to Steve’s apartment suddenly becomes scorching hot against your skin, and an idea comes to mind — flustering him has given you a rush of confidence before… 

“Almost,” you say, a hidden smirk on your lips. The layers of warmth are soft in your hands while you take them off, and you’re left in a thin tank top and soft, cotton shorts. “Now I am.”

A faint choking noise comes from the doorway behind you when you place the warmer clothes on Bucky’s desk chair. Inwardly, a coy smirk lifts the corner of your lips; outwardly, you look over to him, concerned and ever curious. 

His face, normally soft and kind whenever he looked at you, is taut with embarrassment; blotchy and red. His eyes are frantically looking anywhere, and everywhere around the room but at you. 

“Buck?” you say, getting his attention. His eyes meet yours. “You okay?”

The fidgeting is your first clue that he is struggling with something, and it is a battle to keep the teasing smile off your lips when his hands run constantly through his long hair and or come to a stop in the pockets of his grey sweats. 

Patiently, you watch while he repeats the same actions several times, each pass of his hands only serving to make him even more flushed. “Yeah. Yep,” Bucky coughs. “Mhm. Just great, thanks.” He looks up to the ceiling and gulps loudly. “You’re really wearing those? Uh– Just those, I mean?” 

You thin your lips to try and hurriedly fight off a smile as you grab your warm, fluffy socks from your bag. “Of course, silly,” you tease, shaking your head once. “I always wear my comfy clothes on movie night.”

The room turns deathly silent when you bend at the hip to pull the socks up your feet. 

Peering up from your task, you see Bucky staring at your legs, evidently thinking he hadn’t been caught and his eyes begin to trail upwards, towards your chest. The slackjawed expression amuses you, though you feel the beginning sparks of your own shyness come to life.

“Buck?” A nervous laugh bubbles in your chest, and you play with the hem of your tank top at the heat in his gaze. “Bucky?” you try again, “Are you ready?”

“Uh– Yeah, yes,” he rushes, quickly flicking the light off so his face is cast into shadow. You could have sworn he looked like a kid getting caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar — wide eyes and a deepening blush that spread down his neck.  

Bucky had always been a little shy in your presence, this you knew. Whenever you come over to visit Steve, or you bump into Bucky on campus, you always notice a remarkable difference in his normal, unwavering charm that he had in familiar company. 

This lack of swagger gives you the impression that you unfasten the young, boyish version of him; the one ruled by nerves, and hindered by a severe lack of confidence. 

Sure, you enjoy spending time with him here and there when you hang out at your brother’s apartment, but never before have you been this close to him, and alone. 

“Why don’t we–?” You gesture towards Bucky’s bed, and before he could either protest or agree, you jog to the edge and jump onto the plush mattress with a squeal of laughter. The blankets cover you easily as you roll yourself in them. “This is perfect,” you sigh, happy and content. 

“And where am I meant to sit?” Bucky laughs, appearing in your eye line with a bright, amused expression. “You blanket hog.”

“Fine,” you drawl, and you disentangle yourself from the cocoon of blankets. 

“Why, thank you, madame,” Bucky says, extending his hand in a mock salute, and he sits down in the now available spot, before sidling up the mattress, to rest his back on the headboard.

The broadness of his shoulders don’t leave much room between the two of you, and you decide to snuggle up to his side in a bid to get comfortable. You feel him tense with the proximity, but he doesn’t push you away or say anything.

“Are you ready now?” you ask, reaching for the remote. “For the movie?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he rasps, nodding quickly.

Despite his initial nerves, Bucky settles comfortably in your presence — half of the movie goes by undisturbed with only the occasional shuffling to get comfortable after getting a snack, or a drink.  

That all changes the moment Bucky becomes restless,his leg twitching against yours constantly, and he repositions himself every couple of minutes. From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth opening and closing; the courage building within him to speak up. You bite your tongue against the urge — let him speak first, you chided yourself. 

“So,” Bucky eventually says, his voice quiet. “How are your classes going, Buttercup?” 

You take your eyes off the screen and face Bucky, but he’s already looking at you, his eyes bright from the glow of the TV. 

“They’re going good,” you reply, just as quietly. “Yeah, they’re busy — hectic, even, but good.” 

The fabric of the comforter ruffles as you turn your body towards him — your shorts ride up with the movement, and your bare thighs brush against his sweats. Bucky tenses while you settle in and only relaxes when you stop shifting in place. “This time of year is always busy, the coursework and exams,” you continue, shrugging your shoulders. “But I’m managing okay, thanks.” 

Bucky nods his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, all those art projects you’ve gotta finish, it must be tiring.” 

Shock slackens your features and you reel back — you could not recall telling him what you studied. “How do you know what major I’m taking?”

“I– um,” Bucky stutters, suddenly overwhelmingly shy. “I hear you talking to Steve about it. Y’know, when– When you come over, on movie nights, and other nights.” 

You can sense Bucky is not done explaining; he licks his lips and stares at his lap, where he fidgets, again. Quietly, as if embarrassed, he continues, “I see you lugging your big canvases across campus sometimes, too. From class, and– And from the window, when I’m actually studying.”

Warmth creeps up your neck again and you blink rapidly. You hadn’t noticed that he took so much notice of you before now, and you couldn’t help but feel endeared over it. 

Desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, you blurt, “How’s, uh– How’s training going for football season this year?”  

Bucky freezes for a second, then trips over his words, “Oh, it’s good– Yeah, it’s great. Coach says I’m progressing well, so I’m doing alright, I guess.”

“So modest, Buck,” you tease. It was common knowledge on campus that Bucky is the star player of the college football team, while also being scouted to join the professional leagues. You place your hand on his arm and squeeze his bicep reassuringly, lending him a bit of your confidence. “Don’t you sell yourself short, I’ve seen you play — you’re amazing!” 

He inhales sharply and grimaces, an expression that contorts his handsome face. “You really think so?” 

“Bucky,” you say slowly. The tense line of his body is obvious as you shuffle closer, but you are determined to prove your point; assure him of his talent and abilities, for all of a shy puppy that he is.  

“Listen to me, honey,” you continue, and Bucky refuses to meet your gaze, instead focusing on his hands. “Everyone can see it, all of us — all of the women in the crowds, all of the kids that watch you from the sidelines. We’re all screaming for you.”

His skin is warm under your palm, but you don’t remove your hand. Instead, you grip his arm and shake it a little. “You’re amazing.”

Bucky stays silent — contemplative of your words, and you take the opportunity to think over the reason why Bucky chooses to stay in on a Friday night. 

There is no questioning the fact that Bucky Barnes could pull anyone he wanted, whether it was to party, or to fuck, but to your recollection — and from what Steve had slipped in the past — no one has ever witnessed Bucky bringing anyone home, drunk or otherwise. No partner he could call his own, either, and he didn’t brag about the obvious charm he held over the many women on or off campus. 

Cautiously, you venture towards the subject of your curiosity. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be going out on dates on a Friday night, like Stevie? Surely you’ve got tons of girls lined up for you.”  

Bucky’s silence turns deafening, unnatural. His body becomes stiff and he looks to be barely breathing. 

“Buck?” You sit up and look into his face. It’s pulled taut with what you could only guess as shame, but that made no sense, and with a mounting, swelling horror, you realise you may have pushed him too far; teased beyond the point of what is acceptable between friends. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I’m so sorry–”

“No! No– I… fuck.” Bucky throws his head back against the headboard and covers his face. “Oh, God,” he groans, muffled by his hands. “Shit.”

“Bucky–” You hesitate, unsure of what to do or what to say. You’ve never seen Bucky behave like this, so anxious and uneasy. “I– I’ll go, it’s alright, I’m sorry,” you say quickly, and you start to shuffle off of the bed when you hear his muffled voice say something behind his hands. “What was that, I didn’t–?”

A heavy sigh lifts his shoulders, and they slump back down as he exhales. “Ihaventevenhadmyfirstkissyet.”

“Sweetheart,” you say quietly, and you shift back towards him. The curtain of hair he’s so fond of covers and conceals his eyes from view, but you refrain from tucking it behind his ear. “I did not understand a word of what you just said.” 

Bucky clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, looking up at you with a great effort. “I– uh.” His hands land on his thighs with a finality not unlike the final siren at his football games, and he utters a reluctant, “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” 

His bedroom is quiet enough you would hear a pin drop. The TV had long powered off, since the movie finished while you talked, and the tension was palpable; a living, breathing encumberment that could not be cut with a knife. The flickering light from the still burning candle on his bedside drawers makes shadows dance across Bucky’s face. 

Okay, you think privately, so what? 

Bucky hasn’t kissed anyone before. It was justifiable — too busy with life, training and keeping up his GPA. You didn’t have to make a big deal out of this. “That’s okay–” Then the reality of the situation hits you, and your mind screeches to a halt. 

If Bucky hasn’t had his first kiss… “Does– Wait, does that mean–?”

“Yes.” Bucky squeezes his eyes tight and refuses to look at you — it is obviously a painful confession, yet he still forces himself to spit it out, putting voice to the doubt in your mind. “I’m a virgin.”

Now that catches you off guard. 

Bucky… is a virgin? 

Bucky, the star football player; built like a Greek god with the charisma to match. 

Sweat beads on his forehead and he looks like he is about to bolt from the room in his fear, and you realise all of your thoughts had shown in your expression. 

“Oh,” you manage, blinking slowly. The hand that was gripping his arm had moved without you realising, and you hastily place it back on his bicep. “Oh, Bucky.”

No other words come to mind. 

When you came to visit Steve for movie night, a calm, easy tradition in your routine, you never expected to end up in this kind of situation; on the other side of a confession that has left you speechless with shock, all while a strange confliction brews deep within your guts. 

You had been there once, and what you wouldn’t have given to have the opportunity to experience it with someone you trusted wholeheartedly — like you did Bucky, your mind supplies not-so-helpfully. 

The realisation hits you harder than you expect, and you gasp quietly, still gripping his arm to reassure him. 

Bucky moves his hands to cover his face again, and his chest rises and falls with a sharp hitch. The nervous pants for air that part his lips bring you back down to earth and away from that revelation. You know he’s embarrassed; ducking his head to his chest and glancing up as though you had scolded him. The entirety of his toned body is rigid with fear, each muscle clenching and poised to run, to save what dignity he feels he has left after such a confession. 

It’s difficult not to stare at the veins that line and bulge from his forearms down to his deft hands,  and you almost feel guilty for it; he’s in distress, fretting over the reveal of his lack of sexual prowess, but you cannot help the lingering gaze over his body. He just looks so pretty. 

From the get go, ever since you had met the star football player, you have always fantasised about him. The silent crush on Bucky had developed into such a deep attraction you almost couldn’t bear it any longer. 

Having convinced yourself of the non-existent reciprocation kept your tongue at bay, in the past.  And while Bucky’s virginity is a surprise, it did not hinder or lessen your feelings for him, quite the opposite; the heady weight of it settling over your mind like a blanket. 

What was stopping you now? What would be the harm in testing the waters?

To hell with it, you decide. The springs of the mattress creak as you move to shuck the blanket off of your body, then your legs. 

Bucky audibly gulps behind his hands when you move closer, and he positively freezes, like a deer in headlights, as you lift your leg up and over his thighs to straddle him. The soft brush of his sweatpants over your legs sends a shiver up your spine, and you sit down, settling your body comfortably on his thighs, just above his knees. 

“What– What are you doing–?” Bucky whispers, and his words are muffled behind his palms. You grin, unseen by your quarry, and you shuffle up his thighs to his hips, your clothed cunt just below the seam at his crotch.  

The sound of Bucky choking on his own spit is comical. 

You pull his hands away from his face, the urge to kiss each palm overwhelming; feather-soft brushes of your lips against the soft skin sends the pulse in his throat racing. “Buttercup, please– This is embarrassing enough–”

“Bucky,” you whisper, cutting him off. “Look at me.”

Blue eyes meet yours, and you pour all of the unspoken words between you both in your soft gaze, willing him to feel the yearning. “Kiss me.” 

“But–” He hesitates, a fish out of water again. His mouth hangs slack from the shock of such a bold request, and you place your pointer finger over his lips, shushing him before he can carry on protesting. 

You pout, placing a hint of pleading in your tone, “Please?”

He looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads. “I– What, I mean,” he flounders, arms hovering at his sides, hesitant to touch you — terrified of taking it a step too far. “I don’t know–“

“Aw, Buck,” you coo, smiling softly. Carefully, you shuffle further up his lap until your knees brush against the headboard of his bed. Gently, you place your palms on Bucky’s toned chest, just above his beating heart hammering away — not wanting to frighten him. “I’ll show you, okay?”

“Yeah.” The tremble in his voice makes your heart ache, but you smile encouragingly.

“Here we go,” you soothe. He smiles weakly back, eyes still wide with shock. “I’ve got you.”

You slowly and steadily move closer to Bucky’s face. A shudder racks through his whole body when he feels your breath against his neck, and you peck his stubbled cheek before sitting back upright to face him.

“Okay,” Bucky shakily says, fisting the blankets in his hands. “Okay. That was okay.”

“See? It’s not so bad,” you tease, and you tilt your head to the side, sticking out your cheek. “Your turn.” From the corner of your eyes, you watch his eyes sweep across your face, still hesitant and nervous, but a slither of curiosity now shining through. 

Broad, strong shoulders lift in tandem with his deep, grounding breath, and he steadily leans in before he second guesses himself. He resolutely does not touch your body, but he manages to find the confidence to gently press his lips against your skin, kissing your cheek. 

This time, he sits back and looks up at you for direction and reassurance. 

You consider it, ignoring the fluttering of your heart. His touch was sweet, but polite; a kiss on the cheek that you would give a friend after such a long time apart. And, in the end, you want Bucky to gain more confidence and actually enjoy kissing — he shouldn’t have to be ashamed to want it. “Good, that was good,” you say, keeping your tone mellow so as to not spook him.

He is making good progress, and gentle encouragement is the way to ensure it continues, you reason with yourself. “Now, I want you to do the exact same thing, but start gradually moving towards my lips.”

“Oh– Okay, okay,” he breathes, and his eyes widen slightly before they dart down towards his lap. 

That needs to be rectified immediately, before he shuts down, you hastily think, and you react swifty, your hands roaming from his chest and up to the sides of his neck, adding a little pressure to bring him back down to earth. 

There was an innate need for him to know that he could trust you; that you would treat him with the respect he deserves. 

Gently, you lift his head up, forcing him to look at you, and the downturn of his lips makes your heart ache. All you want to do is soothe the fear and rid the worry from his pretty eyes that pierce you, even through the strands of hair that have fallen in his face. 

“You’re okay, Buck,” you soothe, rubbing your thumbs over his warm, rosy cheeks. The movement and assurance seem to do the trick. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A minute passes, and you watch as the confliction flitters across his face; an inward battle to assemble his courage to bridge the gap between you both.

There is another minute of silence, when he slowly advances, leaving his palms flat on the covers of his bed as he kisses you on the cheek. 

“That’s it,” you praise, sitting still in his lap, but smiling softly in encouragement.

Bucky hesitantly returns the smile, and he doesn’t move away, rather, he decides to stay close. “You did good,” you say, still smiling, and he takes you by surprise when he moves forwards again to place another tiny kiss even closer to your lips. “Oh–”

The soft brush of his lips makes you freeze, and he takes his time, building his confidence with each peck he makes. 

Finally, he reaches the corner of your lips, and he stalls; confidence wavering and faltering with the daunting task. You go to part your lips to speak on instinct, to encourage him, when he suddenly moves even closer to your face, making you hastily shut your mouth and brace for what was to come; willing for your heart to slow down the tattoo it beats against your throat.  

“Okay,” Bucky whispers more to himself, and he clears his throat before licking his lips. “Okay, okay. Just–” His lips connect with the curve of you own, the brief and fleeting connection enough to tell you that his lips are plump; ripe to swell and redden with a passionate make out session. 

Hastily, Bucky withdraws, but not all the way back — he lingers and only allows the tiniest space between your faces.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you coo, keeping your voice low. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Th– Thanks,” he stutters, and the rosy blush he sported turns a splotchy crimson. Interesting, you think.  

You turn your head to look at him, and the proximity of his face makes both of your lips brush against each other. The intoxicating softness consumes you, and you cannot deny the reality that Bucky is there, he is right there. A torture that intensifies in the billowing silence, while a burning, reckless spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins.

“Do you want more?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence and shattering the tension. 

A harsh breath falls from Bucky’s lips, and he presses forward to kiss you properly for the first time. 

Whatever you had been expecting for a first kiss from the inexperienced, sweet, charming man beneath you, flew out the window. Your lips slot perfectly over his, a chaste kiss that held enough need and want to be something far more; it could not hold a candle to the sex you had with past flings.  

The kiss, unexpected as it was, lasts only for a couple seconds longer before Bucky pulls back from it, panting lightly — puffs of air fanning over your slightly parted lips. He lingers, bumping his nose into yours to keep close. 

But eventually, Bucky pulls all the way back to rest against the headboard. 

The silence is not deafening — not like it was before, and you open your eyes, blinking slowly. 

Bucky is already staring at you. His eyes are glazed over with hunger, and he's out of breath, the rise and fall of his chest faster than before. 

You fare no better. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, but it still feels like it’s lodged in your throat. No words are spoken between the two of you; just an invisible string that keeps you entwined to one another. 

It’s difficult to find the words to say, especially after something so raw and vulnerable; so new and budding. You want him to feel safe, like he had done good, though; you want to tell him he has nothing to worry about, not with you. 

And just as you open your mouth to speak, to praise him for how well he had done, Bucky slides his hands up your thighs, over your waist, and up to your neck, cupping the back of it in his large palm. “I want–” 

To your utter shock, he drags you closer, his lips greedily slotting over yours for a far deeper kiss.  

Bucky can’t get enough of you; already addicted and demanding more. You can’t be mad for it, not when he’s a sensational kisser — he’s good, far too good. The basics have you dizzy with want, and you decide on a whim to challenge him, to push him a little further and test the boundaries. 

You part your lips as Bucky pulls back, and before he could kiss you again, you tentatively tease your tongue against his lips. The sensation makes him sit rigid again beneath you, and he chases your tongue, the surprised moan he lets slip vibrates into your mouth.

The power of such a move has you smirking into the kiss. 

You only plan to stoke the fire by pushing him into the deep end a little — the prospect of overwhelming him too risky, but when you feel the effortless slide of Bucky’s tongue entering your parted lips to dance with your own, it leaves you physically stunned and unable to move. 

Bucky compliments you perfectly, as though he is a natural, and someone so timid should not be capable of that — it’s dangerous. 

It escalates — tongues dance and lips clash, and Bucky’s breath is heavy on your lips, as yours is on his, when he pulls back for air. There’s a pull that you can’t ignore, not any longer, and you bring your hands up from his neck to his hair, threading your fingers through it, making him moan quietly against your lips, “Bu–”

Your nails scrape against his scalp while he speaks, and you squeak in shock as Bucky’s hips surge upwards, forcing his hard cock against your clothed cunt. “Oh, fuck–” he gasps, and his body turns rigid with fear again while he pleads for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, Bubs– I–”

Quickly, you place your index finger over his lips. “Hush, you. It’s alright. I loved it,” you reassure, and suddenly, it turns into a game for you — you are desperate to see how Bucky plays along, how close to the edge you can get him. “Let it go, it’s okay.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as you grind down hard against him, and his hands rush down from your neck to grip your waist. The unabashed moan he lets slip is sinful; a delight to be the cause of, and a Cheshire Cat grin splits your lips. You’ll be damned if you don’t get more from him, you decide.

“Fuck,” he grits out, the grip of his hands on your waist turning painful. “Fuck, yes.” 

You moan and allow him to move your body where he wants it — predictably, he perches you straight on his crotch and his hands wander, slipping beneath the tank top you wear to brush against your skin. 

The resolve he had held onto so strongly is starting to slip, and you inwardly scream with joy at the dilation of his pupils, the heavy pants of his breath — a poor, virtuous man is melting into a puddle at your feet. 

The position of your body gives you an impression of just how big Bucky is, and with his cock hard, you can feel the girth and the size of him against your cunt  — a crime, you think, that it wasn’t inside you.

Your motions of grinding down into him have the tip of his cock catching on your clit through your shorts, and the thin material has no pretence of protectiveness, and you greedily lap every single, last sensation up while shamelessly taking more.  

“Bucky,” you whine against his mouth, and in turn, he nips at your swollen bottom lip before sucking on it. “Fuck– S’good.”

“Buttercup, baby,” Bucky slurs, and his fingertips dig into your skin, unknowingly marking you in his lust-fuelled haze. “Fuckin’ feel good, please,” he whimpers, unable to keep kissing you with the way his moans and litany of quiet cries fall from his lips, longing for more; too far gone, he can’t help himself anymore. “Need more, please.”

You’re all too pleased to listen to his cries for you; begging would taste so much sweeter, though. Next time. “Okay,” you soothe, pecking him on the nose. “I’ll give you more, sweetheart.”

The bed creaks as you shuffle up Bucky’s lap, and you move your hands to grip the headboard. “Don’t keep quiet on me,” you warn. 

“Wha– Fuck!”

You pant as you grind down on Bucky’s cock, the effort of making your hips work this hard and fast steals your breath, but the sounds — oh, the sounds falling from his pretty lips make it all worth it. 

The added friction of your lace panties against your soaked clit only amplifies the pleasure for you, and it’s all you can do to keep going.

Bucky throws his head back and groans to the ceiling, but you follow him, leaning over and panting into each other's mouths and kissing messily, barely able to put anything behind them as you work the both of you closer to release. 

You pull back to look at him, and the slope of his neck is too tempting to leave alone — the  loose strands from his hair are sticking to the sweat gathering on his skin, and you watch a bead of it roll down a curve of corded muscle. 

Of course, you weren’t going to let it go — you want him to crack.

Bucky moans, his breath stuttering as your tongue chases the bead of sweat, and you latch onto his skin, sucking steadily at his pulse point. “Baby– Baby, please, fuck,” he babbles, forcing his head back further to expose more of his neck. 

You oblige, all too willingly and with a giddy enthusiasm; the bow of your lips trace over his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone, where you bite down gently. 

“Shit, shit,” Bucky suddenly exclaims, his words slurring together. “No– No, please, I ca– Can’t,” he begs, and you pull away from his neck, brows furrowing in concern. “Please, I don’t want to– To, shit–”

Words seem to be out of his grasp, and you wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts while you watch the thread of his restraint wearing thin, so close to snapping when he’s this overwhelmed with the pleasure you are giving him. 

You can’t have that, though. 

Bucky was torturing himself, not allowing himself the pleasure of giving into his base desires - what he needs. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” you ask. “You can’t cum?”

Bucky nods his head frantically, his eyes widening. You consider him, the sweat on his brow and upper lip, the way his eyes plead for something more; he’s so desperate to not cum, to let go. 

It’s plain as day that he is holding himself back, when you knew deep down that he is itching to relinquish control and give in. 

You decide then to push, to throw caution to the wind and make him take it. “Why not?” you whine, grinding back and forth, back and forth, over his painfully hard cock. “Doesn’t my pussy feel good, baby?” 

Bucky whimpers and scrunches his face up, cock throbbing as he grows closer to finishing. You don’t think he realises how he rambles to himself, “Fuck, yes! It does—fuck, it does baby.” 

“Think for me, sweetheart,” you say, leaning close to his face. “Just think for me, how good being inside my pussy would be.” The lure of being inside your cunt cracks the last of his resolve; control slipping through his fingers before he can grasp hold of it.  

You smirk, watching how his brows furrow and his eyes squeeze shut. “Just think, Bucky,” you repeat, “How wet and tight I’d be for you. How I would scream for more; beg for more of your cock and what you give me.” 

The sound Bucky makes is close to a wounded animal, and his grip on your waist is sure to leave bruises. “Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, mouthing softly up his neck until your lips brush over the shell of his ear, and you whisper, “Doesn’t that sound good, baby?”

Something snaps within him. 

The headboard of the bed thumps against the wall as Bucky tumbles over the cliff, his restraint long gone, and he wraps his arms tightly around you, curling them around your waist to hold you impossibly close. You feel something wet on your neck, and you realise belatedly that Bucky is crying silently, overwhelmed with the pleasure. 

To reassure him, you thread your fingers through his hair again to scratch at his scalp. You feel his lips move up and down your neck, placing open mouthed kisses over the skin “Are you okay?” you ask softly, careful to not move in his hold. “Bucky, baby?”

“Mhm,” Bucky hums, and he buries his face further into your neck, nodding frantically. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

A victorious smirk pulls the corner of your lips up. You know you have him — Bucky’s too far gone to come back down now, and he won’t be able to stop. 

“Go on,” you purr. Bucky hungrily grinds up into your heat, seeking it out and forcing a gasp from your lips with the pressure. “That’s it,” you push, and your last deadly blow has the dam breaking, once and for all: “Cum for me then, pretty boy.”

“Oh, oh, fuck– Baby–” Bucky moaned, but you keep steady pressure over his cock, and his hips start to stutter in rhythm. “Shit!” 

“That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart,” you coax, just as a damp patch stains the crotch of his sweats, and his legs tremble under your thighs. There’s a loud thump as his head hits the headboard of his bed. 

“Fuck–” Your own climax begins to mount, the tension of it unbearable, and just the band snaps, you cry out to the ceiling, “Bucky!”

The room is full of pants for air, the synchronised rise and fall of your chests in tandem with the twitching muscles of your body; the rushed gasps for breath a symphony to your ears.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, and you finally look at Bucky — only to be taken aback with the awestruck expression on his handsome face. His lips are stretched wide in a dopey grin, and his eyes, while normally so bright and soft, are glazed over with post-orgasm bliss. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he whispers. You feel the brush of his fingers over your waist and thighs, a soothing touch that in combination with his words sends another wave of heat up your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

You smile nervously, suddenly speechless with the earnestness and fondness in his voice. Instead, you shuffle down his thighs to rest your arms on his shoulders more comfortably, and you play with the hair on the nape of his neck — the soft locks damp with sweat. 

The two of you stare into one another’s eyes, then, you rest your forehead on his to whisper, “Well, handsome, not so bad for your first kiss.”

Bucky starts to laugh, then giggles take over as he faceplants into your chest, nuzzling himself against your tits in shyness. 

After a while, Bucky starts to shift in place, and you start to rise up off of his lap, when his sudden stiffness alarms you. “Bucky? What’s the matter?”

“I— I don’t, I didn’t mean to—“ He stutters, looking down at his crotch. You follow his gaze, utterly confused — there is nothing abnormal, only the wet patch of cum staining the material. 

Your confusion only increases, and you look back to Bucky’s face. It’s blotchy and red from embarrassment. “Bucky?”

“I– Oh, goddamnit,” he mutters, and he looks down at his lap again pointedly.

The realisation washes over you; a lightbulb suddenly going off in your head. He was embarrassed over coming in his pants. “Bucky, sweetheart,” you say, moving to cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. “Listen to me, okay?”

Blue eyes meet yours, his gaze pensive. You muster the warmest, kindest smile; no judgement apparent in your own eyes as you stare at him. “There is no need to feel ashamed.”

“But–” Bucky tries. 

“No, listen to me,” you interrupt, and you lean in closer, bumping his nose with yours before reassuring him, “There's no need to feel ashamed, sweetheart.”

His pure, innocent gaze doesn’t fail to make you swoon even more over him. “It doesn’t?”

“Of course not, you know why?” Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide and intent to listen to anything you have to say. Your lips hover over his as you whisper, “Because I love you making a mess for me, baby.”

The weekend passes by swiftly, a tangle of bedsheets and limbs; kisses and fleeting touches that turn into passionate embraces. 

It was only when Steve came home on the Saturday night did he kick both you and Bucky out of the apartment with a yell of, “Bye! Have fun, kids!”

You decided to take Bucky back to your dorm-room — an easy decision when you get to watch how his eyes trail over your body as you walk down the halls holding hands. 

And on Sunday morning, bright and early, a series of knocks on your dorm-room door wakes you out of your slumber. “Damn,” you grumble, blinking slowly into the dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, but a slither of gold peeks from behind the fabric; right over Bucky’s face and the mess of his hair. 

You sigh and tiredly throw the covers off you, mentally preparing yourself to get out of bed, but before you can get up, two arms curl around your waist and tug you backwards into a muscled chest. The warmth of the embrace makes you sigh contentedly.

“No,” Bucky groans before burying his face into your neck and smothering you with his body; trapping you with his arms and winding his legs around yours. “Dun’ get up.” 

You giggle as he starts kissing your shoulders and nibbling at your neck — the stubble of his jaw tickling the soft skin while his lips soothed over it. “I have to,” you say quietly, and you grab his arm to pull it off, only– 

“Nuh-uh. Where y’think you're goin’, Buttercup?” The deep rumble of his morning voice has you inner self trembling, memorising your antics of your weekend together. “Can’t leave me.” And to solidify his claim, Bucky clings onto you like a koala. 

“Bucky, you big goof.” You slap his arm, but he just grunts his protest, clinging to your body tighter. “Come on,” you say, wriggling — it’s met with no success of him releasing you. “Get off of me so I can answer the door.”

But you should have known that he is far too stubborn to let up that easily — a stubborn puppy that refused to give up his treat. “No. Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Fine.” Your only hope is an attempt to bribe him, you decide, and you look at him to find he’s staring at you through a half-lidded eye, the other eye obscured by his pillow. “How about you let me go, and I promise to give you unlimited cuddles for the rest of the day, no moving whatsoever?” 

That gets his attention, and he perks his head up to lean closer to yours. “I wan’ unlimited kisses, too,” he negotiates, pouting his lips and narrowing his eyes. 

You cannot help but chuckle. “Deal, handsome.”

Bucky plonks backwards onto the bed, star fishing in his sulking — the treat now successfully taken away. 

With your newfound freedom, you sit up and stretch, ignoring the grumbles and quiet whines of, “Bein’ left alone ain’t right,” and, “Tell whoever it is to fuck off, I mean it.”

The bedsheets rustle under you when you scoot to the edge, the warmth of Bucky’s body and the softness of the covers already sorely missed, especially when you stand up and slip into your fluffy, warm gown and slippers. The brush of Bucky’s shirt over your skin makes you smile, the fabric soft and worn but oh so perfectly Bucky. 

“Hurry back, Buttercup,” he calls after you as you walk slowly out of the room. “Please—don’ leave me too long.”

“Drama queen,” you whisper, quiet enough he wouldn’t hear. The knocking comes again and you curse the cause — if it’s your friend from class asking to borrow your notes again, you were going to slam the door straight back in their face. Aloud, you say, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t bust the hinges.”

You prepare the speech to scold your friend as you walk to the door, and you grab the hand;e — the metal of it cold from the chill overnight. The door swings open with a loud creak, and you start saying, “What are you–”

The lack of a presence, or anyone at the door, stops you short — not even a shadow of someone running away down the hall.  “Fucking door dashers,” you groan, and you turn on your heel to go back inside when the toe of your slipper bumps into something on the ground. “What–?”

A gift basket, filled to the brim with an assortment of chocolates and scattered gift cards to your favourite stores, is innocuously sitting there. In the middle of the basket, poking its head out next to a bouquet of your favourite flowers, is the head of a stuffie Golden Retriever, the fur irresistibly soft and the eyes bright — much like Bucky’s. Its mouth held a note scrawled in messy cursive. 

“Okay,” you mumble, and you kneel down to look at it closer, worried that there had been a mix up or confusion of a dorm number. As you near the letter, you realise that the messy scrawl spells out Flower. “Wait.” 

That meant only one person was responsible. 

Your fingers tore open the letter and unfold it; the messy scrawl continues on the inside, too.  

Flower, I’m sorry for bailing on our movie night. 

I know you’re pissed, but I hope this and the beefcake attached to your back makes up for my mistake. 

Love ya squirt, 

Your big bro.

“Stevie,” you say, eyes darting over the lines of script. “You sneaky bastard.” There is a post script just below his sign off, and you continue to read.

P.S. Date went well, tell you all about it on movie night next week? I’m sure we’ll have guests joining us x 

Shaking your head in amusement, you place the note back with the stuffie, and pick up the rest of your basket. “What am I going to do with you,” you mumble, stepping back into your dorm to place the basket on the entry table to admire it again. 

“Wha’s happenin’?” a voice rasps behind you, and sure enough, the aforementioned beefcake in the letter from Steve plasters himself to your back; arms around your waist and his face tucked into your neck again. “Back to bed, c’mon.”

Bucky drags you backwards, chuckling deeply at your squeal of laughter that echoes down the hallway to your bedroom. “You made me a promise,” he grunts, and he pulls you back into bed and underneath the covers, intent on making sure you fulfil your end of the bargain. 

Part Two, Part Three