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cloudedangels · 2 days ago

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Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

☃️snowflakes: ((just comment or reblog with a ☃️ emoji of you only want the Zayne fics only taglist)):

#omg this SUCKED TO WRITE #but it was on my list #zayne lads #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne #zayne x reader #zayne smut #zayne lads smut #lads zayne smut #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace #li shen #zayne li #lads smut #zayne lads fic #zayne fic #mine

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oleander-cup · 3 days ago

Note

VANNAH MY SWEET BABY <333 i love you so much and am so glad that we kept in contact <333 okay if you don’t get tagged chat don’t be upset i’m tagging random ones !

@hiraethwa - ave of course you’re included in this list, you were my first moot and have stayed with me through thick and thin. i appreciate you in ways i won’t be able to ever fully express

@hatsukeii - i know you’re not on tumblr much anymore but i still love and appreciate you. you’re so funny, never go bald. thank you for keeping in contact with me even though you left tumblr for hiatus!

@kameyyy - mey !!! ough, i need to come visit you one day my sweet, you’re always such a breath of fresh air and make my day better. i think of you when i see green apples now and i hope you’re doing well with everything in life, you’re amazing and i want to remind you to be patient with yourself and that you’re genuinely such a funny person

@phoenix-eclipses - of course you’re also included, i mean we’re literally sitting in a vc right now watching a show together ! you have so quickly become a part of my daily routine and it feels weird on days that i don’t talk to you. you always manage to put a smile on my face and i can’t wait to go see you again, make sure to take care of yourself

@tansypansydandy - hi tansy, welcome to my very special list of people. thank you for being a moot that got me back into drawing, i don’t draw much recently mostly because my art is frustrating me but it’s comforting as we crash out with each other over oc ideas and giving up on drawing for the day. thank you for being here and for making me laugh <3

@koibitogata - you’re new here soldier! your comment on my kita fic actually made me so happy and i’m glad we continued talking outside of ao3 our conversations are all over the place and it’s so fun. stay funny and manifesting an akaashi for you

@megapteraurelia - jelly!!! we also only started talking recently but i get such warm vibes from you. idk, you’re so very sweet and i love randomly messaging you with things to make you crash out and then going down a rabbit hole for a little bit on the idea and it becoming larger than it was meant to be. take care darling!!!

@cheriisae - i know sav tagged you too but you also belong on this list. it’s been amazing being able to talk with you and you’re such a kind and amazing person, thank you for coming into my life because it truly is better with you in it <3

@ottocre - wyr!!! my love!!! you get to round up my list! i miss being able to talk with you everyday but it’s also nice in a weird way that even if we don’t talk for a while the friendship is still just as welcoming and lovely as it was when we were able to talk every day. i hope your job is going well and we’ll talk soon love! <3

once again, to reiterate, if you didn’t get tagged don’t take it personally and i still love all of my moots and i hope you’re all doing wonderfully. take care everyone and remember to drink water and get lots of rest. the most important person you should be kind to is yourself so be patient and understanding with yourself when things don’t go right immediately. you’ve got this and i hope you all accomplish the goals you set for yourself but also understand that goals can change and you shouldn’t force yourself into a box you no longer fit in, or a box at all. be yourself because it’s the most amazing thing you can be. i’ll stop yapping now; i fear i’ve yapped too much.

favirote moots?

(People you tag have to reblog and say their favorite moots)

Okay wait

@ibrokeurheartbcuzubrokemine @foliverfalls @allyeilishh @addisonraesbaby @emiliesblohsh @bilsslut @noodleswashere @bilsbabyy @bitchesbrokenpromises @billsdollie

#vannah- you didn’t get a proper message in my post since you’re the one who tagged me so it’s going here #i’m so happy that you became my moot and that i got your number when you left tumblr the first time i genuinely can’t imagine not having you #in my life because you’re so important to me and you’re amazing and just yeah i love you so much even if we only checked in every once in a #while because you’re still important to me and i still think of you even when you’re not directly in front of me and being friends with you #was and still is an amazing decision and just take care darling <333 #⋆˙⟡ bug talks #🌊my pearls

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yelenasbraid · 2 days ago

Text

JOE BURROW — this is me trying

summary — life isn’t always easy. it rips and it tears and has no mercy. Joe is there to help her rummage through the pieces and put her back together.

warnings — fem!reader, mentions of anxiety/depression, fluff, angst, language, not proofread

requested by — @megantmerritt-blog

note — everyone experiences depression and anxiety differently. i’m drawing on my own personal experiences and what i know. if anyone is struggling, please know that there are people who love and care for you (including me!) I’m always here for any of you who need it <3

tags — @willowsnook @joecoolburrow @iosivb9 @softburrow @wickedfun9 @starsinthesky5 @joeyburrrow @hannahjessica113 @irishmanwhore @hotburreaux @blairsworld22 @burrowdarling @joeyb1989 @joeyfranchise @ebsmind @sportyphile @kazsbrckkers (comment/send an ask if you wanna be added!)

IT COMES IN WAVES. Some days, the waves are gentle. They let her work and they let her love, other days they pull her into their riptides, spinning her around without mercy. She never dies, but those waves make her wish she didn’t struggle so hard.

Her eyes peeled open, the tap of the rain against the roof gently pulling her from sleep. Her body felt heavy, her heart beating slow, hard beats. She doesn’t look over at her boyfriend, whose arms were wrapped around her waist. He was worried for her, struggling to understand why she was having a bad day all of a sudden.

last night

Distraction. That’s what she needed. Something to do while her chest tightened, something to focus on while her stomach was tied into knots. So, she busied herself with changing the sheets of the bed. Her hands shook, violently, her breaths uneven and shallow.

But she promised Joe she’d do them.

She didn’t know what brought on the panic. She’d had a good day so far; finished a book, baked her favorite cookies, even got her nails done. Something snapped, and through the wall of her antidepressants, something snuck through.

“Babe?” Joe called, padding from his office. He’d been watching film, routes and plays burned into his retinas. He wanted to spend some time with his girl, but when he walked into their bedroom, he didn’t see the relaxed woman he came home to a couple hours ago.

“Baby,” he called again, stopping her hands from trying to fold the fitted sheet, “what’s wrong?”

“I hate fitted sheets,” she spoke, her voice shaky, “why do we need them if they can’t fucking fold?”

Joe knew better. He knew that she wasn’t being dramatic. Her hands shook, they were clammy and cold. Her hands didn’t stay in his for long.

“It makes sleeping more comfortable, love,” he replied gently, letting her have her space. Joe knew better than to constantly barrage her with questions. He could see it written all over her face; she was on the cusp of an anxiety attack.

“But if we can’t fucking fold them then why do we bother washing them?” she replied, her breaths shallow. Joe was a blurry figure in front of her, her mind refusing to compute that Joe was trying to help her.

“Baby, look at me,” he encouraged, and when she didn’t, he felt his chest tighten, “Y/N,”

Her eyes flicked up. He went in and out of focus, her body nearly collapsing in on itself. The unknown of what was causing her panic threw her even further, making her heart beat faster in her chest.

So fast her Apple watch buzzed against her wrist. Her heart rate was too high.

“Talk to me,” Joe urged. He hated seeing her like this, her body caving in on itself. He hated watching her spiral, and he could see it. The gloss over her eyes, the way her hands were clawing at her chest as if it would allow her to breathe.

It scared him.

“Baby,” Joe grabbed her hands, kneeling in front of her, “focus on me,”

“I-I,”

“Just breathe,” he told her, mimicking deep and careful breaths. Inhale for 3 seconds. Exhale for 5. Over and Over again. Joe held her hands, trying to quiet the subtle shake in them. His heart rapidly thudded against his chest, his own anxiety rising.

After a few minutes, her eyes still hazy, she finally snapped out of it. Her breaths were deep and ragged, her eyes barely staying open. Joe wanted to embrace her, he wanted to bring her into his arms and hold her.

But he knew better. She didn’t want to be touched after a panic attack.

“I’m here, okay?” He nodded, his eyes staring holes into her body. He needed her to believe that he was there for her. She nodded, continuing to monitor her own breathing.

present day

Her eyes watched as the rain pattered against the window. The soft hum of the AC accompanied the rain, relaxing her muscles. She was sore, her muscles the same consistency as jello. She slid her arms under her satin pillow, the coolness of its underside making her melt.

She still felt the lingering effects of last night’s panic attack. The silence. The soreness. The deep breaths every other breath. She was exhausted, her bones begging her to stay in bed.

Joe shifted, his arm tightening around her. His face was plastered against her back, his head dipped between her shoulder blades. Even dead asleep, he held onto her. He didn’t want her to disappear on him.

Some days, she did want to disappear. As she laid in his arms, a physical reminder of his never ending love, she couldn’t help but drift. He could have chosen anyone, yet he settled for her. Her friends all hate her because she spends so much time with Joe. Joe hates her because she wants to make it up to her friends. She’s not good at balancing, so maybe things need to end anyways.

The lies she told herself made her eyes water. It made her spiral, but she forced herself to relax. She wasn’t going to have another panic attack. Her body was too tired, too battle ridden.

She pulled from Joe’s grasp, letting his arm fall onto the bed. She tugged herself off of the bed, the heaviness in her bones causing her to shuffle to the bathroom. The door softly shut behind her, and when she saw herself in the mirror, she inhaled deeply.

Messy. Tired. Ugly.

“Fuck,” she whispered, shaking her head and brushing her teeth. She had to do something to keep her mind from further damaging herself. Brushing her teeth was a menial task, but it felt like she was moving mountains doing so.

She spat out the toothpaste, wiping her mouth. She didn’t bother to wash her face or brush her hair. It could wait. She opened the door, expecting to see Joe still asleep.

He wasn’t.

“Shit,” she jumped, his upright position on the bed scaring her, “didn’t think you’d be awake,”

“You left,” he noted, his voice scratchy from sleep, “of course I woke up,”

Joe couldn’t sleep without her. His deepest sleep, snores and all, was when she was right next to him. Away games made for hell. He’s had to get used to it.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, padding back over to her side of the bed. She didn’t slide back in. Not like Joe wanted her to.

“It’s okay,” he shook his head. He crawled over, tugging at her hand. His blue eyes were wide, flicking over her face. He could see the inner turmoil, the struggle still deep within her bones.

“Lay with me,” he urged. She hesitated, even as his fingers tugged at her hand like a toddler trying to get their mom’s attention. She eventually gave in, sitting down in her spot. Her legs crossed under her, the weight of her body making the bed dip.

Joe noticed. He always did. The crease of her forehead. The way her fingers played with a loose thread of her shirt. Her cuticles were raw from how much she’d twirled that thread around her fingers, digging the little knot into her skin. He wanted to know what was going on in her head. He wanted to know what was ailing her.

“Y/N,” he sighed, “sweetheart, please. Talk to me,”

She inhaled deeply, poking her tongue out to moisten her lips. Joe would never judge her. He’d never think she was being over dramatic.

“I’m overthinking again,” she confessed, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Okay,” Joe sat up, crossing his legs under him. He scoot closer to her, but not too close.

“What’s your head telling you?” Joe added, his eyes locking with her side profile. Her jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared. Her eyelashes caught the little light coming through the window.

“It’s stupid,”

“No,” he shook his head, “no, it’s not. There’s a reason you’re thinking these things, and your mind has lied to you,”

He’s right. He always is.

“My friends hate me,” she started, “I’ve tried reaching out to them, asking to hangout, and they’re always busy. I mean, it’s always reasonable stuff like a pilates class or work, but I feel tossed aside,”

Joe listened, his eyes flicking across her face. She believed her words. Joe didn’t, but that’s because he saw what she sometimes couldn’t see.

“But then,” she added, “then I start to wonder if you hate me when I hang out with my friends. That you’re getting tired of me, that-that-”

She could feel her chest tighten, this time the threat of tears boiling in her body. She turned her face away from his, feeling his eyes bore into her. Joe’s heart clenched in his chest, and he reached out to tug on her arm. She fell against him, and he held her in his lap.

“I just feel like a bad person,” she sniffled, “My friends are always annoyed with me, you’re always annoyed with me. I cant put it into words,”

“Baby,” he hummed, kissing the top of her head, “no one is annoyed with you. Your friends are busy, but they want to hang out with you. They want to text you back. And my love, I could never be annoyed with you,”

His words soothed her, a balm to her wounded soul. She melted into his arms, the side of his head pressed against the side of hers.

“I love you,” he hummed, “which means all of you. Your triple texts, your passionate rants about college football, your pickiness when it comes to food. I love all of you, every part that you love and consider a flaw I adore,”

He hugged her tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. She melted, dissolving into the plush of his embrace. He was a cold pillow after a hot day, a refreshing cup of water. He was always there for her in ways she never understood.

“I don’t-”

“Yes you do,” he interrupted, “you deserve the world and all its treasures,”

She couldn’t help but smile. She could be so predictable. He knew her like the back of his own hand, every bump and every smooth line. She was his girl, the love of his life.

“You’re not annoying,” he added, “you’re passionate and lovely. Don’t let anyone convince you of anything else,”

She wouldn’t. In that moment, she let him ease away her anxieties and her despair, his touch a grounding force. She curled into his lap, watching as the rain streamed down the window. Finally, for once, the rain meant new beginnings and fresh life. It didn’t mean despair and depression, it meant reprieve.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow fluff #nfl imagines #joe burrow fan fic

247 notes · View notes

checkeredflagggs · 15 hours ago

Text

+1s

Pairing: logan sargeant x reader

summary: When a member of Logan’s team gets married in Vegas, he invites the new wife and her bff to travel with him as his Williams guests. He didn’t know being a +1 would also see him in love

a/n:this took so much longer than I thought it would…oops 🤷🏻‍♀️

a/n2: made up some names for Williams workers — sorry if you’re actually real

a/n3: this is set in 2023 and I switched Austin and Vegas in the racing calendar

a/n4: sorry this was later than I said — the heat was brutal

Masterlist

Private Messages, Logan and Jon

Private Messages, Logan and Jon (2 hours later)

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n (4 hours later)

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

f1gossip

user1: Vegas just literally became my favorite track

↳user2: where else are we gonna get content like this??

↳user1: right???

user3: bets on who it is?

↳user4: level mode extreme because most of them were partying together…

↳user5: ok time to put on my crazy hat and deep dive — I need to know which driver was crazy enough to get Vegas married

↳user4: ok but no one said it was a driver? Like they specifically said f1 employee which makes me think it wasn’t a driver

↳user5: ohhhh good point good point

↳user3: ok but i need it to be a driver???

user6: I think it’s gonna be a redbull employee

↳user7: reasoning?

↳user6: they have nothing to worry about

↳user7: I can see it

↳user8: i think it’s gonna be a Ferrari employee

↳user9: plot twist it’s both

↳user10: that would be fucking hilarious

user11: other gossip pages are apparently reporting that Logan was spotted leaving the party early

↳user12: DID LOGAN GET MARRIED?!?

↳user13: I can’t believe wtf is a kilometer is married…

↳user14: tbh not the driver I would have bet on but I can see it

↳user13: same

Bluesky

user15: 😂😂😂😂

user16: the tweet format to live in infamy

oscarpiastri: really?

↳logansargeant: shouldn’t have been so funny if you didn’t want us to copy you

↳oscarpiastri: 😒😑

user17: oh my god we really thought that Logan got married

↳logansargeant: really appreciate the faith

↳user17: of course!

↳logansargeant: 😑😑

alex_albon: I had faith in you!

↳logansargeant: thank you Alex

↳lilymhe: he didn’t — he was texting me his theories and you were near the top of the list

↳logansargeant: 👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻

↳user18: oh my god this is the best ever

Private Messages, Logan/Jon/Wendy and y/n

wendy_travel

liked by travel_with_yn, jon_pr, logansargeant, and 827,193 others

tagged: jon_pr

wendy_travel: honeymoon in Mexico

view all comments

user19: married?!? Girl what

↳user20: oh my god your the girl!

↳user21: what girl??

↳user20: the f1gossip page girl! There was a rumor someone in f1 got married in Vegas last week and this is the wife!

↳user21: oh my god that’s so cute!

jon_pr: paradise with you

↳wendy_travel: always when I’m with you

↳travel_with_yn: cheesy

travel_with_yn

liked by logansargeant, user, user, and 3,824,293 others

tagged: channel, summer_fridays, google

travel_with_yn: traveling in style with my trusted companions! The best to travel with, the best to look good, and the best to find my way!

view all comments

user22: oh my god you always look so good!

↳travel_with_yn: thanks in large part to my summer fridays berry lip gloss!

logansargeant: glad you could come

↳travel_with_yn: thanks for asking!

↳logansargeant: now that you’ve met some of the grid — do we still have the same vibes?

↳travel_with_yn: You? No. The rest? Mostly

oscarpiastri: it was nice to meet you two

↳travel_with_yn: you too!

↳oscarpiastri: now if you could give me my hat back?

↳travel_with_yn: sorry I need it more

↳logansargeant: trash it — I’ll give you a better one liked by travel_with_yn, oscarpiastri

alex_albon: always nice to meet new fans!

↳travel_with_yn: I don’t know if I’d go that far yet…

↳alex_albon: but you were in my garage all weekend?

↳travel_with_yn: cause I was flirting with Lily?

↳lilymhe: loml 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

user23: best Williams guest!

↳user24: it was so fun seeing you on the big screen!

↳travel_with_yn: they definitely got my good side!

↳user25: impossible for you to have a bad one!

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

f1gossip

user26: they look so happy most of the time though…

user27: if you go on YouTube, there’s actual footage of that argument…it’s bad

↳user28: oh my god really?

↳user27: it really is. It goes on for like 20/30 minutes

↳user28: yikes…

user29: girl dump his ass

user30: this is why Vegas weddings never work out

↳user31: really?

↳user32: well spontaneous weddings

user33: i wanna know what rumors are swirling around to get to the gossip page

↳user34: right??? Cause like what’s happening that we can’t see?

Private Messages, Logan and Jon

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

williamsracing

liked by travel_with_yn, logansargeant, and 1,829,293 others

tagged: travel_with_yn

williamsracing: Brazil here we come! And thanks for all the traveling tips y/n!

view all comments

user35: and looking good doing it!

user36: I love Brazil

travel_with_yn: you guys certainly know how to treat a girl right, of course I’ll offer some tips

↳williamsracing: anything for one of our favorite guests

↳user37: ok what do I need to do to get this treatment?

↳user38: idk but I’m laughing that it isn’t the wife of one of their pr people that’s getting the red carpet treatment

↳user37: omg I didn’t even notice. I wonder what Wendy is thinking about it…

↳user39: shes probably too busy fighting with her husband to notice

alex_albon: you guys never post me like this

↳travel_with_yn: skill issue

↳alex_albon: I didn’t sign up to be bullied!

↳logansargeant: it’s a service she offers for free

user50: you guys thought we wouldn’t notice! But we did!

↳user51: ummmm notice what?

↳user50: that Jon and Wendy (the Vegas couple) spent a lot of the weekend arguing with each other

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 682,384 others

f1gossip: Logan on a date? The American driver was seen at a local Austin Japanese restaurant — with an empty but occupied seat next to him

view all comments

user52: that was supposed to be me!

↳user53: or me…

user54: ok are we thinking date date or friend date?

↳user55: I desperately want it to be a date date because I need relationship Logan…

↳user56: on the other hand I need it to be a friend date so I still have a chance!

user57: ok but conspiracy theory time — I think its gonna be y/n!

↳user58: the travel influencer that’s been at the Williams garage lately?

↳user57: ok hear me out first — we know they’ve been spending a lot of time together recently because of Jon and Wendy (Vegas couple who’s their besties)

↳user57: and I’d imagine they’re getting the front row seat to the implosion of their marriage — and having been there, done that — you get close to people also going through it

↳user57: and if you go back through the pictures and videos of Austin and Brazil — they spend a lot of time together in the background

↳user58: …ok you got me

↳user57: just you wait and see

user59: wtf is a kilometer looks so good here!

↳user60: that’s what I was thinking!!

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n

williamsracing

liked by travel_with_yn, oscarpiastri, alex_albon, and 1,213,274 others

tagged: logansargeant

williamsracing: Logan points here in Austin!! We repeat — Logan points!

view all comments

user61: this is everything I’ve ever wanted

↳user62: OUR AMERICAN DID IT!

oscarpiastri: congratulations man

↳logansargeant: thanks!

user63: LOGAN POINTS LOGAN POINTS!!

alex_albon: show ‘em how it’s done!

↳logansargeant: you know it!

user64: caw caw mofos!!! 🦅🦅

travel_with_yn: it was a genuine pleasure to watch you race today

↳logansargeant: you must be my lucky charm!

↳user57: interesting interesting 📝

user65: WOOHOO!!

Private Messages, Logan and y/n

Private Messages, Wendy and y/n

logansargeant

liked by travel_with_yn, oscarpiastri, georgerussell63 and 772,923 others

tagged: williamsracing, alex_albon

logansargeant: as the season comes to a close, I just want to thank everyone at williamsracing for the amazing chance to drive for you. It was a rocky start but we’ll definitely come back stronger next year! With hopefully less excitement at Vegas 😂

view all comments

alex_albon: it was a great time having you as a teammate this year!

↳logansargeant: it was definitely great being teammates!

user66: I’ve only had this American for a season but if something happened to him etc etc

oscarpiastri: first year done, more to come!

↳logansargeant: can’t wait for them!

user67: ok are we all skipping over the last picture or???

↳user68: no no we are not! Logan Sargeant come explain yourself!

↳user57: if I may??

↳user69: you may not!

↳user57: it’s definitely y/n!

travel_with_yn: it was certainly a pleasure traveling with you these last few weeks!

↳logansargeant: excellent

Private Messages, Logan/Wendy/Jon and y/n

travel_with_yn

liked by wendy_travel, logansargeant, user, and 829,439 others

travel_with_yn: no traveling necessary when I’m with you

view all comments

user70: a soft launch?!?

↳user71: not on my bingo card for the year..

↳user70: but I love it!

user57: I’m telling you guys!

↳user72: alright there grandma…

logansargeant: 🩵

↳user73: oh my god!!

logansargeant has posted 3 stories

[back with benny][ Vegas here we come][forever with you yn_sargeant]

user74 replied BENNY!!

user75 replied Benny Benny Benny!!

user76 replied what are you and Benny doing together?!?

travel_with_yn replied oh you look so handsome…

↳logansargeant oh I’m blushing ☺️

oscarpiastri replied are you really going to do it?

↳logansargeant yes

↳oscarpiastri crazy man but good luck

alex_albon replied you’re getting married and you didn’t even invite me???

↳logansargeant 😂sorry but it is a bit of a spur of the moment decision — we’ll have an actual ceremony soon

↳alex_albon good! I’d like to see you and yn again

↳logansargeant …she says she’s excited to see Lily again

↳alex_albon 🙄🙄

user77 replied MARRIAGE?!?

jon_pr replied are you sure?

↳logansargeant I’ve never been more sure in my life

↳jon_pr well at least it’s not a drunk one

↳logansargeant 😂

user78 replied Alexa play that should be me

yn_sargeant replied oh my lovely husband — here’s to forever

↳logansargeant thankfully 😊😊

georgerussell63 replied congratulations 🎉

↳logansargeant thanks man! Be on the look out for an invitation — we’ll be having a real ceremony soonish

wendy_travel replied treat her well

↳logansargeant I will

user57 replied I KNEW IT!!

Taglist

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238 notes · View notes

steddieas-shegoes · 1 day ago

Text

three things

for @switcheddieweek prompt 'spit' (a little) and 'non-verbal negotiation' (mostly this one tbh)

rated e | 5395 words | also on ao3 | cw: under-negotiated kink | tags: switch eddie, switch steve, friends with benefits, bisexual steve, bondage, banter, frottage, spit kink, anal fingering, anal sex, dirty talk, choking, not actually unrequited feelings, open ending but we can play clue together

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

Steve’s jittery and it’s making Eddie fucking jumpy. From the second he walked in the door, Steve’s been bustling around, moving things he doesn’t need to, taking sips of Eddie’s drink, knocking into things. Eddie’s ready to tie him to a chair and—

Well, that’s an idea.

Just as he considers acting on it, Steve groans.

“Do you think I’m too high strung?” He asks as he paces the floor anxiously.

“In this moment or in general?” Eddie has to tread carefully here. Whatever’s got Steve on edge like this needs to be taken seriously. One wrong word and Steve will shut down and it’ll be a long fucking night of trying to pull him back in.

“Like, always? Or most of the time.” Steve stops pacing, sets his gaze on Eddie where he’s sitting comfortably at the kitchen table. “Do you think I think too much about little things?”

Eddie’s brow furrows. Where the hell is this even coming from? Steve’s not usually high strung. He gets anxious sometimes, like when he knows they have to do their annual check in with the government doctors, but that’s not unreasonable. If he knows one of the kids is flying, he gets a bit nervous, but Eddie just keeps him distracted as best he can and it passes.

“Suzie mentioned that sometimes I get stuck on small problems and they ruin my day,” he continues. “Do you think that’s true?”

Suzie is going to school to be a therapist and likes to psychoanalyze her friends. It’s equal parts fascinating and annoying, especially when she talks to Steve. He takes everything she says seriously, even though she isn’t licensed yet and probably shouldn’t be giving her professional opinion to him anyway.

“I think that you do what every normal human does sometimes and catastrophize a little when you worry. It’s probably the trauma,” Eddie shrugs and stands, moving close to him, but leaving him space to get away if he needs to. He’s acting a bit like a cornered animal right now. The last thing Eddie needs to do is actually corner him. “If you think it’s harming you, maybe you could talk to a licensed therapist.”

“Suzie’s as good as licensed.” Steve folds his arms across his chest. “And she said I rely too much on you.”

“Did she?” Eddie scoffs. Steve doesn’t. Steve doesn’t rely on fucking anyone. He’d be better off if he did rely on someone more. “What made her come to that conclusion?”

“Apparently I talk about you too much. She thinks you’re my only friend.” Steve sighs. “Now that I say it out loud it does sound wrong. I have friends.”

“No shit.” Eddie grins, leans in until he can smell the cologne Steve always wears to work. “I’m just your best friend.”

“Other than Robin.”

“Other than Robin,” Eddie agrees. He straightens his back and nods his head back towards the chair he was sitting in before. “You wanna sit while I heat up leftovers?”

“Oh, not sure I can stay.” Steve suddenly won’t meet his eyes. “I uh, I have a date.”

Eddie ignores the way his heart clenches in his chest, painfully tightening. Steve’s still antsy, he can tell. He’s gonna go to his apartment and pace and worry until he has to pretend to be fine for his date. And the date won’t realize he’s faking it, that he’s pretending to be fine when he’s not. Eddie can’t let that happen.

“You should cancel.”

Steve gives him a look, one that says he knows what Eddie’s doing and he isn’t gonna fall for it. He has before, though. He probably will this time.

“She’s nice. I’m not gonna cancel just for us to fuck around. What about that guy you saw last month?” Steve snaps his fingers while he tries to remember the quite frankly unremarkable guy Eddie sucked off at a club. “Jeremy? Joey? James?”

“Isaac.”

“I was close!” Steve claps.

“Alphabetically, sure,” Eddie groans. “He was boring. Didn’t even fuck my face when I told him to. He’d probably run screaming if I showed him my plug.”

“I almost ran screaming when you showed me that thing,” Steve laughs. “I’m gonna head out. You find someone more interesting than Isaac.”

Eddie could beg. He’s done it before.

He could go along with it and wait for Steve to inevitably show back up at his place later when he didn’t get what he wanted from whoever this woman is. He’s done that before, too.

He could turn on the waterworks and guilt him into staying. That’s not something he’s tried before. Bound to work, though.

Before he can muster up the fake tears, Steve is walking around him and staring at the chair.

He looks back at Eddie and squints, then back at the chair.

Eddie waits because that’s all he can do. Steve’s either gonna leave and go on his date or he’s gonna stay and they’ll fall into their comforting pattern of being the only people who understand what the other needs.

Steve walks to the phone on the wall, grabs a piece of paper from his wallet, and angrily dials.

“Julie! Hey!” Eddie rolls his eyes, mouths Julie and makes kissy lips while Steve’s back is to him. “Sorry this is so last minute, but they need me to close tonight. Maybe next week?”

Eddie watches as Steve’s shoulders slowly relax. Julie’s probably letting him off the hook, thinking he’s such a hard worker for staying when asked. Maybe she thinks he’ll be up for a promotion, making the big bucks soon.

Eddie knows that Steve’s gonna fuck him up tonight.

He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, only focusing back in when the phone drops back on the hook and Steve laughs.

“You should get the ropes.”

It’s not a suggestion as much as a demand, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to do it. Steve doesn’t like getting tied up, not even if Eddie’s the one doing it, but he loves tying intricate knots around Eddie’s wrists and ankles, sometimes his chest and neck if they have time. It helps ground him, keeps his mind from wandering into anxious territory.

It’s perfect for tonight.

Eddie keeps his ropes in his closet, hung up so they don’t get tangled together. He grabs all of them, in too much of a rush to make a decision about which ones to use.

Steve’s pulled the chair to the center of the room and he’s wringing his hands together like he needs something in them. Robin mentioned getting him a keychain that doubled as a silent clicker so it would keep his hands busy when he needed it, but Steve turned it down. Maybe Eddie can convince him later.

After.

Eddie sits, holds the ropes in his lap, and waits.

Steve circles him like a predator circles their prey before they attack. He’s hot and his heart is racing, and he hopes that he can be forgiven for being selfish enough to get Steve to stay.

He kneels in front of Eddie, grabs his face in his hands, and grins.

“You wanted this.”

It’s true. But he never said it explicitly. Steve just knows. It’s why they work so well.

“I wanted you.”

It’s a bit too honest for them, but Steve doesn’t stop to take Eddie’s words in. He’s up and grabbing the rope from his hands, shoving his shoulder back until he’s almost worried it’ll bruise. Eddie’s pale and Steve’s rough and as much as he likes the reminders of what they do, he’s going to visit Wayne this weekend and doesn’t wanna risk him seeing it.

“Hey. Easy,” Eddie says with just enough bite to make Steve pause. “No bruises.”

Steve nods, apologizes, but continues his work. Eddie lets him.

He closes his eyes and breathes.

There’s something peaceful about letting Steve tie him up, making him helpless in the middle of his own apartment. He knows he’s safe, they’re both safe. He doesn’t have to feel the emptiness inside that he feels when Steve’s not with him.

He feels full, even without the plug.

“Eddie. Look at me.”

Eddie does. His eyes feel heavy for a moment and then he sees how dark Steve’s eyes are, how blown his pupils have gotten. How long has Steve been working on him? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

“Too tight?” Steve asks, for what must not be the first time. Eddie shakes his head. “Okay. I’m gonna grab the plug.”

Eddie’s not sure why, but he knows it’ll come to him eventually. He nods and waits. Steve’s only gone for a moment, familiar enough with where Eddie keeps everything to be quick.

He sets the lube and plug on the table, then turns to Eddie.

Eddie’s a bit in love with him, he has to admit. It’s pretty terrible to be in love with your best friend, especially when it’s a guy who has made it pretty clear he’s never gonna be ready for a relationship with any man, let alone Eddie.

But he drops everything to do this with him, and he comes here right after work even when he’s exhausted, even if it’s just for a few minutes, even though it’s two miles out of his way. He sleeps in Eddie’s bed when they get too high for him to get back to his place, curled up into his side or around his back. He uses Eddie’s soap in the shower and wears Eddie’s shirt when he forgets to bring the clothes he keeps here home to wash them. He leaves notes around the apartment for him to take his meds and to call Dustin and take out the trash. He does everything with love and it’s hard for Eddie to separate it sometimes.

Steve straddles his lap and waits.

It’s Eddie’s turn now. Focus.

“Gonna be good and listen to me?” Eddie asks him, voice rough.

Steve shivers in his lap. “Yeah. Tell me.”

Eddie uses all his strength to sit up a bit straighter, appear bigger. Steve loves when he’s tied up and bossing him around. He loves being told what to do while Eddie’s like this.

“You gonna stay dressed?” Eddie asks, not caring much either way. Might be hard to get the plug in, but they don’t have to do anything with it if Steve changed his mind.

“For now.”

“Then touch yourself.”

Eddie watches as Steve runs his hands down his chest, skims the edge of his shirt, slides them underneath. He wants him to strip it off, wants to see the way his nipples harden under his own touch, the way his chest hair darkens as sweat beads on his skin the more worked up he gets. He doesn’t make any noise when he pinches his own nipple, just lets out the breath he must’ve been holding for a while.

“Now the other one.”

Steve listens, stays quiet and obedient, just the way Eddie likes him.

“Feel good?” Eddie asks, but he already knows it does. Steve’s nipples are sensitive. He loves having Eddie’s teeth on them, tugging and sucking them into his mouth.

“Yeah, but I want more.”

“Greedy, but fine.” Eddie glances behind him, sees the bottle of lube. “You planning on using that or no?”

Steve follows his gaze, hands never leaving his chest. “The lube or the plug?”

“Either. Both.”

Steve shivers. “Maybe. Rather you do it later.”

Eddie’s not opposed. He likes watching Steve, but if he gets to have his hands on him later, have his plug in him, then he can wait.

“You gonna get yourself off like this then?” Eddie thinks he might be able to if they play their cards right. He’s never come just from playing with his nipples, but it doesn’t seem impossible. He’s riled up right now. On edge in every way. It might be time to try it out.

“Don’t think I can,” Steve admits, pouting his bottom lip out. It should look ridiculous, but it makes heat coil in Eddie’s stomach. He wants to bite it, suck it into his mouth and taste the spit pooling on his tongue. He wants to make him bleed so he can taste that too, find out if it’s as sweet as the rest of him. “Not without a hand on me.”

“I think you can.” Eddie laughs when Steve groans at him. “C’mon. I’ve seen you do harder things. Find a way.”

“Don’t have to be mean. I canceled a date for you,” Steve bites out, pinching his nipples again and scooting forward in Eddie’s lap. His dick is hard in his jeans, but he’s not gonna find what he needs with the way Eddie’s chest and stomach are pulled back with the ropes. Not unless he gets real close. “I’m not doing it all by myself.”

“You tied me up,” Eddie snorts. “I assumed that meant you were gonna do it yourself.”

Eddie’s own dick is straining in his jeans. It’s getting a bit uncomfortable, but he knows Steve will be pissed if he asks him to unbutton his pants. He’s supposed to sit here and take it, and Steve will sit there and do what he says. That’s how this works.

“Sit still then.” Eddie hasn’t moved, but he wants to now that Steve’s made the demand. He scoots even further up, so his dick is rubbing against Eddie’s stomach. It’d feel better if he took his pants off, but he’s stubborn. “I’m gonna get off like this.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Eddie.

“I’ll wait.” Eddie smirks when Steve narrows his eyes at him. “Go ahead. I’ve got all night.”

His legs are a little numb from being tied and having Steve’s weight on them like this. The dining room chair isn’t exactly comfortable to begin with. He’s a little shocked it’s holding both their weight like this.

Steve ruts forward once, twice, groans before he drops his head to Eddie’s shoulder. He isn’t gonna get as much friction as he wants like this, but he can get the job done.

“That’s it. You just need something to rub your dick on, huh? Anything would work,” Eddie teases, voice low. “So desperate.”

He tries to sound annoyed or uninterested, but he knows he sounds a bit awed. Steve’s hips move faster as he talks, the room gets hotter, and the air gets thicker. Eddie gets impossibly harder in his jeans. If it’s possible to break a zipper, he may do it any minute.

Steve whimpers as he bites down on Eddie’s shoulder. He’s a bit sweaty from the day, and he knows his shirt can’t smell or taste good. Steve doesn’t seem bothered.

“Can’t believe you tied me up just to hump me like a dog,” Eddie grins around the words. “You know there’s better ways to do this.”

Steve pauses in his movements, but doesn’t sit up or move his face away from Eddie’s neck. It’s all Eddie needs to know that he can keep going like this.

“So stubborn. I should make you use the wall next time.” Steve whimpers and ruts forward. “You’d love it. I could sit here and watch. Probably hurt after a while, huh?”

Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything. Eddie smiles to himself.

“You like when it hurts though. That’s why you can’t stop what you’re doing now.”

“Mhm. Like it when you hurt me, though.”

Eddie bites his lip. God, he does love hurting Steve. He’s so good at being hurt. Takes it so good and then gives it right back to Eddie as if he isn’t covered in bruises and scars left by Eddie’s teeth and fingers.

“I like it too,” Eddie allows himself to say. It’s important to keep the boundaries there, but sometimes he can be vulnerable. If Steve starts it, he can follow. “You gonna let me touch you?”

“Maybe in a minute.”

“You’re only hurting yourself, baby.” Eddie rolls his shoulders, breath hitching at the way it tugs the ropes tighter around his wrists for a moment. Baby is allowed. Steve said it first months ago, one of the first times they did this, and it stuck. It’s fine, especially when it’s slightly mocking like this. “I could make it feel so good. You know I take care of you.”

Steve tenses, almost like he’s going to come, then groans and pulls his head back, looking at Eddie with wide eyes.

Eddie looks back at him, calculating, trying to get a read on what’s going on in his head.

He’s still unsure what truly caused his panic earlier, other than Suzie’s words. Something had to, though. He’s still sifting through it, not quite over the tension.

And then it hits him.

His date.

Steve hasn’t had a real date in months. He’s definitely done questionable things in bar bathrooms, but he hasn’t taken a girl out since…

Since they started this.

Eddie rushes to think back to what Suzie told him, thinks about things Steve probably left out of his explanation. How quick he was to cancel the date once he knew what was on offer.

Steve struggles with being the one to call the shots. Not just in bed, but always. He always asks others to choose what they do, and usually tries to leave another adult in charge as often as he can.

Other than life or death situations, Steve Harrington likes to follow someone else’s lead.

This thing they have, whatever it may be, it works. Eddie calls the shots a lot, but there’s still times when Steve’s in charge. Like now, when Eddie’s tied up, completely at his mercy. He may be encouraging Steve to do things, but he’s not the one making the decisions, not really.

It’s Steve’s safe place to call the shots. Eddie’s his safe space. Not this girl he was going to take to dinner or a movie or back to his place.

“Hey.” Eddie wants his hands free, but it’s selfish. His mind is reeling as he thinks of a way to do this without making Steve lose the control he has. “You’re gonna do something for me.”

It’s another demand, but he knows Steve will listen.

“What?” Steve asks, flushed and struggling not to find any more friction.

“Tell me three things you want me to do.”

Steve’s shaking and Eddie doesn’t know if it’s from being so close to the edge or from nerves or from being overwhelmed with all of it at once. He’s never looked so unsure when they’re doing this, not even the first time when they hadn’t figured out how to communicate yet.

“Like…now?”

“I want you to answer now, but it can be stuff you want me to do later.”

Everything shifts again; A whine marks the moment that Steve gives in.

“Can you-”

“No.” Eddie leans in, gets close enough that he can feel Steve’s breath against his own lips. “Don’t ask me. Tell me.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and relaxes his shoulders. Eddie watches, waits patiently. His legs are starting to get tingly, almost painfully so. The feeling comes and goes as Steve shifts in his lap, moving weight from one leg to the other and then settling on both.

“Open me up.” Steve says so quietly Eddie almost asks him to repeat it. “I want four fingers.”

“Four? You sure?” Eddie’s never given him four. Steve’s never given himself four as far as he knows.

“Yeah. I can take it.”

“Okay. That’s one,” Eddie wants to kiss him, but he won’t. He can’t. Even if he weren’t tied up, he wouldn’t. “Another one.”

“I want you to fuck me.” Steve pauses like he’s going to say more. Eddie waits again, less patiently now that he knows what the next hour might entail. “In your bed.”

The silence that follows his request is louder than their breaths, louder than the thud, thud, thud of their hearts beating in their chests.

They don’t do that. They do a lot of shit, but they don’t do that. They fuck on the couch, the chair, against the wall, the shower, the floor. Never the bed. Not Eddie’s, not Steve’s.

It’s like kissing, in a way: silently forbidden.

Steve tenses when Eddie doesn’t respond. He starts to scoot back to get up, but Eddie lets out a noise close to a whine. He wants to move his hands, grip Steve’s hips so hard that there’s no way he doesn’t have bruises in the shape of his fingertips in the morning.

“What’s the third thing?” Eddie asks, making sure he knows he needs to stay right where he is.

Steve doesn’t say it. He’s pushing Eddie, seeing how far Eddie will push back. He could get up right now, go to Eddie’s bed, and they’ll forget all about the third thing. Eddie will let it be left in this room, never to be mentioned again.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He should insist on it now, but he won’t. Steve’s taking the reins now.

“Untie me.”

Mostly.

Steve works quickly, letting the ropes fall to the floor as Eddie slowly moves his limbs to get feeling back. He shivers when Steve’s fingers brush against his wrist, pulse speeding up under his careful touch.

“Anything hurt?” Steve asks, checking in the way Eddie showed him to the first time. Eddie taught him a lot of things. “Need anything?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” Eddie smiles, a real one, a soft one. Something almost too gentle for what they’re doing. “Let’s get in bed.”

He almost forgets to grab the lube and plug on the table behind him, but remembers when he watches Steve adjust himself in his pants and awkwardly half-waddle out of the room. He wants to use them when they��re done, after Eddie’s fucked him until he can’t talk.

Steve’s finally undressing, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. It feels like they belong there, like they could find a home in Eddie’s laundry basket, and then in his closet. Like pieces of Steve could stay.

Steve looks good in his bed, on his back, parting his legs. His hand cups his balls, lifts them as if he’s showing off exactly where he wants Eddie to go. Eddie’s dick leaks at the thought of being inside him.

He could probably lick him open and shove inside him with no argument, even though it would be uncomfortable and probably a little too painful even for Steve’s taste. He likes feeling the pinch of too much, the drag of skin that should be wetter. Maybe next time.

Eddie’s not gonna be mean like that, but he is gonna be quick. He’s not patient enough to take his time the way Steve may have thought he would.

He spits on Steve’s dick as he settles between his legs.

“Keep touching yourself. Don’t come,” he orders, pouring lube onto his fingers. “If you come, we stop.”

Steve whimpers and nods, accepts the challenge for what it is. His hand moves slow, languid in finding the perfect level of pleasure to keep him on the edge but not sending him over.

Eddie starts with two fingers, a happy medium between the pain Steve likes and the pain Eddie wants to try someday. It’s still enough to have Steve tighten around him, letting out a noise he’s never made before.

Eddie pauses and raises a brow up at him. Steve relaxes. Eddie continues.

He’s not gentle, but he could be a lot rougher. He has one purpose: open Steve up. He doesn’t even try to find his prostate until he’s ready to add the fourth finger that Steve wanted so bad.

Steve’s barely moving his hand anymore, just squeezing the base of his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him on earth. He’s burning up inside and out, sweat building on his thighs, darkening the hairs just enough to be noticeable.

As soon as Eddie pushes the fourth finger into him, Steve goes still and silent. Any sign of the anxious mess of a person who was pacing his kitchen floor earlier is long gone.

Eddie only gives him a second before he moves, pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in. It’s tight, really tight.

“Gotta relax or I can’t fuck you like you wanted,” Eddie reminds him. He looks down at where he’s stretching Steve, watches his hole flutter around his fingers as he desperately tries to relax. “Bet I could get my whole hand in if I used more lube.”

Eddie’s actually not sure he could with how tight Steve is now with just four, but Steve pants, nods like he agrees. Maybe they can try that, too.

Now that the bed is an option, Eddie could try a lot of things. So could Steve. Eddie thinks feeling his entire hand inside him might be enough to send him over the edge, dick untouched.

Steve finally relaxes enough around him so he can move and there has to be a direct connection between his fingertips and his own dick with how it jumps when he stretches his fingers. He’s sweating now, too, using his free hand to brush the hair off his shoulder for a moment.

“Your hand’s so big,” Steve whines, lifting his legs back further with what little strength he has left. ”So much.”

Eddie agrees. He’s watching how much he’s stretching him out and thinks it should be impossible.

He feels lost right now, shocked into watching what he’s doing rather than doing what the logical next step is: getting his dick inside Steve. It’s mesmerizing.

“Eddie?” Steve’s voice is unsure. “Look at me.”

Eddie’s eyes snap up to his face, unblinking.

“You need me to tell you what I want?” Steve asks, letting his legs fall to the bed. The new angle shifts his fingers so they brush against Steve’s prostate. He bites back a moan, but so does Eddie. “Let me.”

Eddie nods. He can’t fucking think for himself right now. Some switch flipped when he saw the way Steve took him, and he’s not sure he can switch it back by himself.

“Touch yourself. Get yourself wet.”

He does it. How can he not when Steve is taking deep breaths to keep himself calm? How can he not when he’d do anything that Steve asks of him?

He misses Steve around his fingers, misses the heat of it, the warmth that ran from his hand to his chest. The direct link is gone, even if just for a moment.

Eddie spits on his hand, makes the glide of his hand easier. He knows not to come, but he knows he could. Steve’s eyes are on him, watching and assessing, figuring out what he’ll do next.

Steve isn’t the type to drag this on. He doesn’t like delaying his own pleasure. He’ll make Eddie come inside him the way they both want, he knows that.

But he still worries this will be the time he can’t hold back, that Steve will watch him until he comes and then the night will be done.

“Just the tip.” Steve’s words make Eddie whine. It’s not enough, but it might be too much. “Take it slow.”

Eddie leans down, lines himself up. The moment he’s inside Steve, he groans and his brain resets, focuses.

He waits for Steve to say he can give him more. He wants to give him more, he needs-

“More.” Steve is barely holding it together at this point, Eddie can tell from the way his voice shakes and his hand grips Eddie’s shoulder like his life depends on it. “Slow.”

Eddie goes slow. One inch further, one degree warmer.

Another inch and Steve’s grip is harder, bringing him back to earth.

He shares a look with Steve, sending the message that he’s good, he wants to take things from here. Steve will let him.

“You’re so good,” Eddie groans against his mouth as he kisses him, pushes in until he feels tight heat surrounding him completely. “Always so good for me.”

Steve tightens around him, legs wrapping around Eddie’s back and tugging him closer. It feels too much like something he can hold onto, something way more than what it’s supposed to be. He doesn’t comment on it. He can’t.

Steve tilts his head back, lids heavy as he begs Eddie for something only Eddie can give him.

He wraps a hand around Steve’s throat, squeezes once, and fucks into him hard.

Steve’s hand moves to Eddie’s wrist, his silent permission to keep going, understanding of what he has to do for this to keep going.

They’ve never properly talked about this. It’s stupid and Eddie knows he needs to be careful.

He is. He’s always careful with Steve.

He only does it twice more, but it’s enough to have Steve pushing back against him, asking for more. Eddie removes his hand, grazes it down his chest, grips at his chest hair and tugs.

Steve yelps and Eddie smirks. “Thought you liked when I was mean,” he says to be extra mean. “You beg me to be rough all the time.”

“Be rough. But slow.”

Eddie is too close to go slow, but he thinks Steve’s in the same boat. He can probably get away with a few minutes of being rough before he comes.

“Wanna taste you,” Steve says, and it sounds like it might be the third thing he wanted. Eddie’s not sure what he means, though. They don’t kiss so it can’t be that. “Please, let me taste you.”

Eddie holds his chin, considers his next move as he fucks into him once, twice, grinds into him until they’re both breathless. He digs his fingers in, keeps Steve’s jaw open.

He leans in close enough to feel Steve’s breath in his own mouth.

“You wanna taste me?” He whispers.

“Yes.”

Eddie licks Steve’s bottom lip, so quick he could almost convince himself it didn’t actually happen.

Then he spits. Right in Steve’s mouth, watches it pool on his tongue.

Steve swallows it without being told to, closes his eyes and groans. He looks blissed out, cheeks red and forehead shining with sweat. He’s never been more beautiful, never made Eddie want to devour him quite like this.

It’s hard to keep things slow after that, but god, he tries. He would do anything for Steve, but he’s only human. He can’t be this close for much longer.

Steve’s eyes open and he doesn’t have to say anything for Eddie to know he’s too close to keep going.

They come seconds apart, so close Eddie’s not even sure who got there first.

Eddie fucks into him until he physically can’t anymore, wincing when it’s too much for his softening dick. He always pushes too much.

Steve lets out a laugh as Eddie falls to the side, grunting when his cheek smacks against Steve’s arm. He sighs and rests his lips against the skin there, scared to bring attention to it, but not wanting to put space between them yet.

It’s quiet for a while, their breathing evening out slowly as they come down. He still doesn’t move, but his brain’s starting to catch up and he’s left wondering something. He probably shouldn’t ask.

“What’s the third thing you want me to do?” Eddie asks anyway.

Steve is still, and Eddie thinks he hears his breath hitch.

His other hand comes up, resting gently on Eddie’s head. It’s a heavy weight on him, making him hotter when he’s already overheated. A comfort when he’s been giving and taking so much.

“Love me.”

Eddie should be more surprised to hear it maybe. He doesn’t even have a reaction at first, just soaks in the words.

Loving Steve Harrington has been easy so far, even though it’s been in silence. Understanding who he is, what he likes, what makes him tick, all of it has been a gift.

Even when he overthinks things, even when he’s high strung.

But loving Steve Harrington loudly, in the way he needs, the way he craves, might be even easier.

So he lets his lips pucker, kisses Steve’s arm.

“Is that all?” He asks, looking up at Steve with a smile.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #switch eddie week #switch eddie munson #switch steve harrington

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buckets-and-trees · 3 days ago

Note

Imagine: villain (masked/hidden) choose one the city or your lover (y/n).

Hero leaves to save the city and y/n exposes themselves saying “you were right” to the villain (Bucky) if possible maybe a little angst abandonment and seeking comfort via buckyxreader with some smut if you have the time 👉👈 if you do thank you and please tag me I love your writing and I love saving to reread!

Take My Hand

Characters/Pairings: MMC x curvy Millennial female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 13k Summary: You're brought into a plot that you never asked for, caught between two men, former best friends.

Content/Warnings: kidnapping; drugging; angst; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, anal fingering

Notes: This was a the last piece leftover from the little request fest I threw when I hit 300 followers. This week I've just hit 3500. I've always had an idea of wanting to tell a story with this prompt featuring a post-Thunderbolts Bucky, and as time wore on and we got closer to the movie ACTUALLY coming out, it seemed better to wait and see what would happen. It only gave more for me to work into my original idea, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out now. I sketched out most of the outline and quite a bit of dialogue back in spring/summer of 2023, and the majority of that is still here, including the fic title.

Additional Note: Trotting this out for week WEEK FOUR of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - it's free week, but I did use Anal Play and Aftercare here.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The taste in your mouth is wet coins.

For a long, soft moment, you assume you must have rolled off your own bed and onto the floor, but the linoleum—if it is linoleum—is too cold and too smooth, and the air had that sterile, metallic nip associated with hospital waiting rooms and broken lightbulbs.

And why would you have rolled off your bed onto the floor? You weren’t in bed the last moment you remember, and you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your clothes.

No, the last thing you remember was softly closing your front door behind you, humming to yourself as you flicked the lock closed, and then a sudden sting to your neck.

There’s a sting in your eyes now because you realize the awful truth.

The worst case scenario you and your boyfriend had only ever spoken about once because it was a viable possibility, a hazard of dating him: you’d been kidnapped.

You sit up, gracelessly, and your teeth chatter. You let yourself feel the terror, but only for a heartbeat—your brain rings with it, a tuning fork of dread, and you clamp it down, hard, into the pit of your stomach where it radiates. Not now. You need to think.

You take inventory: arms and legs both work, hands still attached, no obvious wounds besides the soreness blooming at your neck like a thumbprint on a peach. You press the tender spot and wince.

The room is not what you would have imagined for a kidnapping. It’s wintry and lit too brightly. You’re inside a small cube, walling you off with thick, aquarium-grade panels of glass. The encasement is large enough for you to reasonably pace back and forth, but there’s no furniture, no cot or even a pillow or a bowl of water. Whoever has taken you must not plan on keeping you here long, and that could be either very good or very bad for you.

Beyond the glass, the room is cathedral-big, with a single wall of windows running from floor to ceiling. Daylight pours in, and by your best guess it’s afternoon sunlight. Probably the same afternoon you were taken as you’re not hungry or thirsty.

Scratch that.

You are thirsty, but not uncomfortably so.

You swab your tongue around your gums, tasting metal and something else—something faint and sharp, like ozone during a summer thunderstorm. There is no handle or aperture on your side of the glass, only a seamless plane, and you get the sense that were you to pound your fists on it, it would barely quiver. Still, you raise your hand and press your palm to the surface, feeling its chill seep into your bones.

Nothing. No movement, no sign of life in the luminous cathedral beyond.

It isn’t fear that keeps you quiet, exactly. You simply know, with a fundamental certainty, that if you were to scream or shout, no one would come. You’re a captive sentenced to solitude until someone deigns to antagonize or rescue you.

The silence is not total. There is a white noise, a faint thrum—ventilation, perhaps, or some slow machine grinding in the bowels of the building. If it is a building. You aren’t sure what else it could be, but it feels crucial not to assume.

You check yourself for tracking bugs, but you’re still clothed: a hoodie, jeans, your comfortable sneakers. You didn’t dress for comfort in case of kidnap, but at least that went well for you with what the universe apparently had in store for you today. You have your watch - an old piece from your grandmother, no smart capabilities there, which is probably why it’s still on your wrist. No phone, of course, and your pockets are nearly empty. Lint in one and - thoughtfully for whoever this villain and their cronies are - your lip balm in the other.

At least you won’t have chapped lips.

You pace the perimeter, mapping the enclosure with your steps. Six and a half paces by five, three full circuits before your limbs stop feeling groggy and your brain thundering with each heartbeat.

After the third circuit, you crouch, and then sink down to the ground, pressing your back up against the glass, facing forward to the wall of windows. Unfortunately you’re not even close enough to the windows to catch any of the sunlight - would’ve been nice to be able to bathe in it sleepily like a housecat.

You count your breaths. By forty-two, you’re over it. You slide down the glass a little further, legs splayed. You rest your head against the glass panel and close your eyes, just for the luxury of not seeing where you are.

You are almost comfortable, almost numbed into resignation, when the silence is broken by a blunt, echoing clank.

You shift on instinct, drawing your knees up to crouch defensively, ready to propel yourself in either direction or attack if needed, though there isn’t much direction to go.

There’s a second clank, sharper. A shadow falls across the threshold, and then a white panel in the wall slides away like a bank vault, soundless, on hidden rails. The cold is sharper now, and you catch the smell of winter through the climate-controlled sterility: iron, gun oil, something so clean it’s almost dangerous.

A figure enters, and your surge of adrenaline is strong and immediate, tinged with hope, and your heart soars. This is not your captor, not a faceless goon or a hissing cackler like you’d half-expected. This is someone you know.

Bucky Barnes.

It’s not your boyfriend, but one of his old trusty allies, though it’s been a long time since he and Sam have worked together or even seen each other.

He is broader than you remember, hair falling in dark, soft waves around his face. He’s not in tactical gear, instead wearing a charcoal suit that fits him too well, like he used to when he was a senator. That’s when you’d first met him.

His eyes are the pale blue of a glacier's heart, flat and expressionless, and for a moment you think maybe this isn't Bucky. Maybe it's the other him, the one people used to fear - the old Winter Soldier, not the one who was part of the New Avengers, not the one who had worked with Sam, not the one they called the White Wolf.

He stands behind the glass, and you realize the panel has remained opened in the outer chamber, but not for you. It's for him. Your throat closes, choking on his name.

"Bucky?" you croak, and then wish you hadn't. The sound is needy, broken. You weren't going to be that person—someone who begged at the first sight of a familiar face.

He looks at you, head tilting very slightly, as if he's listening to music only he can hear.

“Are you hurt?” His voice sounds normal, maybe a little raspier than you remember, but still warm enough to seep through the wall and thaw your panic a degree. You shake your head. The glass does nothing to blur your expression, so you let it hang open, let him see everything you’re feeling, the fear and the hope braided together into something that tastes as bitter as old coffee.

Bucky studies you with that same tilted curiosity, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already taken you apart in his mind and knows exactly how you’re put together.

You edge forward, still on your knees. “Where’s Sam?” you ask, and the moment you say it, the question feels both necessary and perilous.

Bucky glances at the panel behind him, lips pressed together as if considering whether to share the answer or let it fester.

He glances over his shoulder. You realize then he’s not alone in the cathedral beyond. Two figures—faceless in sleek black, like chess pieces—stand sentinel behind him. They don’t move, don’t even appear to breathe, and a cold animal part of your brain registers that they don’t need to. They’re just there to watch.

He steps closer, so close his breath briefly fogs a patch of the glass between you. “He’s busy, but he’s on his way.”

Coolness spreads through your veins.

Bucky’s eyes flick to the corners of the cube, where cameras you hadn’t noticed are now winking alive, the power inlet’s red dots glaring. You’re being recorded—filmed, archived, maybe studied—and the revelation lands with a dull, resonant thud. You try not to show your panic on your face, but your body betrays you: fingers curl, jaw tenses, pupils go wide.

He is not here for a rescue. You know it before you know you know it.

"Why am I here, Bucky?" Your question comes out too steady. You want to throw something at him—your shoe, your voice, your fear—but there’s not enough space in this box for anger, only the condensation of every instinct you have, crowding in, begging you to understand.

“The safest place for you right now is here.” He says it quietly, like he’s apologizing, but the immediacy of it, the lack of debate, has your mind racing, his words in no way soothing.

“Bucky,” you say, “let me out.”

He shakes his head, almost fondly. “I can’t. Not yet.”

You stand, legs trembling, and you press both hands to the glass when you say, “Please. Whatever this is, don’t do this.”

You expect him to sigh or look away, but instead Bucky studies you with that lethal patience you’ve seen before, the one that made you want to work for his congressional campaign when you first met him, the one that made him a shrewd negotiator in the House of Representatives. He waits so long you want to scream, but then he raises his hand—slow, deliberate—and presses it to the glass, palm-to-palm with yours. Despite physics, you almost feel the pressure, the almost-heat leaking across the boundary.

"It’s already done," he says.

You stare at him, a thousand implications creasing into your mind, none of them good. "What have you done?" you whisper, because you know it’s not only about the kidnapping, not really.

Bucky’s jaw flexes, and, again, he doesn’t speak right away. His fingers splay, as if wanting to catch yours on the other side, and then curl into a fist, knuckles whitening against the cold.

“Technically speaking, I haven’t done anything yet,” he says. A smile, thin and wintry, crosses his lips. “But I did send a message.” He says it with the offhand air of someone admitting to forgetting to water their plants.

Your brain scrambles. “A message to who? Sam?”

He shakes his head, though not in the way someone would if they were lying. “To enough people at the top - Sam, Valentina, government officials.”

He waits for you to catch up. Sam hadn’t been able to tell you about the message he’d received - common when he got called away to do Captain America work - but he’d looked more concerned than usual.

You watch Bucky’s face for hints, for the shadow of an old self or a new one. Bucky, who once avoided all but necessity, has always been the kind of person who made statements with action, not words. But this—this was theater.

He leans a shoulder against the glass, as if the two of you are just tired of standing at a long party, finding a quiet spot together. “Do you want to know what it said?”

You don’t.

But you nod, because not-knowing is the same as being powerless, and you can’t bear the cold feeling of helplessness.

He cocks his head, almost gently. “It said that unless certain demands were met, a biotoxin would be released at the heart of Manhattan. Three hours for it to spread across the borough. After that, containment would be impossible. The message detailed three drop points for the ransom, and a protocol for negotiation.” He says it without bravado, a recitation of fact, as if he’s reading it from cue cards in his head.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a dry, shuddering guffaw. “That’s—cartoon villain stuff, Bucky.”

He shrugs, as if that’s the point.

You rub your hands over your face, and for a moment you are tempted to laugh harder, because this is what Sam always used to joke about: that Bucky operated on logic so clean it seemed mad, his thinking a locked-room puzzle with only one solution.

“Why?”

“No one was listening to anything else anymore.”

You swallow, but your mouth is dry again. “You could’ve called Sam.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, and for a second you see the old pain underneath, a wince almost too quick to mark. But in its wake is an emotionless frown. “You know I couldn’t.”

Your chest hollows at the words because you know he’s right. He and Sam haven’t spoken for months, and the last time they did, it went poorly.

Bucky is watching you with a steady, unblinking intensity. You get the unsettling sense he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head, every line and gesture.

“Sam has forty-seven minutes to show up here and deliver the payment,” Bucky continues.

“Does Sam know it’s you?” you ask.

He considers the question, lets his eyes drag up and down the box, your body, your face. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“And what then?” You press. “He comes, you do your villain monologue, and what, he hands over cash and saves the day?”

“Untraceable cryptocurrency. And it’s not money I’m after.”

Bucky stands there, his blue eyes eating the distance between you. There’s a hush like reverence, like the building itself is holding its breath. Both of you are silent, and for a moment the glass between you softens, your memories of him rewinding to that first campaign event in the corridor of the Natural Hisory Museum, when he’d looked at you so long and so full of yearning, but you’d just started working his PR team days before, and neither one of you had wanted to cross professional boundaries. You’d met Sam later that night.

But that look… He’s looking at you like that now, older and sadder, but somehow more intent.

He presses his forehead to the glass, and it seems less like a threat and more like a confession. "You know," he says, voice low, "I still think about the night I introduced you to Sam. I wanted to kiss you then. Think I should’ve. Instead, I decided it would be less complicated to let my best friend take a chance with you instead. I knew you’d be good for each other."

The ache in your chest shifts, nostalgia and fear suddenly indistinguishable. You stare at the space between you and try not to let it show, the old hunger, the regret.

But there’s anger there now, too.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you respond.

“You can’t stop me.”

You want to spit or hiss or stomp at him, say something sharp and scathing, but your own feelings are scattered and skittering as you try to make sense of this situation.

“Don’t try and say you did this all for me,” you finally manage, and you almost sound angry.

And you are. But you’re also tangled by a feeling you’d buried years ago when you committed to Sam, convinced yourself that your short stint of longing for Bucky was little more than a whim. But it is still there, uncovered from a place you forgot existed, reverberating in your bones, making you ache.

Something in his face flickers, another microexpression so brief you almost miss it. He leans back from the glass, folding his arms, the suit tightening across his chest. “I won’t lie to you. This isn’t all for you, and it isn’t all for Sam.” His voice turns quiet, almost uncertain. “But if I didn’t want you, I would have done this without you. You weren’t necessary for the plan, but you’re certainly worth it.” He lets the words hang between you, sees the way they knot your throat. “So don’t doubt how much I want you.”

That admission robs you of the breath from your lungs. You only realize your jaw has dropped when he smirks.

“Now,” Bucky resumes, beginning to pace casually in front of you. You know it’s a move to momentarily lower the stakes given everything he’s just said. “Once Sam gets here, I’m going to offer him a choice: save you or save the city.”

“He’s going to pick the city,” you respond automatically.

“Oh, we both know that’s not even a question for our dutiful Captain America, but I want you to observe and assess how long it takes him to make the decision.”

Your brow furrows.

“He will disappoint you,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, don’t say that. Don’t be cruel.”

His eyes flick back to yours, and for a second they’re raw, not glacial at all, but blue as bruises. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I want you to see the world as it is. As I do now.” He pauses. “You once said only the honest stuff matters. Remember?”

You do remember. On the rooftop of a hotel in D.C., debating a speech draft, Bucky had said honesty was the only way to cut through the noise. You’d laughed—knowing how honesty had almost destroyed him once—and now you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d listened more closely.

He presses his hand to the glass again, his whole body vibrating with something that looks like need and restraint, and maybe a dash of childish hope.

You want to hate him, but you can’t. Maybe you could if it were anyone else, if the person threatening your life and Sam’s career and the largest city in the country, hadn’t seeped into your heart so long ago.

And why was that romantic ripple resurfacing now when you’d been so content to have him platonically exist in your life?

You had been content with Sam.

You still were.

You look away, throat raw.

"And if Sam doesn't come for me?"

Bucky’s laugh is soft, brief, and not as cruel as a villain’s should be. "He will.”

And he does.

Same bursts onto the scene when there are only twenty-seven minutes left to save the city.

“All of this was you? All along?” Sam thunders at Bucky.

He still has a hand on the glass, having rushed to you the second he saw you were part of this messy situation, too, but his full attention was now on the other man.

Apparently your kidnapping is something Sam hadn’t discovered until this moment. Which made sense. He’d left your apartment to take care of the world, and it was still the same day. He hadn’t even had time to reasonably have figured out you’d gone missing.

“That explains why this whole area is a dead zone for Red Wing,” Sam adds.

Bucky’s only response: a shrug.

He oozes such nonchalance you know it’s boiling Sam’s blood more than almost anything else.

“Come on, man, this isn’t you,” Sam insists.

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “Except clearly it is. And isn’t it inevitable? Just going back to my roots, right? Like everyone said about me and the rest of the New Avengers. Only a matter of time until we reverted to our nefarious settings.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. “That’s not what I said. I never said that about you.” Sam’s voice is tight, incredulous but not, you realize, surprised. “You think I ever saw you that way? After everything?”

“No?” Bucky’s lips tick up at the corners. “Could’ve fooled me. You remember the last time we talked, right? The argument over who had claim to the team, the name, the whole damn legacy? You know I never wanted any of that. Valentina made sure my face was on the front page for her own benefit, not mine. That was her power move, not mine.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You let her.”

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides; the metal fingers twitch and sing against each other. “I let her because I knew where the real threats were. I thought I could steer if I had one hand on the wheel, if I knew what was coming, turns out I was wrong. You want to talk about legacies, Sam? You got to choose yours. All I ever got was a list of people to kill that just keeps getting longer.”

You can see the hurt behind Bucky’s words; it’s so absent of melodrama that it slaps harder than any shouted accusation. Sam stands still, breathing hard through his nose, shoulders squared for a fight neither of them wants but both are already losing.

“Bucky,” Sam says softer now, “I know you think this is the only way, but there’s always another way. Give me the protocol. I’ll fix it. I promise. You can trust me. You always have.”

Bucky’s laugh is ugly and quiet. “You’ll fix it? That’s the problem. Nobody wants it fixed, Sam. The world is addicted to the circus.”

Sam stands very straight. His fist on the glass trembles, a visible effort not to lose his composure. “This isn’t justice. You don’t fix the world by threatening to destroy it.”

“Don’t I? The only thing anyone listens to anymore is a gun to the head. Or in this case a virus to the water supply.”

Bucky draws in a long, deliberate breath, scanning the cathedral-sized chamber as if taking the measure of human history. It’s another theatrical move. You can see so plainly now that Bucky’s pushing Sam’s buttons on purpose. "Now," he says, letting his hands drop to his sides, "I assume you came ready to make the drop. It's a big ask, I know. One point eight billion is a lot of zeros, even for Uncle Sam."

Sam doesn't flinch. "The money’s ready, untraceable transfer, just like you wanted." He threw a pointed look at the two sentinels waiting beyond Bucky, then back to him. "Now drop the coordinates and the codes. Let the authorities handle the rest. Hell, let me handle it if you want."

They exchange small drives - tossing them at the same time to each other from across the short distance. Sam is already pressing the one he caught to the technology face on the panel in the forearm of his suit, and you can see Bucky uploading his funds to a small device in his hand.

“We good now?” Sam asks.

Bucky looks up, one eyebrow raised. "You think I’d make it that simple? After all the theatrics so far? You’re still thinking in terms of clean beginnings and endings. But that’s not how any of this will work,” Bucky deadpans. “Obviously I’ve brought our guest of honor for a reason,” he shifts the focus back to you.

Sam’s eyes flick past Bucky to you, searching for some sign. You give him a small nod, as if to say: I’m okay, keep going, don’t let him win.

But what would winning mean here? What would losing?

Sam’s jaw tics. “You’re not going to do this. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.”

“There’s always a choice, Sam. That’s what you used to say.” Bucky looks, for a moment, almost apologetic. “The system at the deployment site—the only way to access the control terminal is with a biometric confirmation. Yours, Sam. No one else on earth, not even me, could get past it once it’s locked. You’re the linchpin.”

You don’t see the move, not even the flicker of Bucky’s hand—there’s only a flick of light, an infinitesimal click, then a cold bite in your neck. Your hand slaps toward it by reflex; your fingers close over a dart, needle still vibrating where it breached skin. At first, you think it’s a threat, an empty goad to make Sam act, but then your chest constricts, heart stuttering, then galloping so fast you can’t count the beats. Your vision pulses, the color and contrast cranked up to a sickly, menacing degree.

Sam shouts your name. He pounds the glass, rips the shield off his back and tries to breach it with a throw of the titanium to no avail.

So it’s more than mere glass.

Unable to penetrate the clear walls of your cage, Sam round on Bucky. “So you’re going to make me decide. Save the city, or save her.”

“That’s the game.” Bucky finally lets his eyes rest on you again, and the sadness in them isn’t performative, though everything else about this situation is. “If you’re fast enough, maybe you could do both, but is that a gamble you’re willing to take?”

“Damn you, Bucky Barnes!”

Bucky shrugs again. “We can talk it out, if it will make you feel better.”

Bucky rotates his wrist, metal joints clicking. When he continues, his voice is matter-of-fact. “You go for the city right now, you have time to stop this, a win for sure, maybe have time to come back and save her.”

Bucky then nods toward your glass enclosure.

"If you choose her over the city, you can probably get her to a medical professional quickly enough that they can sort her out. You’ll probably miss the window to prevent contamination though. But there will likely be enough time for them to synthesize an antidote. I made sure to use something new. Not in the wild yet. They’ll quarantine and triage, and–”

“Stop, Buck!” Sam cuts him off.

Then your boyfriend turns to you, and his face is soft, the expression broken, pain in his eyes. Sam’s voice is rough as gravel, but clear: “I can’t make a sacrifice like that. Not ever.”

The words hang in the air, immense and echoing. Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the faintest tremor in the way he sets his jaw—more evidence than any confession that he’d always known what Sam would say.

Sam presses his hand to the glass, and you meet it with your visibly trembling hand. But the gesture seems to pain him as if there wasn’t a barrier between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for you, not for Bucky or the world. “I have to.” The words come thick, strangled.

You want to say something clever, something reassuring, but the only thing that escapes in the clenched space of your chest is, “I know.” It escapes in a whisper; your lips barely shape the words.

You let yourself cry, and Sam watches, helpless, his own eyes shining with the effort of keeping himself together. You knew he would choose the city, he had to, but you wish he had shown even a moment of hesitation. Half a moment.

Then Sam turns back to face Bucky. “You won’t get away with this.”

Bucky’s mouth tugs to one side, almost a smirk, but more like something cracked and resisting the urge to bleed out. “Of course I will,” he says. “That’s the game, right? The dangerous former fist of Hydra goes berserk, but only in a way the right people see. If you pull this off, it all stays classified. Just another day of nothing in the files.” He looks at Sam. “You think anyone in charge wants the world to know this was me? This is a PR nightmare the government can’t risk right now.”

The simplicity of it is breathtaking. The threat never even had to be real—only real enough to get everyone moving the way Bucky wants. Only real enough to get the money and to get Sam to choose.

“Don’t think you can just disappear,” Sam says, voice low but iron-strong. “I’ll find you, Bucky.”

There’s the tiniest shimmer of mischief, or perhaps relief, in the crow’s feet at Bucky’s eyes.

“Will you, though?” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle, as if he’s breaking the news of a death to a child. “For decades I was Hydra’s untraceable and lethal assassin. For two years you couldn’t find me, and you were working with Steve who knew me better than anyone, and I was living off next to nothing. Now I have nearly two billion in untraceable cash, I have my mind back, and I know the ins and outs of the modern world. You won’t see me unless I want to be seen.”

Your heart claws at your ribs. The glass magnifies every sound—Sam’s breathing, Bucky’s measured steps, the pulse in your eardrums. You taste blood where you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek.

Sam’s lips curl in a snarl. “You’re not the only one who’s learned a few tricks.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “But you’re still too honest to win.”

“How could you do this to me? To Steve?”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. His eyes flick to you for the briefest of moments, and then he says, “You didn’t want me to run out the clock discussing the moral dilemma of saving the city or your girl, but now you want to go over me, you, and Steve? Steve who’s removed himself from the narrative?”

Sam roars in frustration, then turns to look at you again. “I’ll come back for you, I swear,” then races across the floor and leaps off the balcony, off to save the city.

It is, you admit, one hell of an exit.

You can see him—Sam, bright and audacious in the Captain America suit, wings extending like an exclamation mark, darting through the skyline beyond the tall windows. He is smaller, fleeting, a fleck of blue and silver against the impossible glass of the city.

But Bucky doesn’t watch him go. He is watching you.

You slide down the glass, and try to breathe through the chemical tangle in your system. It feels as though the world is going to start sliding off its rails soon; you feel it in the way your pulse speeds and slows, in the clotted shimmer at the edges of your vision. The dart, the toxin, was probably designed for maximum drama, but you don’t know what else it could do.

A low, hydraulic moan startles you from your trance. The glass panels around you shiver, then begin to disappear, sinking in perfect unison into the floor. You scramble to your feet, knees threatening to buckle, and stare at the sudden borderlessness of the room. For a heartbeat, you’re suspended—no cage, no line in the sand, nothing to keep you from collapsing right there.

Bucky advances, quick but cautious, hands visible and open. His silhouette blots out the cathedral lights, broad as a thunderhead. He stops exactly an arm’s length from you, looking at your face as though searching for a misplaced detail.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a scratchy hush. “You’re on a comedown, and it’s a big one.”

You try to say something, but your tongue is a fat, electric slug in your mouth. The cold coins taste returns, sharper than before. “What did you do to me?” you ask.

He crouches cautiously next to you, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“There’s a lot of adrenaline in your system,” Bucky murmurs. “Far more than is natural. It’s spiked everything in your system. As it crashes, you’ll be sluggish, maybe some chills or confusion, but you’ll be okay. I promise.”

You want to believe him. You do, but given what he’s just orchestrated, you’re naturally reluctant.

“What now?” you ask. You’re not even sure who you’re asking: him, the universe, yourself.

Bucky shrugs, all gentle fatalism, and then reaches out—slowly, like you’re a trembling bird that might fling itself into a window if startled—and helps haul you upright. He adjusts his grip to keep you steady, lets you take more of your own weight as you find it.

He leads you out of the big white, windowed theater and down a corridor to an elevator.

A pang needles your heart: he is good at this. At triage, at rescue, at caretaking. At the thousand tiny, invisible gestures that make a person feel seen. Always has been. You hate that you’re grateful for it, just as you hate that you remember the long-ago night of his campaign, that secret gravitational pull between you, the unspoken thing you both stamped down with the solemnity of professionalism.

You don’t want to face where that train of thought leads.

“You made Sam pick. I don’t know if he’ll forgive that.” You try to sound hard-edged, but the words slide out syrupy and damp.

“He doesn’t have to.” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle. “He just has to live with it.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you step in. He punches the top floor.

“And you were right.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

And because there’s no reason to hold back, you add, “You didn’t have to twist the knife at the end by pointing out what he was and was not willing to discuss.”

Bucky sighs and drops his head. “No. I didn’t. It was an extra cut of cruelty.” Then he looks up, meets your eyes. “I’m sorry for that.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the sort of opulent space that’s either a billionaire’s penthouse lounge or the bridge of a spaceship. You instantly recognize the place, even though you’ve only seen it on screens and in the background of photos: the inner sanctum of Avengers Tower.

Of course. It had to be here. Not a new base, not a black site, not some abandoned eco-bunker in Upstate New York. No, Bucky brought you to the one place that was once the center of the universe for people like him and Sam and all the rest. Even after Tony’s death, after the rebranding and the PR dust-ups and the slow, embarrassing dissolution of the first lineup, the building stood. It was a symbol, indelible and too expensive to demolish, even when all the heroes left in it were ghosts.

Bucky leads you to the counter of what appears to be a bar and helps you into one of the stools there.

The New Avengers had evidently converted it to a cooking area, as well, as you watch Bucky begin to pull out some food and pull together a plate for you.

You watch him, scrutinize him, and you’re sure he knows that’s what you’re doing. He merely endures it, allows it. You assume he knows he owes you that much.

He finally slides the plate in front of you along with a glass of water. “Eat. It’ll help stabilize you more quickly.”

You take a bite out of one of the strawberries on the plate, chew, swallow, then you ask, “There’s no biotoxin, is there?”

Bucky lifts his gaze from where he’s preparing a sandwich for himself. “No. It’s a placebo.”

You pop another strawberry into your mouth and let the silence be the answer for a moment. The water tastes sweeter now, the iron leaching away, leaving only cold relief behind. No biotoxin. Sam would save the world, the money will be untraceable, and Bucky—well, Bucky would get away, wouldn’t he? Or almost.

"So why all this?" you ask, and your voice is steady again. "If it was just about the money, you could’ve found a less theatrical way."

Bucky tilts his head, slicing his sandwich with surgical precision. "I needed to prove a point," he says, not quite looking at you. "To Sam, to Valentina, to whoever is watching the tapes. To myself, maybe. That I can still do the impossible. That I have a choice. Not just a finger on the trigger but a plan. The kind that changes things. To make it clear that I’m done playing their games."

He smiles, half-lopsided, and lets his long exhale fill the empty space between you.

“I could have done it,” he says, and for the first time he sounds almost frightened by the idea. “I thought about it, how easy it would be. Make them all beg, make every suit in D.C. panic. But I couldn’t.” His eyes dart up, meet yours. “I couldn’t risk you.”

You look down at your hands, which are barely shaking now, and rub your thumb into the tender crook of your elbow where the dart had hit. There’s no swelling, no mark, just the memory of panic and the aftertaste of adrenaline. No biotoxin, no threat to a city’s population that could endanger the world, just a glass of water and a plate of fruit in a room of too many old ghosts.

You finish the strawberries, then some of the grapes. It’s not enough sugar to counter the crash, but it brings clarity. The clarity is not comforting.

“Are you going to disappear now?” you ask.

Bucky wipes bread crumbs from his fingers. “Very soon. I wanted to see you safe, first.” He hesitates, leans his weight onto the heel of his hand, like he’s about to confess something with weight.

You push him in the direction you hope he’s going. “Why did you bring me into this? Did you really need to prove Sam’s more Boy Scout than boyfriend? That he’d sacrifice me for millions, for the greater good?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “You knew he would. And so did I.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid a grape off the stem, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, as if the answer might be contained somewhere in the slick green skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost mild, but there was a sandpaper edge under the calm.

“There’s something different about him. Over the years since he took up the shield, since he started making the world’s problems his own, he’s…” Bucky let the grape fall, steadied his hands on the counter, “He’s not letting anyone in anymore. Not even you. You can feel it, right?”

You wanted to protest, to say Sam was just tired, just carrying the weight of a world that had never belonged to him, a world that had only ever demanded and doubted. That he came home to you at night, sometimes wordless and aching, sometimes with a wild, generous joy that made all the distance worth it. But you did feel it.

The last few months had been like living with a shadow, the two of you orbiting each other in careful ellipses, sharing space but not gravity. You’d told yourself it was just the stress, that this phase would pass. But how long would you have to keep saying that?

You shrugged, unsure if the gesture was defensive or conciliatory. “He’s got a lot riding on him. They all do. It’s not like anybody’s waiting to see if Captain America screws up, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s losing too much of himself to the machine.”

You finish the food, drink all the water. Already, the fine tremor in your hands is dying down, and your vision is as sharp as it’s been in months.

“You said you didn’t have to involve me, but you did anyway. Why?”

Bucky comes around the counter to stand next to you before he answers.

“Take my hand,” he says, extending his flesh hand to you.

You study his face for another moment before hesitantly placing your hand in his. He pulls you gently from the stool, bringing you close to his chest, and you can’t help but cave into the comfort he’s offering on a platter in his arms. This is the closeness you wondered about years ago. And it feels even better than you thought it could.

His flesh hand encloses yours, and his metal arm wraps around your back, comforting, solid, while he maintains eye contact with you. Then he leans in and presses a kiss fervently to your forehead. “He wanted the idea of you, I want you.”

Those words steal the breath from your lungs, and you pull back. He allows it but does reach up to wipe more tears from your face.

“Now, he’ll come back for you,” Bucky says. “I’ll leave you here if you want to wait for him. Or…”

Bucky leans forward, slowly, but deliberately, eyes locked with yours, and there is no question that he will kiss you if you let him.

In those brief seconds, your chest swells and aches. It’s a yearning.

“Or you can come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You don’t remember who moves first, or if movement is even required—maybe it’s just the inexorable collapse of distance, of vacuum, of more than two years spent circling each other and pretending not to. Your mouth meets his in a kiss so light you might have missed it, a flutter of wings against glass, if not for the way he shudders and tightens his hold on you, molding your body into his with that impossible, titanium certainty.

You gasp, and he swallows it, and the taste of him is nothing like coins or blood or the clinical tang of adrenaline: it’s salt and memory, an old wound newly raw. His lips tremble with restraint, with the effort of holding back the full weight of want, and you feel it in the rigid line of his jaw and the knotted fist of his hand at the small of your back.

The first kiss is a question, but the second is an answer: you press closer, and the kiss goes from uncertain to dangerous, from a secret to a promise.

It would be easy to hate him, even now, for what he’s done, for turning to a villain’s playbook. But what you really feel, what you can’t help feeling, is the way your own hands seek out Bucky’s chest, feel the frantic pulse of him beneath the shirt, the way his heart seems to leap at every slight contact. You break only when your lungs demand it, and even then, you stay close enough that your noses touch, breath shared and erratic.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. You mean the whole thing: kissing Bucky, wanting Bucky, forgiving him, forgiving yourself the old feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who never really belonged to you in the first place.

He laughs, low and weary. “That’s why you should.”

Time feels syrup-slow and amplified, and the aftershocks of adrenaline jitter along your bones. You want to lay your head against Bucky’s chest and let everything else go glassy and indistinct, but this moment can’t last forever.

You have to make a choice.

As if to underscore that fact, the moment breaks with the sound of rotors thumping through the silent glass like a racing pulse. A black helicopter, all stealth and menace, settles on the old landing pad just outside the window. You watch its slow, predatory descent, and only then do you realize how little time is left for indecision.

You turn your face back to Bucky. "Where would we even go?" The bitterness in your voice is half challenge, half invitation. A plea for a story you could believe in.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer you a fantasy. "Doesn’t matter," he says. "With this much money, the right lies, and the right hands pulling the strings, you don’t have to vanish, we will just slide out of frame. Show up somewhere else, different name, different haircut, but us together. You just have to decide if you want to build that new life with me or not.”

He says it like a vow, not a seduction. You almost laugh at how simple he makes it sound. As if all the laws and all the wounds and all the history between the three of you could be severed with a haircut and a fake passport.

You want to slap him. You want to scream at him for making it sound so simple, so transactional, like trading one set of coordinates for another. But isn’t that the whole truth of it? Bucky Barnes had spent his adult years being a ghost wearing a name, a myth forced into the flesh, until the only thing that made sense was reinvention. If you followed, you’d never be more than a co-conspirator in your own vanishing act, but there’s a wild logic to it. There’s even a certain beauty.

It occurs to you, sharply, that you should stay—wait for Sam, let yourself be rescued, let him cry and rage and know that in the end he did what was right. You could handle the heartbreak, or at least pretend you could, because that’s what people like you do. The noise would settle, the scandal would pass, and maybe you’d even find your way back together, though at that moment the possibility seems to diminish more and more.

The real truth is: you don't know what will make you happy, or safe, or sane. You only know that for too long you've been waiting for more, even though you didn’t know it until Bucky pulled the wool from your eyes today.

“Let’s do it,” you say, before you can overthink the words or slip into complacent cowardice disguised as duty. “Let’s go.”

The look on Bucky’s face is less vindicated than startled, as if he hadn’t really thought you’d say yes. He doesn’t whoop or smile. He just takes a breath—deep, rib-rattling—and then his hand closes tight around yours, leading you out to the helicopter.

The pilot is a nobody, faceless behind reflective glass, but you know the kind of men who’d be waiting in the belly of a craft like that—mercenaries who could blend in at the Four Seasons or a funeral, featureless as mannequins until the masks came off.

You duck into the cabin. Bucky keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you with a care that feels out of time, out of place, as if this is not a high-speed escape but a date at the theater or a gallery opening. The interior is tight and dark: Kevlar seats, two jump seats with harnesses, a battered first-aid kit stashed in the mesh netting by the door.

He straps you in, efficient but gentle, and without warning the engine screams to life and the city falls away beneath you. The pilot takes you southeast, past the relit towers and the stitched-together parks, past the city’s neat wounds and its ugly repairs.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You’re not sure you want to know. Since you’re all in, you don’t need to know. There is something exhilarating about that, the permission you have given yourself to not care for the first time in … maybe ever.

The chopper banks east, the city’s sprawl dissolving into ribbons of freeway and then the sparse, snow-blotched fields of Long Island. When you spot the airstrip you’re almost disappointed by its ordinariness—just a pair of runways, a wind-wracked row of hangars. The chopper touches down so softly you barely feel it, but Bucky is already unclipping your harness, moving you out with a minimal set of gestures.

He guides you across the tarmac, his grip on your hand steady as he leads you to a small, sleek, white jet. A thinly mustached pilot nods to Bucky as he shepherds you up the stairs. The jet’s interior is cloaked in tasteful leather and woodgrain, the sort of hush money aesthetic that comes with bespoke crimes. Bucky deposits you onto a wide seat and follows with a duffle bag you only now notice slung beneath his arm.

Bucky stows the bag in an overhead bin, then returns to you, sliding into the seat across the aisle. His eyes flick to the window, scanning the tarmac for threats, but his left hand—your hand—remains anchored between you, thumb tracing tight, distracted circles over your knuckles. The door seals with a quietly pneumatic hiss. The engines ramp up, the world narrows to the pressurized silence of the cabin, and you feel a flutter in your chest that is not entirely terror.

In the window’s glass you catch the afterimage of your own face, drained and wild-eyed, and behind it the ghost of Bucky’s reflection—softer, maybe, than you’ve ever seen, as if the act of running is its own absolution.

You’re so tired. You let your head tip sideways, resting against his shoulder—not as surrender, but as a declaration: you are here, you are staying, you are more than the sum of your panic and your decisions good or bad.

Bucky turns to you, the crumple in his brow arranging itself into a question, one palm rising to hover along your jaw. “Hey,” he says, a hush inside a hush. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast, and then press his hand to your cheek, making sure it’s real, it’s flesh, it’s here. He holds your face, thumb slipping beneath your eye, gently searching for evidence of regret or fear or whatever else he’s ruined in you. But all you feel is the burn of anticipation in the hollow of your throat.

He leans in, slower than before, and brushes your lips with his, brief, reverent. Another. Another—each one less careful, less patient. You open for him, cup the back of his head, tangle your fingers deep in his hair, and he looses a sound like a confession; he lets the restraint drop, mouth insistent and hungry, hands finding your waist, your ribs, the sweetly bare patch where your shirt has ridden up. His breath is ragged, the rasp of stubble on your jawline making your skin prickle in a way that borders on pain, but you want that, you want more of it, and you arch into him, letting the seatbelt cut into your hip as you all but crawl onto his lap.

The jet is barely airborne when his metal hand skims under your shirt, cold electricity against the bend of your back. You gasp, half laughing, then bite his lip, tasting the salt and copper, the promise of scars. His flesh hand is at your nape, anchoring you, and you realize this is how you always wanted him to hold you—hard enough to bruise, but gentle in the moments between.

Before you can process how you went from catatonic hostage to this wild, reckless person, you’re straddling him in the narrow jet seat, breathless and laughing into his mouth, kissing him like you’re kissing a different future into existence.

You kiss until your lungs burn, and when you part, your lips are wet and swollen, and he’s looking at you like you’re the oxygen his lungs need. You can feel the restraint it takes for him to stop, even for a second.

When he speaks, it’s against your mouth, so soft and low you have to strain to catch it. “I wanted you for so long.” He nips your lower lip in punctuation, then kisses the sting away, chasing the shape of your mouth as if memorizing it.

His hands slide under your shirt, confident and unhurried, a slow drag of heat and cool along the ridge of your back and then the soft, uncertain slope of your side. He maps you like new terrain, reverent, deliberate, his palm broad and rough as river rock where it skims above your waistband. You’re conscious, absurdly, of the way your flesh yields and gathers beneath his grip, the fold at your waist, the plush seam above your jeans. You brace for the recoil—the pause, the flinch, the embarrassed withdrawal that men as fine as Bucky Barnes always seem to have in their DNA when faced with anything that doesn’t fit the platonic ideal of a lover’s body, the first time they touch you intimately—but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t even hesitate. If anything, the way his hands frame you, hold you together, suggests he’d prefer more of you, not less.

You’re all nerves and need, the pulse in your throat so present it’s almost embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You want this. Want him. Want the mess and the wrongness and the chance to hurt and heal in ways you’ve only ever fantasized about, in the long blank nights when Sam was out saving the world and you were left with the ghost of a life you didn’t remember choosing.

You don’t remember unbuttoning your jeans, or how his hand gets under the waistband, but it’s there—skin on skin, soft and cool where the metal arm braces your spine and the flesh hand moves against your belly. He shivers when you wrap both arms around him, as if the pressure of your grasp is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

There is a hush in the jet, the kind that lets you hear your own blood roaring, lets you hear the catch in Bucky’s breath as you grind against him, slow and unashamed, letting him feel the sum of your want. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t try to fill the silence. His hands do the talking instead, every gesture translating what words never could: careful, desperate, worshipful.

The way you undress—it’s not hurried, but it’s not shy. You peel yourself out of your shirt, shivering in the cool pressurized air, but you catch nothing but hunger and awe in Bucky's gaze. It’s as if he’s been waiting in a Siberian cave since the forties to see you like this, and there is something almost holy in the way he runs the backs of his fingers over your clavicle, your breasts, the jigsaw of you that’s both familiar to yourself and entirely new. For a brief flash, you wonder how you look—are you beautiful to him in the brash daylight of the aircraft, or is it more like a study in imperfection, in odd shapes and old bruises and the vulnerable, workaday flesh of someone who’s never been anyone’s ideal for very long. But his breath catches, and his pupils blow wide, and he says your name so softly it sounds like a benediction. That’s answer enough.

The feel of him is just as you’d imagined—no, it’s more: the impossible tautness of muscle beneath cool skin, the way he holds you so precisely you never for a moment doubt your own safety. The metal arm is cold at first, its ruthlessness pressed along your ribs, but the warmth of his body as you mold to each other chases the edge away. He kisses down your neck, slow, never rushed, as if marking time on a clock only you share. When you arch into his mouth, when you let him finally cup your breast, you’re rewarded with a sound from deep in his chest—a wounded, yearning, making it clear you’re all he wants.

He doesn’t hurry. The world is burning behind you out the window, somewhere Sam is fighting for a city that will always need him, but here, inside this tiny, moving sanctuary, Bucky gives you an unhurried exhale, ritual slow, as if neither of you have ever had a single moment in your lives to spare for pleasure before now. His palm slides along your thigh, then the inside of your thigh, then waits, patient as a dog in winter, for you to open further. You do, knees bracing on either side of his.

His hand makes its way between your legs, and it’s devastating—how lightly he touches at first, just the pads of two fingers drawing lazy circles along the seam of your underwear, as if reacquainting himself with the geometry of gentleness. You are slick and shockingly warm, and when his thumb circles your clit, the jolt of pleasure is so keen you dig your hands into his shoulders, hard enough for the flesh beneath to yield. He watches your face, noting every tremor, every catch in your swallowing breath, mapping the arc of your wanting. You want him to devour you, but he worships instead, building you slow and slow and never letting you fall all the way down. Every time you shudder or gasp or roll your hips, he radiates a pride so profound it makes you want to cry.

You come with his metal hand splayed across your back and his living hand cupping you, his mouth open against your neck, whispering your name and then fragments of words: “beautiful,” “always wanted,” “don’t believe it”. You shake and quake around his fingers, a hot flood, and you laugh out loud because you can’t do anything else—your body is burning alive and Bucky Barnes is the only cooling agent in the universe.

After, he tucks you close, skin to skin, and listens to the staccato drum of your heart as if it’s telling a secret. He brushes damp hair from your temple and studies you like he’s afraid to blink, lest you vanish with the throb of the engine.

“I wanted you for so long,” he murmurs again, and you want to say, me too, but your tongue is thick and slow and all you manage is to grip his wrist, pinning him to this reality, to this moment run wild on the clock.

You slip from his lap when the urge surges past all reason—not because you do not want to be held, but because you want to see what he looks like when you take him apart. The carpet beneath your knees is soft and plush, but you are not thinking of the carpet, you are thinking of the way Bucky’s breathing shears out of him in a rush as you settle between his legs and glance up.

His pupils are blown, making the pale blue more starless sky than glacier. His lips, wet and a little bitten, are parted in shock, and there’s something so starkly boyish in his awe that you nearly laugh. Instead, you run your hands up the inside of his thighs, not missing how his legs tense and shudder under your grip.

You unbuckle his belt, and for a second you’re all thumbs, nerves having gone to static in your head, but Bucky just sits with hands open and breath held, watching you like you might ghost away if he looked elsewhere. The rough newness of the situation—doing this with him, in daylight, on a moving plane—sends a flush crawling up your body, heat prickling in your scalp. You want to be perfect for him, but you settle for real. You unfasten him, you work his jeans down enough, and he springs against his own belly, more than you’d realized, heavy and flushed, and your chest tightens with wanting.

You feel a spike of victory at the way he swells in your hand, the living pulse of him, velvet-hard and as hot as a fever.

You taste him, first with your lips pressed soft against the tip, then with the slow, savoring press of your tongue along the length, and Bucky’s head drops back, the tendons in his neck cording. He doesn’t make noise, not at first—he’s too disciplined, too careful—but when you increase the pressure, take more of him in, he grits out your name, a rattle of consonants, like he can’t bear up under it any longer. You commit to the rhythm, fast then slow, enjoying the play of pressure and the way his thighs brace in agony and pleasure under your hands. The metal one pets your hair at first, then fists in at the nape of your neck, holding you still for a second while his hips buck minutely, then he curses and releases the grip, as if reining in some inner avalanche.

You’re delighted—delirious almost—by how much you’re able to make him shake. How much you’re able to unmake the man of precision. You want to keep him at this edge forever, but you can also see how hard he’s working not to tear you apart with need. You let the rhythm go ragged for a moment, using your hands to cup him, stroke him, take him deeper. You revel in the way his restraint crumbles, in the way he murmurs pleas and fractured sweet nothings and dirty wants and promises.

He rocks his hips once, twice, then pulls back with a warning—a rough, strangled sound that you recognize as care, as wanting not to overwhelm or take—so you press your hand to his thigh and keep him still, refusing retreat. You want all of it: the taste, the heat, the salt and the proof. When he spills into your mouth, every muscle in his body shivers and the shuddering pulse of him fills you, thick and sweet and endless. You swallow, and his thighs buckle, and he drags you up, mouth to mouth, tasting himself on your tongue and growling in approval.

You expect him to collapse, to flop boneless and dazed into the seat, but instead his cock is still hard, red and slick and angry-looking in the open vee of his jeans. You look down, then up, and the expression on your face must be famished and raw, because Bucky’s answering expression is a wolf’s grin—hungry, delighted, and you’re so glad for it, so mindless with wanting, it almost hurts.

You want him inside you, want him to push every thought from your head. He licks his thumb and traces your lower lip, then presses it past your teeth, not forceful but insistent, and you suck without a second thought.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he says, but the way he says it, it sounds like he’s eager for the mutual ruin.

He coaxes you up, not with a command but a gentle tug of your wrist; you let yourself be arranged, his palms guiding your hips and then gently coaxing you up, angling your body so you're kneeling, braced on the plush seatback, spine arched, ass tilted toward him. There’s nothing clinical or hasty here; he positions you like an artist with a marble he’s spent decades yearning to carve. You feel the raw, predatory focus radiate off him, and you can’t help but turn to catch the look in his eyes—eager but almost reverent.

His cock nudges against you, then slides up the seam, gathering wetness, and for a moment he lingers, thumb stroking the base of your spine, the cool metal of his hand anchoring your shoulder. The first push is slow, deliberate, the kind of pressure that makes your whole body tense and then open for him. He fills you with an unhurried inevitability, and for a moment you can’t breathe for how big he is, how much he fills your most intimate space.

He groans at the feeling, deep and sin-worn, and the sound shoots heat up your back, makes your thighs shake. He holds you steady with both hands, one flesh and the other a cold star at your hip, and waits for you to tell him to move. Your own voice is gone to glass, so you just tip your hips, a silent plea, and he obeys, rolling into you in a series of slow, tidal thrusts that let you feel every inch.

It’s impossible to be quiet, and Bucky clearly prefers you not to be. He leans over you, his chest hot along your spine, and bites your shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but just so you know he’s there, and you cry out at the dual sensation—sharp and yielding, ache and relief. His rhythm is slow at first, but when you reach back and dig your nails into the firm cut of his thigh, he hisses and snaps his hips with a force that borders on brutal, but never spills over into cruelty. It’s want, not violence; hunger, not harm. You want every bit of it, every relentless stroke, every scrape of his teeth on your skin, the bruise of his hand as it sprawls between your shoulder blades and pins you to the world.

You have the sudden, feverish sense that Bucky wants to own every part of you, not just the places you expect to be touched, but the boundaries you never thought to keep. His hands—both of them, vibranium and flesh—roam your hips, your back, the trembling crease where thigh meets ass. When he pushes in deeper, it’s with a precision that feels engineered; he wants to draw something new from you, to find the note that will finally split you open.

You’re so wet you can hear it, the slick wet music of skin on skin. His flesh hand is anchored at your hip, fingers digging into the softness there, holding you steady as he fucks you, each thrust deliberate. But the cold of his metal hand is more curious; it traces up your spine, fans across the nape of your neck, then drops down again, palming the globe of your ass with a hunger that feels almost greedy.

He shifts, altering the angle of his thrusts so each one drags a new, devastating friction along your inner walls, and his hand, the metal one, snakes lower, cupping your mound so your clit is pressed and circled in perfect tandem to the building rhythm. The world telescopes to the points at which he touches you, and then just when you think you can’t take more, that the heat will level you into unconsciousness, his finger—cool, slick now with your own wetness—traces the forbidden line between your cheeks. A barely-there touch, a slow, teasing swirl around the tight, neglected ring, and you startle at the contact, gasping out a word that could be “fuck” or “please” or both, pulse stuttering with the shock of it.

He doesn’t force, doesn’t press, just circles, gentle and patient, letting you acclimate to the possibility, the threat. With each swirl you feel yourself open more—this hunger, this trust, this dumbfounding desire to let Bucky give you something that nobody else ever has. When he finally presses in, just the barest tip of a finger, the line between pleasure and pressure melts and you keen aloud, startled at your own reaction. He groans at the sound, his cock twitching inside you, and the next thrust is deeper, more desperate, as if he’s as ruined by you as you are by him.

There is nothing for it but to surrender. You arch into every sensation, let Bucky fill every blank in your vocabulary of want. Each time his finger moves, gentle and relentless, you feel your body respond with such wild, involuntary gratitude that you want to weep. You reach between your legs, questing for your clit, greedy for more and not caring if you break apart in his arms.

He pistons into you, relentless and sure, and somewhere in the haze you catch yourself thinking: this is what it feels like to matter to someone so much they lose their mind. Bucky coaxes every sound from you, every plea, every curse. When you clamp down around him hard enough he nearly loses his grip, you hear him choke out your name in a shattered, breaking way, and he plants his palm to the curve of your ass and drives you into the seat with a bruising finality.

You come again, and this time the sound you make is so raw you’re embarrassed, but he only groans in reply, matching you stroke for stroke, as if the louder you are, the more it means. You shake, legs threatening to go, but he holds you, refusing to let you slip through his grip. You ride out every ripple, every quaking tremor, and when you finally slump forward, breathless and wrung out, he chases your high with his own, hips jerking in a wild, arrhythmic staccato as he empties himself in you with a deep, almost haunted sound that echoes in your lungs for ages after.

He collapses over your back, breath damp against your neck, arms caging you in. For a moment, the world is nothing but the drum of his heart, the shockwave of your own afterglow, and the faintly ridiculous realization that you’re at cruising altitude over the Atlantic, sweat-soaked and boneless and impossibly, impossibly alive.

It takes a long time before you find words. It takes even longer before you can turn to look him in the eye.

“So that happened,” you say, voice soft but rooted in satiation, and the hint of a question behind it, craving his thoughts, his impressions.

Bucky is still inside you, softening, but when you laugh at your own understatement, he laughs too, the sound honest and unselfconscious and bright enough to startle you out of the receding fog. He nuzzles your hair and bites your shoulder, just once, in a gentle, feral way. “You say that like it wasn’t inevitable,” he says. “Like I haven’t been thinking about you since the first time you told me off in front of the whole comms team.”

You twist in his lap, wince a little at the sticky ache between your legs, then kiss his jaw, his pulse point, the soft curl of his ear. You want to say something perfect, something to thread all this pain and elation together, but your mind is losing the war with your body’s demands. You just want to be held, and he seems to know it, because he wraps those impossible arms all the way around you and tucks you close to his chest, bringing you into his lap.

You burrow in, cheek pressed to the racing engine of his heart, your legs folded up to your chest as a drowsy quiet settles in the cabin. The hum of the jet, the soft huff of Bucky’s breath in your hair, the double warmth and chill of his touch—it’s all a nest, a chrysalis, and you’re content to lie there for however many thousand miles it takes to put the old world behind you.

You lose track of time. The hum of the engine, the proximity of Bucky’s bare skin to yours, the way your heart replays every inch of what just happened: it all floats you through a corridor of warmth and contentment that you haven’t felt since you were young.

The world out the window is seared gold, the last of day sinking past the wing as you cruise east. At some point Bucky stands, balancing both of you as if his balance is unassailable, and fetches a blanket, a hand towel, and a glass of water from the service cabinet before returning you both to the comfortable leather seat.

You drink it down in greedy gulps while he wipes you off with practiced, delicate swipes of the towel, his touch less clinical than worshipful. He tucks the blanket around you both, creating a cocoon for the coming moments.

You pull the blanket up to your nose, tuck your chin and watch him above the rim, eyes wet and still trembling from what you’ve both done. He doesn’t try to explain it. Instead, he finds your hand beneath the blanket and holds it, thumb stroking slow circles over the pulse at your wrist.

You spend the next hour drowsing in and out, stolen moments of sleep lurching you awake with the latent fear that this is all a fever dream, that you’re actually still in the glass box in the cathedral, or floating in some post-toxin afterlife. But Bucky is always there when you surface, his arm warm across your shoulders, the scars along his shoulder catching beneath your fingers.

You and Bucky share quiet conversations during the waking moments. It’s so easy to fall into this side of intimacy with him, too, not only the physical you shared earlier.

He tells you about the safehouse you’re going to in Paris, the bank accounts, the names and legends already prepared for both of you. It sounds almost routine, except for the faint blush in his cheeks, or the sheepish smile when he admits, “I even have a cat, for appearance’s sake.” He says this with a half-smirk, daring you to mock him. Instead, you ask about the cat. Its name is Alpine; it’s white and sassy and already edging toward overweight now that she’s been rescued from the streets. Somehow, that makes the plan feel more plausible, more fit to live in and real.

When you ask about Sam—where he’d go, how long before he finds both of you—Bucky’s face softens into a sort of loving regret. “He’ll do what he’s always done: fight the good fight. Even if that means chasing after us for the next few years.” He says it not with bravado, but with the sigh of someone who’s accepted the cost of his actions.

Bucky’s thumb drew a few more circles over your hand, and you watched with the drowsy clarity of afterglow as he studied you, the long focus of a man who still had something left to say. He let you sleep for most of the flight, let you curl and sprawl across his lap and the seat, but somewhere over the dark green quilt of the Irish Sea, he angled your face up to his with a touch so gentle you almost missed the gravity behind it.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t do any of this–bring you into it–because I thought Sam was a bad person. Not even because I thought he was a bad partner to you.” The words were slow, deliberate, like he meant them to lodge somewhere deep and stay. “I just wanted you to see the thing he never lets you see—how, in a pinch, he’ll always run toward the fire. Even if you’re the one burning.”

It was a monstrous thing to say, but Bucky didn’t hold back from the full measure of his meaning.

“He did love you,” he says. “Still does. You know that, right?”

The words land heavy and soft, an ache buried under the warmth of the blanket, the pressurized hush of the jet. You want to nod, to agree, but something in Bucky’s expression dares you to challenge that, to perhaps ask for more.

“He did,” you echo, your voice shot through with all the hurt, relief, and confusion you’d stored on a shelf in the back of your mind that you’d ignored. Because sometimes that’s just what couples do. “You don’t have to defend him. Or me.”

“He’s better in so many ways than me,” Bucky says, not so much conceding as saluting, as if the point is a living monument somewhere between you. “But he’s been Captain America so long, he’s started to believe the only way to love anyone is to protect them from everything, even himself. Maybe especially himself.”

You catch the twinge in Bucky’s voice, the jealousy and the admiration braided together so tightly you can’t tell where one leaves off and the other picks up. You tried to find the flaw in this logic, some hidden malice or manipulation, but the words rang too true. The last year with Sam had been a string of empty nights in his apartment or yours, half-eaten dinners, phone calls cut short by emergencies with names you never learned and crises that belonged to the world.

“You deserve someone who’ll always pick you. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s not the end the story wants. And I never want you to wonder–I didn't do this because of him, I did it for me. It's the only truly villainous thing I did today.”

You open your mouth to reply, but there is something inside you, a molten sorrow or longing or both, that makes words taste foreign. For a moment, you just look at Bucky—the long, tired face of a man who’s lost nearly everything more than once, and yet still offers up his devotion, his heart, his everything.

There is a comfort in that. Not the comfort of fairy tales or sunny brunches with friends, but the comfort of an old wound that’s finally healed over, ugly and permanent, yes, but proof you survived.

You nestle in, letting Bucky wrap you tighter, and the two of you pass the last leg of the flight in an unspoken truce with your ghosts, listening only to the lull of engines and the steady, intermittent thump of his heart. A heart that you know is yours and yours alone. It’s not a magic ending. It’s a messy beginning. But it’s tangible, real, something whole that you know you can grasp and hold without hesitation.

This villain is yours, and if your full embrace of this new alternative makes you villainous, too, at least you know it’s the two of you all in, hand in hand, together.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #female reader #thunderbolts bucky #tw: kidnapping #tw: drugging #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #hotbuckysummer2025

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certaimromance · 14 hours ago

Text

✶⋆.˚ Blue Moon.

“Traditionally, something that happens (to you) rarely or never.”

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spending time with your new partner on the road can reveal surprising things about him that you didn't know before.

Words: 2k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, victims, religion, high school trauma. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I want to say thank you all for the love you give to the first chapter! I didn’t expect it, and I hope you like this and all the chapters that are coming. I’m putting all of myself into making this funny, deep, and romantic at the same damn time.

You’d been in worse cars.

There was the beat-up stakeout sedan where an agent chewed gum like he was waging war on his own mouth, jaw snapping and smacking with such ferocity it sounded like a percussion section gone rogue. There was the suffocating silence in Hotch’s car, where the weight of his presence felt like ten extra pounds of gravity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort. And who could forget that cursed van with Morgan’s playlist—Hits to Impress Women Who Know Better—on an endless loop, like a bad joke without a punchline.

But this?

This was an entirely new flavor of hell, and it came with the soft symphony of rustling paper and nervous energy. It was a punishment that your boss had refused to lift until he deemed it necessary.

Dr. Spencer Reid sat beside you in the passenger seat, knees folded awkwardly like some twitchy origami sculpture, his long legs seemingly too big for the cramped space beneath the dashboard. His worn messenger bag rested between his thighs, overstuffed and fraying at the edges, the faded fabric begging for retirement after countless semesters of academic battles.

He was fully engrossed in the case file.

Correction: completely obsessed.

His thumb was constantly wet with saliva, delicately licking the paper before flipping to the next page with the precision of a surgeon handling a scalpel. Each turn made a faint, incessant shhhk, a tiny but relentless soundtrack to the drive. He scribbled quick, neat annotations in the margins, little hieroglyphics of his own devising, before resuming his careful reading.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles whitening under your gloves, and forced your gaze back to the stretch of highway unwinding through the cold gray afternoon. Outside, the landscape was blurred by a thin mist that clung to the bare branches like ghosts, and your breath still fogged up the inside of the windshield despite the heater’s best efforts.

The heater’s warmth was a pale consolation, fighting a losing battle against the creeping chill that seeped in around the edges of the window.

“Okay,” you said, without looking away from the road, “I’m pretty sure it’s a federal offense to make that much paper noise before noon.”

Spencer didn’t even glance up, his eyes scanning the pages like they held the secrets of the universe. “It’s 12:07,” he answered matter-of-factly, voice soft but precise.

You shot him a flat, accusing look. “So you’ve chosen violence.”

Another shhhk, another scribble, then a pause long enough for you to seriously consider pulling over and asking him to finish his entire dissertation before you hit the school parking lot.

“Seriously,” you sighed, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel as you flicked on the turn signal, “do you need to read it right now? We’re already on the way to the crime scene. The school isn’t going anywhere. You’ll have plenty of time to wow the locals with your encyclopedic recall of obscure footwear tread patterns and locker combinations once we get there.”

“I’m reviewing the psychological profiles of the victims,” he replied calmly, barely lifting his gaze. “Also, none of them wore shoes with particularly distinguishable treads. One pair of Vans, two Converse, and one generic off-brand sneaker. Very common.”

You blinked, incredulous.

“You actually remembered that?”

He finally looked up at you with a blink of confusion, like the question itself was weird. “Yes?”

Damn it, you knew he was a smart guy, but you never paid enough attention to notice that he was that smart.

You stared back at the road ahead, exasperated beyond words. “I swear to God, if you weren’t so painfully smart, I’d accuse you of being a sleep-deprived alien wearing a human skin suit.”

A long silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Then, faintly, his voice cut through: “That’s…surprisingly specific.”

“It’s been a long week,” you muttered.

A brief pause.

Then, shhhk, the relentless rustle of paper again.

You finally slammed your hand down on the radio dial, cutting off the academic soundtrack with decisive force.

Classic rock burst through the speakers, slicing through the car like a warm knife through frostbitten silence.

Spencer blinked, momentarily scandalized.

“Do you mind if we keep it off?” he asked, voice small and defensive, like you’d just interrupted his morning meditation.

You gave him a long, slow look, one eyebrow arching in skeptical disbelief. “Right. God forbid Stevie Nicks interrupts the pure sanctity of your brain chemistry.”

He blinked again, clearly unsure whether you were teasing or serious.

“Music with lyrics,” he elaborated carefully, “engages the language centers of the brain. It splits attention.”

You slowly withdrew your hand from the dial as if you were putting away a weapon. “Right. No music then.”

He stared at you.

You stared at the road.

The heater wheezed.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you added a brand-new note to your mental dossier titled How to Annoy Spencer Reid in Confined Spaces. You wrote:

— Play Fleetwood Mac.

— Songs with lyrics.

— Breathe.

You exhaled loudly through your nose, an exaggerated sigh of suffering, and beside you, Spencer’s pen paused mid-scribble. The scratch of it against paper stopped cold. Blessed silence.

For five whole miles, you drove in relative peace. The faint wail of a guitar solo played in your mind, like a nostalgic classic rock station providing a soundtrack that gave you some peace of mind. Outside, the winter light hung low over the highway, flat and silver, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Your knuckles were stiff on the steering wheel, fingers flexing every now and then to keep the blood flowing in the chill.

You didn’t know if it was the heater trying its best against the December air or the sheer absurdity of the last few days, but something in you finally began to unclench. Even your irritation with Reid—the fidgeting, the rustle of case notes, the muttering to himself like he was solving three crimes at once—had started to burn itself out. The silence between you wasn’t friendly yet, but it wasn’t hostile either. It settled around you like an old coat. Slightly itchy.

You glanced at the GPS, then at the man beside you: bookish and serious, perched stiffly in the passenger seat like someone who wasn’t sure how chairs worked. His profile was sharp in the afternoon light—cheekbone, nose, brow—a study in concentration and underlying tension.

Well. If you were going to be stuck with him for this case, you might as well entertain yourself.

“So,” you said casually, not looking away from the road, “we’re going to a high school. Want to talk about it?”

Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “Talk about what?”

“High school,” you said, waving one gloved hand vaguely through the air. “You know. Puberty. Locker drama. Tragic cafeteria food. Crying in the bathroom between third and fourth period.”

He shifted in his seat, his spine somehow growing straighter. “I didn’t go to high school in the traditional sense.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Meaning…?”

“I was enrolled in college by the time I was twelve,” he said, like he was just listing a fact about the weather.

Oh, another thing you didn't know.

You blinked at him. “Twelve.”

He nodded, clearly used to this reaction.

“You mean to tell me you skipped the universal rite of passage known as failing a math test and lying to your parents about it?”

“I taught linear algebra to undergrads when I was fourteen,” he offered, as if that cleared things up.

You made a wounded, borderline scandalized sound. “Oh my God. No wonder you’re like this.”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone who thinks emotional trauma is best solved with a bibliography.”

His lips twitched. Just barely. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or mild offense. Probably both. That was kind of his thing.

“Did you at least go to prom?” You asked, half-mocking, half-genuinely curious.

He stared ahead for a moment, eyes scanning the horizon like it held the right answer. “No prom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

There was a pause, and when he finally spoke, it was softer than you expected. “No one wanted to go with the weird kid.”

You blinked.

It hit you, not like a dramatic gut-punch, but something quieter. Smaller. The kind of thing that slipped under the armor before you even realized you’d let it in. Like a pebble in your shoe you hadn’t noticed until it started to sting.

Your eyes flicked back to the road. Asphalt stretched ahead in clean, empty lines, the midafternoon sky cold and overcast. The trees blurred past the windows, all brittle branches and leftover frost. Inside the car, it was warm, but not warm enough. You could still feel the chill in your sleeves.

You glanced at him again. He didn’t look wounded, just…far. Like he was watching a memory flicker across some old reel behind his eyes. Like he could still remember the way it felt to be on the outside of everything, like he still could feel it sometimes.

“Everyone was weird in high school, Reid,” you said, voice lighter now, threading warmth through it on purpose. “I think they were just too stupid to realize it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, barely, his mouth tugged upward. A small, reluctant smile. Not the showy kind. The kind you had to look for. The kind that meant something but not really.

And for the first time since the case started, the air in the car felt a little less cold.

He folded his arms, hunching a bit like he was trying not to look too pleased. “Alright, your turn. What were you like in school?”

You grinned, a little too proudly. “Oh, I was a total cynic. Textbook nihilist. Black hoodie, eyeliner, permanent scowl. Sat in the back row like I was contractually obligated to hate everything.”

“That…” Spencer’s brow lifted slightly, a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, “explains a lot.”

You laughed—actual, surprised laughter that cracked open your chest for a second. “I didn’t believe in anything, okay? Not God, not fate, definitely not authority. I was a walking eye roll.”

Spencer turned his head toward you slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes beneath the slow wash of gray light through the windshield. “So…what changed?”

You hesitated.

Outside, the sun flickered through bare branches like something was moving just behind the clouds. You focused on the road, your fingers tightening on the wheel.

“I think I just hit the wall,” you said after a beat. “Emotionally, spiritually, whatever. I couldn’t keep believing in nothing. It was like…I needed something. A reason to keep moving. So I started looking.”

He was silent, but you could feel him listening. Not just hearing, really listening. You glanced over. His brow was furrowed slightly, not in doubt, just in effort.

“And…did you find it?” He asked, his voice softer now.

You nodded once, eyes still forward. “Yeah. A pull. A pattern. A whisper, maybe. Something that told me there’s more happening than what we see. I don’t know. Some people call it energy or fate. I just call it necessary.”

There was a long pause. When you looked over, he was watching you, incredibly not judging, just…trying to get it.

“I don’t understand it,” Spencer said eventually, careful and honest.

“I know,” you said, glancing over with a crooked smile. “And I don’t get how your brain works either. I’ve literally seen you argue with statistics. Like, out loud. Passionately.”

“They were being misused,” he muttered, stiffly.

You nudged his elbow. “See? Look at us. We’re bonding.”

“I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

Outside, the scenery passed by in small-town stillness. Red brick schools. Chain-link fences. Yellowed grass and quiet sidewalks. The kind of place where people shove secrets behind front doors.

You reached out and adjusted the heater again. The hum grew louder, the vents huffing out warm air in tired bursts. Beside you, Spencer was shifting slightly, reaching down toward his bag.

You glanced at him, brow raised. “If I hear one more shhhk of paper, I will start singing witchy manifestation songs at full volume.”

His hand froze. Then slowly, very slowly, he retreated back to his lap.

Progress.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse @jisungchan

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #matthew gray gubler

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 hours ago

Text

Locked Out of Heaven 12

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father invites a work friend to the neighbourhood barbecue.

Characters: Nick Fowler (Dad’s friend trope)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Music flows from unseen speakers. The boat rocks slightly as Nick makes his way back. You crane to see him as you lay on the beach blanket, the sun beaming down on the lazy stir of the waters.

He lowers himself next to you and sighs. He bends his arms behind his head. You can’t help but notice how the muscles bulge, not just his biceps but his chest. He’s so perfect.

He slowly turns his head to look at you. You wince and give a sheepish smile. He shifts onto his side, keeping himself propped up on one elbow and tickles along your side.

“Come here,” he moves closer, his hand crawling along your stomach. “You look so good, baby, you know that?”

“I... do? I mean—You do too.” You flutter your lashes as you stare at him. “Sorry, I...” you giggle and it sends a flurry through your guts. “I’m sorry, I—I—don’t know what to do.”

You cover your face, mortified at the confession. He grabs your left hand and gently moves it away. You drop your other and stare up at the sky, just below the glare of the sun. He guides your hand to his chest.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he drawls. “You just chill. Be you.”

He pets your cheek with his knuckles. He leans in even closer. You lock up as your eyes meet his. They are even bluer than the sky. You gulp and he tickles down your throat.

“Princess,” his lips brush yours. “I need you so bad.”

“Oh,” you bat your lashes.

“Can I have you? Pretty please?” He begs.

“Ummm...”

“All of you? Please. It hurts, baby. You don’t want me to hurt, do you?” He rubs his thumb along the front of your throat, his breath fluttering over you.

Your heartbeat pounds like thunder. You press your fingertips into his chest and nod. Your tongue sticks the roof of your mouth and you cough out your answer. “Y-yes.”

“Yeah? You want me too?” He rubs his nose against yours. “Tell me you do.”

“I... I want you,” you pet his chest. “Nick, really, I do.”

“Mm, I’ve dreamt of you saying that.” He growls and slides his hand up to the side of your head.

His thumb and index form a vee around your ear as he cradles your skull. He tilts your head and kisses you. He plunges his tongue past your lips and groans as you close your eyes. Your heart races as the noise of the slapping waters and the music fade to a drone.

The world zeroes in on you. Your skin is on fire, your blood is ice cold, and your nerves vibrate. You slip your hand up around his shoulder and moan into his mouth. You’ve never felt anything like this. You can feel everything so much.

He turns his body as he smothers you. He slides his arm under your head as he turns his chest parallel to yours. His fingertips massage your scalps as he drinks you in.

His pushes his pelvis against you, rocking slightly. He hooks a leg around yours and pulls it away from your other. He trails his hand down your neck and tickles along your chest. He gropes you as you feel along his neck, the tendons taut with his hunger.

He lifts himself and plants his knees between your legs. He holds himself just above you as his lips slip away from yours. He kisses your cheek and jaw, pecking along your neck as you squirm. His breath sends shivers over you as he descends.

He traces your collarbone with kisses and buries his face in your cleavage. He kneads you through the fabric and teethes at your skin. You moan as a whirlwind swirls behind your rib cage. You can hardly breathe.

He nuzzles you as he follows the strap of the bikini behind your neck. He tugs until the ribbon slackens. You gasp and try to catch the top before it falls away. You cover your self as he licks the curve of your tit.

“Princess,” he rasps and you look down at him. His eyes blaze up at you. “You said I could...”

“I... yes,” your arms are stuck for a moment. They won’t obey. Finally, you peel your hands away. He purrs and dives back in.

He flicks his tongue around your nipple and you squeal. The sensation tangles in your core. You heave and arch your back.

You catch the back of his head and urge him on. Your fingers twine into the thick strands of his hair. You look down at him, lifting your head higher to see him, the silver threads in woven through shining in the sun. There's a flicker of doubt though it fades into the flames of his touch.

He nibbles on your pebbled bud before he parts and tends to the other. You moan and drop your head down. You bend one leg as your cunt clenches needily. He laps and licks and nips as you melt into the blanket.

He fondles your other tit as he drags his mouth lower. He leaves a smear of saliva along your stomach, teasing you as he wanders back and forth, nibbling at those places that make you twitch or whine.

He traces the edge of your bottoms with his nose then tugs with his teeth. You gasp and wriggle as he snarls. He pushes the tails of the coverup away from your thighs and loops his thumbs in the ties along the side of the suit. You quiver and reach to stop him as a glimmer of doubt fogs your eyes.

“Nick...”

He hushes you as he pulls until the knots loosen.

“Nick, please... I’m... scared,” you puff out.

“Baby,” he slowly drags the suit down. Your hands shoot down to cover your pelvis. He tuts and catches them, pulling them away. “Why you scared? Huh? I’m not hurting you.”

“I... I...” you stammer.

You shiver even as the sun beats down and speckles your flesh with sweat. Even as you feel flames consuming you from within. Even as his warmth floods into you.

“Hush, baby, I got you.”

He pushes himself back and gets on his stomach. He frames your pelvis with his hands, his thumbs petting the short tuft of hair along your vee. He hums and bows his head, inhaling your scent and exhaling it back on you. His breath dampens the wiry curls.

He buries his nose into you, rolling his head, and tilts back as his tongue swipes along your lips. You gape down at him as his eyes flick up to meet yours. He purrs as he delves deeper, his cool tongue gliding between your hot folds.

You bite your lip and drop your head down as you moan. The melding of hot and cold flows through you, unfurling from your core. You twitch and dig your nails into the blanket beneath you.

He spreads his tongue wide and drags it up your cunt, tasting you with a hum. The rumble that rises from his chest stokes the swelter inside you. You arch your back deeper, pushing into his mouth and push your heels down into the floor.

His mouth laps loudly as he groans and growls rise from him. He feels around blindly and takes your hand. He puts his on his head. Instinctively, you urge him on, clutching him as you rock your hips.

His tongue flicks around your clit and he teases lightly with his teeth. He seals his lips around your swollen bud and sucks. You cry out and spasm. You heave and thrust your chest out, your body contorting like an ocean tide.

You yank on his hair as he tends to you. His hand crawls up your thigh, his other slipping beneath your bottom as he gropes you. He tickles your leg up to the crease of your cunt.

He moves his head in tandem with his tongue. He eats you up as he pokes along your entrance. He rubs you as the slickness glosses over his finger. He grunts as his finger dips into you, as if surprised by how easy it is.

He pushes in, just the tip, then draws back out. He smears around your juices then delves back in. A little deeper. He pulls in and out, further with each plunge. You quake and clasp onto his head with both hands.

His tongue circles your clit as the pressure pulses in that one spot. He curls his finger inside of you, rocking his hand slightly as the weight thrums. You gulp and gasp, fighting to catch your breath.

You tear your hands from his head and slap your palms on the floor. You lift your head and shoulders and squeal as the tension bursts and spills from your core. He keeps going, guiding you through your orgasm as you writhe and whimper.

You fall back down, panting, legs quivering, heart thumping. He turns his head back and forth, rubbing his beard against you as he hums. He drags his chin along your folds and slowly raises himself up to look at you. The dark hair along his jaw glistens with you.

“Mm, princess, you’re so sweet,” he growls and licks his lips.

He looks down, his finger still inside you. He pulls it out and flicks it between your folds. He trails back to your entrance and presses another fingertip there. He wiggles two fingers into you. You groan and reach weakly to stop him, barely grazing his forearm.

“Please,” you murmur.

He pushes in to his knuckles. You bend your legs as he kneels between them, watching his hand as he wiggles his fingers inside you. He turns his hand and puts his thumb to your clit. You squeak.

He tilts his hand steadily, falling into a rhythm. He squeezes so the heat twists between his fingertips. He bends over you, hand still moving, and he kisses you. You can smell and taste yourself on his lip. You shudder and run your hands along his shoulders and down his arm. You squeeze his bicep and moan into him.

Your walls clench him as you cum again. You nearly bite his tongue as the waves crash down and consume you. Your turn your head and he presses his lips to your cheek. He chuckles as he feels you clinging to his fingers.

“Baby, you’re doing so good,” he slithers. “Huh, that feel good?”

“Yessss,” you drone as your lashes flutter.

“Mmm, good girl,” he kisses you before he sits up again.

He slides his fingers out of you and wipes your juices down your leg. You lay weak and quivering, the coverup is wide open around your naked body, the bikini hanging below your chest, the bottoms crumpled between your thighs. Each breath rises and falls heavily.

He raises himself on his knees and hooks his thumbs under his waist band. You stare. You can’t look away. He stretches it away from his body and around his rigid length. He pushes them down his thighs and stands to strip entire.

His dick bobs before him as he looks down at you. You stare at it. It’s... well. You think it looks pretty big. You peek down at your body and put your legs together. You don’t think it will fit. That though makes your stomach ripple. Inside?

He gets back to his knees next to you. He takes your hand and pets your knuckles. He kisses them as he caresses your palm. He examines it like something precious as he pushes it flat.

He guides your hand down to his dick as he kneels beside you. His chest strains as he curves your fingers around him. Thick, firm, the veins swollen and hard against your palm. He pumps you down and back to his tip. He quakes against the motion.

“Mmm, princess, do you feel how much I need you?” He growls.

You blink and nod as he keeps your hand moving slowly; down, up, down, up.

“Slow, like that,” he purrs. “You keep going, baby. Gotta make sure we’re both ready.”

He drops his hand away from yours and looks down. He watches you play with him. You see how his stomach tightens as he braces his thigh. He groans and chews his lip.

Your gaze falls to your hand. You’re enthralled by the sight of what you’re doing to him. You squeeze harder and he groans. His breath juts out of him in short puffs. His nails dig into the muscle of his thigh.

“Yeah, like that,” he goads. “Just a little more...”

#nick fowler #dark nick fowler #dark!nick fowler #nick fowler x reader #the 355 #locked out of heaven #series #fic #dark!fic #dark fic

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angel06babysworld · 2 days ago

Text

Almost a Family

babydaddy!rafe x blackcat!reader

Chapter Four

❀⋆｡˚⋆ฺ｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆｡ฺ⋆˚｡⋆❀

didn’t owe him an explanation. But she gave him one anyway.

“I have plans tonight.”

Rafe looked up from the spot where he was crouched beside Vivi, trying to detangle a Barbie’s hair with half the patience in the world.

He blinked once. “Plans?”

“Dinner.”

“With…?”

She raised a brow. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, eyes lowering back to the doll like it suddenly needed urgent attention.

“I need you to stay with her,” she said after a pause. “Just for a few hours. She’s already eaten. You just need to get her down by eight.”

“Okay,” he said, too fast. “Of course.”

She didn’t look relieved. Just… tired. Like the weight of asking him for anything still pressed heavy on her chest. Like no matter how many times he showed up lately, she still held her breath waiting for the moment he didn’t.

“She’s been clingy this week,” she added. “If she wakes up, don’t just put a movie on. Talk to her.”

“I always do.”

“I know.”

She lingered near the door. A coat draped over her arm. Lip gloss soft and barely there. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy. Still, she looked different—like someone who remembered she was more than just a mother.

Vivi ran up and hugged her legs. “Where you going?”

“Out,” she said, brushing a hand over her daughter’s curls. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”

“Can Daddy stay ‘til morning?”

Rafe answered before she could. “If you want me to, yeah.”

She didn’t object.

She didn’t say anything else, really—just kissed Vivi’s cheek, grabbed her keys, and left.

The door clicked shut.

And Rafe sat there for a long time after, staring at it like it might open again.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know this would happen.

They weren’t together. She didn’t wear his name. Didn’t ask what he did on nights he wasn’t at the apartment. Didn’t offer up her own answers either.

Still. It felt different now that it was real.

Vivi climbed into his lap with her favorite book, curling up like a cat against his chest. Her voice was sleepy when she said, “You smell like the ocean.”

“Is that good?”

She nodded. “You smell like when I’m not sad.”

Rafe blinked hard, arms wrapping tighter around her.

“Do you think Mommy smells like that too?” she asked.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, bug. I do.”

They read the book. Brushed teeth. She argued about pajamas and won. He tucked her in, lights off, door cracked.

And then it was just him.

Alone in her space.

He paced once. Sat on the couch. Looked around at the little things—artwork on the fridge, the same mug she used every morning, the basket of folded laundry she never got around to putting away.

His phone buzzed once. A text from Kelce:

“Yo, beer?”

Rafe stared at it. Then typed:

“Can’t. Babysitting.”

“Lame.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened the camera app. Snapped a photo of Vivi asleep. Then stared at it like it might answer something for him.

The front door didn’t open for a long time.

When it did, she stepped in quietly, coat over her arm again, hair pinned back like she’d been picking at it the whole car ride home.

Rafe was still sitting on the couch.

She didn’t look surprised.

“You stayed.”

“You asked me to.”

She nodded. Toed off her shoes. Didn’t speak right away.

Then: “He was nice.”

Rafe didn’t look up. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not for you to feel anything about.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Was it serious?”

“It was a first date. I left halfway through dessert.”

His head turned now. “Why?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t ask about her.”

Rafe didn’t move, but something in his chest loosened.

“I’ll let myself out,” he said after a beat, standing.

But before he could reach the door, she spoke again.

“Next time, I might not come back early.”

He paused.

“I know,” he said, without turning around.

And then he left—quietly, like always—carrying something heavier than just his keys.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @icversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby

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bravehyde · 2 days ago

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Ant Tenna Mike Anatomy: More Than Fan Theory References

~Deltarune Chapters 3+4 Spoilers~

We're taking a sideline from Tenna anatomy to talk about the Mikes, although the things I say in here may be helpful to Tenna artists anyways, so I'll put it under the tag. The Mike boss fight made me freak out over how these lil guys work. I've been going crazy about how these Mikes look and how they're little references to other stuff going on in audio equipment, so I'm going to go over that.

Before that, I'm going to just say one thing. Obviously, I know that the three Mike designs are based off of fan theories. I'm going to go over their possible inspirations in the world of microphones, though. This is really just me having fun with it.

The Names of the Mikes

This is what I found so cool. So, we have Battat, Pluey, and Jongler. Now, say those out loud, paying attention to how each one makes your mouth move. Did you notice something? Each name has incredibly different phonetics, meaning that their sounds and mouth movements vary wildly. They include sounds that you really want to make sure are good when you're doing a mic check. Or maybe, a Mike Check.

When testing sound, one of many things you have to do is to make sure all ranges of words you can say will come through clearly. You may have heard "check check 1 2 3", which is a good way to start but most people don't find it satisfactory and continue to full on sentences. If you have to go quickly, nonsense words with a variety of sounds will work great. AKA, their names. I don't think you need me to go through each name with their noises, but each name covers every type of vowel sound, and has the potential of spanning any pulmonic consonant, depending on your personal accent. I don't think Toby went through the international phonetic alphabet doing this on purpose or anything, but these are excellent names for sound checks and it's crazy.

Battat (Small Mike)

There are two different types of microphones he can be, and both are used primarily by people who need to be recorded saying lines in television. One is the dynamic microphone, and one is a lavalier microphone.

The dynamic microphone is easy to understand. You hold it, you talk into it. That's what he's holding, and it's probably what his head is supposed to be, too. However, I'm sure not everyone want to draw that tedious grid on his head. In that case, I wanted to offer the lavalier as an alternative for his dome.

The lavalier is hidden in someone's clothes, like through a button or under a shirt, and plugs into a pack that the person straps to their belt or in a back pocket to record and get power. These things are like a soft foam because of the windscreen, that black ball there, and don't tell anybody but they're very satisfying to pop in your mouth. So it makes sense, as the supposed "lead" Mike, to be two of the most recognizable microphones for people who work in television. Shows on sets and interviews will use these microphones the most.

Pluey (Cat Mike)

THIS is the one who is the reason why I wanted to make this post. Now. I know that he's a cat because of the theory he would be a cat. But everyone. GUYS. LISTEN. I need everyone to know that there is a piece of audio equipment that is literally called a deadcat.

You put the deadcat over a shotgun/boom mic to help it with wind and excess noise filtration. It makes sound better, basically, and if Pluey here is a deadcat, that makes him ANOTHER very important microphone to the broadcasting world. This thing is key to picking up sound effects and foley. If you're doing anything outside, you want a boom with a deadcat on you.

About his hands: again, very well could be a dynamic microphone, and again, that's a bit hard to draw, no? I wanted to offer another idea I had just in case you didn't want to deal with that grid. A deadcat is a type of windshield, much like what I talked about with lavaliers. When you're working in a studio as an alternative to deadcats, you may use a pop filter over a dynamic or condenser microphone. They're flat, easy to render as far as I can tell, and they match the shape of Pluey's hands, so it isn't a stretch of the imagination to say it could be a pop filter. Or maybe if sphere hands is too weird, pop filter paw pads. Just so you have some options.

Jongler (Motormouth Mike)

This one's a bit tougher since he could be a lot of types of microphones, but technically he's missing something he'd need to be them. He could be a lavalier but they don't have the texture shown when the windscreen is taken off. He could be a ribbon microphone but they have a strip of metal up the sides that he's missing. He could be a shotgun, but they don't have that silvery base. This guy is the sole reason why this post took so long, because he's such a headscratcher. Ultimately, I had to take the boxing gloves as a visual cue and decide to look for what sports commentators would use. I don't think a lot of people know about lip ribbon mics and he's obviously not that anyway, so we'll go with something more common. If he's supposed to be an allusion to boxing matches, they used ribbon microphones, which later got phased out for condenser microphones. It's not a perfect fit with his head so long, so we'll chalk that up to stylisation.

The condenser microphone is best for in a recording booth, and if we choose to believe that's what Jongler's supposed to be, that means we've covered the three biggest areas where someone would need a variety of microphones based on how controlled the environment is. A studio with a condenser is the best you can get, hopefully with lots of foam and someone on the other side of some glass controlling the sound. Then we have lavaliers and dynamic microphones on the set, where some interference could happen but it's minimal. Finally, boom and shotgun microphones are for outdoors and large sources of sound, where you have the least amount of say in what gets picked up so you're kind of hoping for the best. Pretty great variety in microphones if this was intentional, and if not...I just want more people to know that their accidental theory of Mike being a cat led to a really funny audio engineering pun to me and only me.

#ant tenna anatomy #mike deltarune #deltarune mike #cat mike #small mike #motormouth mike #jongler #battat #pluey #pluey mike #jongler mike #battat mike #deltarune #deltarune chapter 4

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raycatz · 3 days ago

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*peaks into the LU tag* oh drama?

*tries to find a source* ah them again.

Make what you want forever! LU is an AU and does not adhere strictly to loz canon. LU fanon does not adhere strictly to LU or to loz canon, and how things are written vary between person both within the LU fandom and LOZ.

I agree that the purity "you can't do this" "oh they're siblings" "oh but they're mirror counterparts" shit needs to stop. Creators in the LU fandom struggle with people trying to police this as well. I'm sorry those purity gatekeeping whatever folks tend to come from the LU fandom. It pisses me off too. It's something creators on both sides are fighting!

LU is one comic and headcanons/background in that comic and in the fandom do not apply across the board to other linksmeets. However, LU is going to be what many people are coming from and I can understand that that's frustrating.

I also agree that there's a lot of game knowledge not used or known in LU fandom stuff. Everyone is coming from different places of access to the games or time to watch let's plays. Doing homework and research should not be a requirement to engage with fandom. It should be something someone wants to do for fun. If you don't like their interpretation, block and move on.

and I'm sure guilt tripping and insulting people is a great method to get them to do what you want /sarcasm

The LU fandom was once a lot better / gave a lot more focus to researching and comparing and contrasting the games. A lot of the initial character building in the earlier fandom days was from dissecting the games and it was SO MUCH FUN. I think that part of the fandom has kind of died down and it's unfortunate. More prevalence is given to the existing fanon instead of understanding where or why that fanon came about, or looking to the games. (whenever I see people asking for if there's a fandom consensus on something I have to resist the urge to tell them that There Is None. There are more frequent uses, but no One Right Way to do something, and that's how it should be. Write what you think is most interesting without worrying about what others may expect. The beauty in the LU fandom for a while was how varied the fandom made the designs, or hcs. It was almost as though each portrayal was it's own slightly different LinksMeet and we were just sharing the cast and building them up together, and that has pretty much come to a slow and steady halt.) (There are youtube videos about the LU characters even which fail to differentiate between LU comic canon, LOZ canon, Jojo's Q&As, and fanon, and it's frustrating!) However, it is what it is? Imo we, (I?-) Should be doing what we can to disambiguate the information instead of picking fights.

I should not be giving time to LU drama rn. However, if people want resources on game info or character analysis hit me up!

There's a good number of LU posts that explore the characters from a game perspective (granted that they're from the LU fandom 2020~2022). If you want to know where a fandom hc came from there are explanations. There are a number of websites for accurate loz game info, and I have playthroughs I could recommend.

#rays random ramblings #*BIG SIGH*#''I hate the LU fandom''#man maybe it's because I'm on the creator side of things making LU things but the LU fandom has been pretty good recently!#my creator friends and I are having a good time playing with our blorbos #I can't say much about the ''LU fans'' people are going off about but the LU fan creators are doing okay.#I just don't think yelling at the ''LU fandom'' is very effective. The people just reading the fanfics probably don't care #or even know better whether or not the fic is accurate.#I'd prefer to have readers not correct me actually! (which is the same problem the linksmeets creators are having! We're the same!)#imo it'd be much more effective to provide info for the fandom creators or present info as something that's fun #for casual fans to engage with #fandom meta

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autumnslance · 23 hours ago

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Even if OP is being a bit tongue in cheek (IDK honestly) prev tags:

#housing is very badly setup in ff14 #I think framing it as a money hostage situation is a bad take though #demolition is a response to people buying houses decorating them and then disappearing for months and years #leaving their homes to sit there and be pretty and empty #it's a symptom of the core problem not a designed intent

The lottery RNG is bad yeah - and is still better than what we had before! Which was first-come-first-served click on the sign as soon as the house became available and hope you got lucky over the jerkass using a bot to do it for them.

We also have had people buy up entire wards on their characters (before you could only own 1 a world regardless of alts) and hold those wards indefinitely as their own personal private playgrounds and housing showcases. Which, when the population was much smaller, wasn't so much of an issue. I think a few people still have those grandfathered houses.

The real problem with FFXIV housing is it's all bandages atop of bandages. They never expected to be one of the biggest MMOs in the world, they were just trying to survive after the disastrous initial release and revamp. Housing came in the ARR patches and has been iterated on and expanded and rules changed since to try to make it more fair to active players, instead of keeping people currently playing locked out of the chance for houses cuz someone who hasn't played since Stormblood has a house sitting there.

And when there are disasters or issues, they will turn off the demo timer in regions to keep affected players from losing their homes, like wildfires, hurricanes, earthquakes, etc.

Does the housing system need a revamp? Oh boy it sure does. But that's going to take a massive overhaul of the system, which is time and money that's hard to come by for a side feature. Hopefully WoW's coming implementation (taking pros and cons into account from multiple other MMOs) is a kick in the pants SE needs to do something about FFXIV's housing situation, but I wouldn't hold my breath on that, either.

As for people feeling held hostage to their housing: honestly, that's a sunk cost fallacy skill issue people have got to grapple with and accept on their own. If you're not enjoying the game and need a long break or to quit altogether and your house is keeping you there? It's pixels. The real money and your time and peace of mind is more important than a pretend house and game you are not enjoying or can't afford. I have seen some people willingly surrender their house to not feel beholden to subscriptions when they can't/don't want to play.

Also, apartments never demo. They're small and limited compared to a house, but still a place for one's character, easier to get one, and able to leave decorated as one likes for however long.

kids these days don't even know how good they have it. they don't even know about the final fantasy 14 artificial housing crisis

#Final Fantasy XIV #Housing #systems #programming #when you rebuild a whole MMO core game in the timeframe of an expansion #the base code is going to be wretched #and the housing set up was not thought all the way through let alone for millions of players simultaneously

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wrestlersownmyheart · 2 days ago

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"Yeet Of Fate" Chapter 15 (Jey Uso X Female Reader)

Title: Yeet Of Fate Pairing: Jey Uso X Reader Summary: When you, an aspiring author, decide to take your skills to the world of wrestling, you decide to shadow and tag along with a couple of wrestlers to learn more about the sport for your upcoming book debut. None other than the Royal Rumble winner, Jey Uso, is the male wrestler you will be working with, and needless to say, that makes you nervous. You tell yourself, things will stay platonic. You tell yourself that…

Jey Uso is at the top of his game, the last thing he needs is a fan trailing around after him and fan girling all over the place. He wants to do his job, bask in the glory of it and call it a day. Not have to answer questions all day long from a wannabe writer. That's how he feels, until he meets Y/N face to face. She isn't what he expected. And he doesn't like to be wrong. As beautiful as she is… He will keep things platonic. He tells himself that…

Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: None

NOTE: I'll add a gif as soon as I can find one that fits the chapter!

*Credit to Gif owner--Not my gif*

Chapter 15

Jey followed Jimmy the whole drive, all the way to Y/N's house.

No pitstops.

Nothing.

They had the six hour drive made in a little less than five hours.

Just when Jey thought Jimmy was leading him into the boondocks, he pulled up in front of a large, two-story house with a white Jeep Rubicon in the driveway. He pulled up behind Jimmy and killed his rental. Then he was getting out of the car just as Jimmy was getting out of his.

They walked up to the porch and rang the doorbell.

In just a moment's notice, Naomi came to the door in her pajamas, complaining and saying, "How did I just know it was going to be you two? Why did you have to ring the doorbell? Do you know how long it took Y/N to fall asleep? She's only been asleep for an hour," she hissed at them. "I don't know how she does it in her condition-"

Behind Jey, Jimmy was frantically slashing across his throat with his hand, wordlessly telling Naomi to shut it. It finally dawned on her why, when Jey asked, "What condition? She's okay, yeah?"

"Oh, uh, well… she's just been really stressed and worrying about Gunther. She's not sleeping or eating much," Naomi answered.

Jey rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe you two should get going. She and I have a lot to talk about."

"If you think I'm leaving without saying goodbye to her, you're cra- Mmm!"

Jimmy clapped his hand over her mouth to shut her up, and then proceeded to lift her caveman style over his shoulder. He carried her out of the house and gave Jey a "You owe me" look while rolling Naomi's suitcase out behind them. All through this, Naomi was kicking and griping her head off.

As soon as they left, Jey locked the front door, and then looked up at the ceiling. Sensing that Y/N was mere feet above him in one of the rooms upstairs.

But he took his time. He wanted to get to know her better, so he looked through the lower rooms to see anything and everything that would tell him more about her.

He started with the living room and looked through all the photos she had mounted on the walls. She had school photos–he saw her senior photo and smiled at the innocence of it. She also had photos of family–he needed to ask her about her family, come to think of it.

He moved along the room and spotted the Bible on her coffee table. He appreciated that she had Faith. That was important to him as well. He took note of the decorating details: the curtains, knick knacks, and porcelain figurines she had displayed on various tables and shelves. Then he went to the kitchen and looked at the kind of food she ate. All healthy stuff, he thought as he looked around. He opened the fridge and saw almond milk, various cheeses, orange juice, and various other healthy items. She believes in taking care of herself, he added to himself. He was glad of that.

Finally, he walked to the stairs and made his way up them silently. He came to what looked like the master bedroom a couple doors down from the landing of the stairs, and looked inside the ajar door. The bed was empty but unmade and so he assumed this is where she was.

He stepped inside, and walked over to the bed–placed his hand on the mattress. It was still warm. She was here. He noticed a pink YEET shirt laying next to the pillow. He picked it up and smelled it, having a suspicion that it had been a shirt he wore. Sure enough he smelled not only his cologne on the shirt, but her fragrance as well mingled with it.

Realization dawned then.

She still loves me. Otherwise, why would she sleep with my shirt? And then he thought, after everything I said–did–to her…

Suddenly, he heard a toilet flush. He looked around and saw a closed door where the sound was coming from–an ensuite bathroom. He froze.

The door opened, and Y/N emerged, instantly spotting Jey by her bed, holding the shirt that was so dear to her heart. "J-Jey?..."

His eyes roved over her, and stopped at her stomach.

"You're pregnant?!"

The blood drained from her face, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she fell in a dead faint. Jey darted forward and caught her, keeping her from hitting the floor. He caught her up in his arms and cradled her to his chest as he carried her to the bed, gently laying her on the mattress.

"Come on, Mama…" he said softly. "Come back." He placed the back of his hand to her cheek, and noted that she felt a bit warm. He hurried into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, wet it down at the lavatory and then came back to her, placing the cloth on her forehead. She moaned softly, shifting her head on the pillow.

"That's it, baby. Come back to me." He kissed the back of her hand, and waited patiently for her to awaken.

Her eyes fluttered and slowly opened. Instantly, her gaze fell on him, and she gasped.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Something woke you up. You weren't sure what though. You just came awake, and felt the unsettling urge to go pee. So, you got out of bed groggily, and walked into your bathroom and took care of your business, then washed your hands at the lavatory.

You stepped out of the ensuite bathroom, and immediately spotted Jey at your bedside, his YEET shirt in his hands.

Jey.

"J-Jey?"

You saw his gaze roam over your body, and stop at your stomach.

He looked beyond shocked. "You're pregnant?!"

You felt yourself falling, but couldn't stop yourself. Everything went black.

You vaguely were aware of Jey's voice, and the feeling of him carrying you.

"Come on, Mama… Come back."

You faded out again briefly, and then came to once more, feeling a cool wet cloth on your forehead. It felt amazing with the hot flush you were having. A soft moan passed your lips and you turned your head slightly.

You heard Jey say, "That's it, baby. Come back to me."

A kiss to your hand.

You opened your eyes, and instantly spotted Jey sitting on the edge of your bed, holding your hand.

You tried to sit up in the bed but Jey kept you laying down by caging you in with his muscled arms.

"How-?... What are you doing here? Where's Naomi?"

Jey brought his finger to your lips and silenced you.

"I'm here because Jimmy told me that Gunther is after you again."

You rolled your eyes. You should have known Jimmy would find a way to get Jey to come to you.

"Well, it's not your problem. I'm handling it just fine without your help," you lied.

"It is my problem," Jey said, taking the cloth from your head and pressing it into the hot skin of your neck. You closed your eyes in the ecstasy of the cold, wet cloth cooling you down. "You and this baby are mine. I'm not going to stand by and let him hurt you. Either of you."

"What do you care? You left me in the hospital, Jey. You left me, without a goodbye or anything." You took a breath preparing to unload on him. "I've been so scared this whole time, because I'm going to be a single mother. Do you know how frightening that is?" Before you even realized it, tears were streaming down your face. Jey seemed to realize you needed to let everything out, so he allowed you to do that.

But now, with everything you were feeling, you couldn't manufacture a single word. You simply sobbed and cried. Finally, you were able to speak. "What did I do that was so wrong? Why didn't you want me–love me? Why did you tell me you did, and then so coldly turn your back on me when I needed you most?"

"Jey, stroked your arm as you cried and that just seemed to make the tears come harder.

"You didn't do anything wrong, baby. I did and do love you. I lied to you that night in the hospital. I lied to protect you. I thought you'd be safer here, than with me. I have a huge target on my back right now. And that puts a target on you too."

"I have needed you so badly, Jey."

"I know. And if you give me the chance, I'll spend my life making it up to you."

"I don't know, Jey. I'm so confused now. I have a lot to think about." You yawned and then groaned as a contraction hit you.

"What's wrong," Jey demanded, his hand going to your belly. He could feel the contractions hitting you hard.

"Just leave, Jey." You cried out. "It's only Braxton Hicks. They'll stop if you leave and let me calm down."

"I don't want to leave you."

"You have to!" You sobbed. "This can bring on actual labor, and it's too soon for the babies to arrive."

"Babies!?"

"Yes, I'm having twins. Now go! Please!"

"I'm not going far." Jey said, easing up off the bed. He slowly walked out of the room and left the door ajar.

You settled yourself against the pillows and willed the contractions to stop.

You had so much on your mind now. So much.

What were you going to do?

Would you let Jey back in? Or were you better off without him?

If you want on my tag list, just ask! 😀

Tagging:

@oreillystolemyheart @lookalivesunshine-x @southerngirl41 @claymoresofinfamy23 @beccalynns-world

@Heerah34 @dersha89 @shortyiceheart @wwechristina87 @expert-texpert

@sassymox @sammyfinn21-blog @alliecatsworldsblog @potatosackk @keisha-knell

@peaceloveandcurves @terrortwinunicorn @mzv11 @jazzyboo123-blog1 @ibelievedinjh

@fafomama @zigzoggy @raya-hunter01 @sharmelasworld @queenmotionlessxo

@skyesthebomb @moxley99 @mandabrammer2021

#Jey Uso #jey uso fan fiction #jey uso x reader #jey uso imagine #jey uso fanfiction

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nevadancitizen · 19 hours ago

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-> CH. 10: A HOUSE CALLED CARMODY DELL

synopsis: you tag along with hosea to set up a business deal.

word count: 4.8k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: sorry i was gone for so long! i stopped writing, felt like shit, started writing, and now i feel better. who'd have thunk?

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @lazycowboah , @shackspossum , @swedesfics , @literallyrousseau , @xprloki , @pedifero , @6esi , @xnorthstar3x , @scorpio-echo , @eafv2323 , @junesfruits , @gallantys (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You were never one to find robberies and petty crime exciting, but sometimes you do what you need to because you must. And Hosea – the arbitrator of god’s will, apparently – has deemed that you need to come on a petty stagecoach robbery because you must help the gang acquire money. You’re not exactly keen on putting out and you’re not sure you’d generate any sizable revenue anyway, so this is the next best (and profitable) thing.

You wait nearby, sitting on a crate as Hosea continues to talk to Seamus: the guy Hosea wants to exploit as a fence. The barn all three of you are next to faces the outskirts of town, so there’s less of a chance of nosy ears listening in on this private conversation.

“Well, every half-dollar robber says he’s capable,” Seamus says. “I never met an idiot that called himself one.”

“Very true. In that case, me and my friend here are idiots,” Hosea says. “But we know how to get things done efficiently.”

There’s a lull in conversation. You take the chance to say, “Hosea’s been robbing longer than I’ve been alive. What – what’s this guy’s place like, Fort Knox?”

“Well, no,” Seamus says. “The closest thing we’ve got is Fort Mercer.”

You look up just as the sound of footfalls meet your ears. It’s Arthur, looking between Seamus and Hosea and you. You have to bite your tongue because you just got away from him – just got an excuse to be outside of camp while he was in it – and now he’s here. Because hey, why the hell not? It’s not like this is your first actual job that you want to go smoothly. No, it’s totally one hundred percent okay that Arthur’s here. Honestly…

“Arthur,” Hosea greets. “This is Seamus – he’s our new partner.”

“I ain’t no such thing,” Seamus says.

“Prospective new partner,” Hosea corrects himself, “if he likes us.”

“Liking ain’t the problem – trusting is, as I said.” Seamus stands and checks around the corner. “And keep your voices down. I don’t want my boss hearing… This is a side line.”

“‘Course,” Hosea says. “Look at the three of us – honest as the day is long.”

“We can do some light work for you,” you offer. You stand, looking between the three men. “Give us an opportunity to, um… prove ourselves?”

A surprised exclamation of “Prove ourselves?” leaves Arthur’s mouth amid a laugh. He glances over at you and Hosea, gesturing at Seamus. “To this clown? Whatchu talkin’ about?”

“Good day, both of you,” Seamus says. He turns on his heel, his boots making a schlock sound in the mud as he walks away.

“Listen,” Hosea says quickly. He starts after Seamus. “He’s rough and ready and quick with his tongue, but I swear, you can trust him, you can trust them, and you can trust me.”

“I…” Seamus turns and glances over Hosea’s shoulder at you and Arthur. His eyes mostly linger on Arthur – probably figuring out the ratio of brains to muscle (which has a strong negative relationship in Arthur’s case). “I’m an old man.”

“You’re not old, Seamus,” Hosea says.

“I’m old enough,” Seamus counters. “And you know why I ain’t dead?”

“You don’t trust idiots.”

“Exactly.”

“We’re not idiots,” Hosea insists. “Let us prove it to you.”

You watch carefully as Seamus considers it. His face twists as he thinks, probably weighing the pros of working with someone like Hosea and the cons of working with someone like Arthur. You hope you at least mostly fall into the pros category.

“I tell you what,” Seamus eventually says. Your ears perk up and you turn your attention to him as he continues talking. “Old Bob Crawford and his boys just bought a beautiful stolen stagecoach from upstate. It’s in their barn. Now you go get that – and then we can work together.”

Hosea puts a hand on Seamus’ shoulder and guides him back to where you and Arthur are waiting, talking as he does so. “Who’s old Bob Crawford?”

“An… acquaintance of mine,” Seamus says.

“So you want us to take out your competition?” Hosea asks.

“Well, he – he’s not just an acquaintance,” Seamus says, “but a cousin… by marriage. I also wanna see if y’all got what it takes. Now, you survive that…”

“Where is he?” Hosea asks.

“He’s in a farmhouse just northwest of here, called Carmody Dell.” Seamus gestures down the beaten dirt road. “It’s just up the train tracks as you’re headin’ up towards Fort Wallace. There’s also money in that house – but that’s your business, not mine – but don’t kill nobody. Folks know we ain’t intimate no more… they’ll know it was me.”

Before you can question the use of the word “intimate” when regarding a cousin (by marriage, but still), Hosea speaks. “But you’re fine with us robbing your cousin?”

“By marriage,” Seamus insists, pointing a finger at him as if that further proved his point. “And yes, I’d love it.”

“You heard the man.” Hosea touches your shoulder as he turns to walk towards the horses. “Let’s go rob his cousin.”

Seamus mumbles “By marriage,” but you just hide your half-smile and follow Hosea. You mount Bronya and tug her reins, leading her away from the hitch.

Arthur mounts Belmont, and Hosea mounts Silver Dollar. They follow you a little ways away from Seamus’ barn.

“Really?” Arthur grumbles.

“Really,” Hosea says. “Lead the way. He said the place is just northwest of here.”

Belmont breaks into a trot as Arthur guides him onto the beaten dirt road. “Me?”

“You’re the one who’s been out gallivanting around here,” Hosea says.

Arthur passes you to lead, while Hosea lingers beside you. You pass by barns and fenced-in livestock on the way out of town.

The valley opens before you, the ground turning from shit-mud to packed down dirt. Winding, patchy desire paths join actual trailways, all bordered by grass that almost seems to roll when a breeze wisps by. A herd of horses slowly move out by the horizon, dotting the prairie with spots of black and white and brown.

Jesus, that’s beautiful, you think to yourself.

“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” you decide to say out loud.

“It is quite something,” Hosea agrees. “I’ve seen a lot of nature in my time, but the Heartlands trumps them all.”

“I’m… I’m jealous. Of your travels, I mean,” you say. You think for a moment. “Hey, maybe one day I can move my family out here? It seems… quiet enough.”

“Now, I – I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Hosea says. He glances forward at Arthur, then turns away to look out on the prairie. “Your girls are in California, aren’t they? They’re safer staying put for now. We can grab them on our way out of the country.”

“Do you…” You look forward to Arthur. He’s looking forward, most likely paying you and Hosea no mind. “Do you actually want me to run with you? Like, is this The Plan? Dutch’s Plan?”

“Ah, I’m just thinking out loud.” Hosea waves a hand dismissively. “Arthur – you couldn’t have played that thing with Seamus better?”

“Thought you wanted me here to show some strong arm?” Arthur says. “That’s usually how it goes.”

“Yes, but…” Hosea pauses. “You know how this works.”

“C’mon, Hosea,” Arthur drawls. “That feller’s a joke.”

“And that’s why he’s perfect!” Hosea exclaims. “He won’t cause us any problems. A safe spot to fence wagons and coaches, that’s easy money for us.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Come on, it’s not like he’s asking us to rob a bank.” He gestures over to you. “It’s perfect for their first job! If the two of us can’t teach some down-and-out how to steal a stagecoach, we should hang up our hats.”

You make a face at that but don’t comment on it. After all, you are some random person that came across them as a stroke of luck. If you were a bit less lucid in that cabin, Arthur could’ve shot you – so you guess that counts as another stroke of luck. It’s only a matter of time before that luck runs out.

“Thank you for that,” you blurt. “For – for trusting me with this job, I guess.”

“You need to start somewhere,” Hosea says. “Besides, we’re doing better. We won’t be in any major trouble if you make any mistakes.”

“Y’know, I figured more folks would’ve cut and run on us,” Arthur says. He looks to his left, like he’s thinking of looking over his shoulder at you, but he doesn’t. “Given all the trouble we’ve already gotten ourselves into, and the mistakes we already made.”

“Like Dutch says, a lone wolf don’t last long out on the plains,” Hosea says.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “He does like to trot that one out.”

“People see that, especially when they get a few years on ‘em.” Hosea pauses, then admits: “Even someone like Micah.”

“There’s a couple of folks I wish had cut n’ run,” Arthur says.

Hosea pauses, then says, “I bet there’s some folks that feel the same about you.”

Even though you’re expecting it – Arthur’s eyes on you, staring you down and reminding you of what a burden you are – it never comes. He keeps his eyes straight ahead on the beaten dirt road. He doesn’t look to his left, he doesn’t look to his right. He doesn’t pay you any mind at all.

That’s good, isn’t it? You ask yourself. I’ve made myself useful. Useful enough…

The rest of the ride to Carmody Dell is mostly quiet, occasionally punctuated by people riding in the opposite direction or a bird flying overhead. Once the homestead came into view, Hosea had instructed you and Arthur to wait while he distracted the boy chopping wood at the front of the house.

Your back is flat against the trunk of a dead tree a little ways away from the house, and you can barely see the brim of Arthur’s hat peeking out from behind a rock. You’re both watching Hosea, waiting for his move.

“My good man! My good young man,” Hosea practically bellows as he approaches the teenager, throwing his arms in the air in greeting. “Fare thee well, fare thee well. Is your father home, son?”

The boy brings the axe down with (what you assume to be) way less power than he intended. He almost looks conscious and embarrassed at the poor display, but neglects to even acknowledge it. “Sure is.”

“Get him down here,” Hosea says. “Please, get him down here.”

You look over at Arthur’s rock. He’s halfway out of cover now. He points at the back of the house, and you point at Hosea.

The boy puffs out his chest a little and puts his hands on his hips. “Get lost, mister.”

“I was lost! For many years, I was lost.” Hosea nods sagely. “Many years. Now… I’m not.”

A man opens the front door and steps out onto the porch. You look over at Arthur and he nods.

With quick, light steps, you follow Arthur to the back of the house. He puts a hand on the doorknob and braces the other against the door.

“You know what to look for?” He asks, his voice hushed and almost rumbling.

You think for a moment, then answer, your voice just as quiet. “Cash, jewelry boxes… I – I’ve done this before, y’know?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “I did not.”

Before you can ask him what that facial expression meant, he turns the doorknob and slowly opens the door. It opens to a small bedroom and suddenly, robbing a house feels a lot more real.

“I’ll clear the rest of this storey n’ check upstairs,” Arthur says. “You start with this room.”

And like that, you’re left alone. He didn’t even give you enough time to explain that yeah, while you’ve robbed a house before, it wasn’t like… this. You rifled through drawers at some house party with lots of people, lots of music, and – most importantly – lots of drugs. Most people were too out of it to understand why you were doing that, and the people that weren’t were blissed out on ecstasy and didn’t care anyway.

You inhale sharply to try to shock your system into being not as nervous. It only kind of works. You start to open drawers of the dresser and focus on what you can hear from Hosea’s conversation to try and ground yourself.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you can hear Hosea’s muffled voice say. “I was just chatting with Junior here a bit.”

“You sellin’ something, partner?” A man’s voice says. Probably Crawford.

“Free!” (You can almost hear the way Hosea threw his arms up, flourishing his faux excitement.) “A free spinal alignment.”

You bite back a smile and move to the chest at the end of the bed. You need to ask Hosea where the hell he learned about chiropractors, of all modern things. You shift aside the folded clothes and find a small clip of money at the bottom. It’s not much – maybe ten ones – but it’s still something. You take it and move on.

Keeping in mind what Arthur did earlier, you brace a hand on the door and slowly open it into a small living room. There’s a fireplace with a mantle, a rug laid out across the wooden floor, and a table pressed up against the wall with three chairs.

“The Lord God Almighty, or who-whoever built us, put our brains in our heads,” Hosea says, “but our souls in our backs. You, sir, y-your back looks kind of tricky, and complicated.”

You move to the fireplace, making sure to tread with light footsteps. His voice is closer now, and a door you can see in a corridor nearby looks like it leads to the front porch.

Two mostly burned candles and a small picture in a frame sit on the mantle, and a larger portrait hangs above it. The candles and the painting are useless, but…

You take the small picture and flip it over, then dig your thumbnail between the backing board and the frame. It pops open, revealing four fifty dollar bills behind the picture. You take them, then put everything back in place and move on.

“I can fix those spinal troubles for you,” Hosea says. “Just ten or fifteen sessions.”

“Whiskey suits me fine, sir,” Crawford says.

As you move into the corridor, you realize it’s a small entryway and kitchen. A brick oven sits across from cabinets with a sink and fruit on the countertops. Stairs lead up to the second floor, where Arthur is surely pilfering.

“Whiskey? Whiskey is – is causing the problems!” Hosea exclaims. “You ever meet a Scot who didn’t hobble in old age? But the English stand tall, sir – gin! They drink gin. And what is gin made with? Junipers. And what does juniper do? Creates movement in the spine, whereas your whiskey – made with grain as it is – leaves the spine brittle! Hence, your hobbling Jock.”

You turn towards the stairs when you hear footsteps, and Arthur is quickly moving down them, a hand on the banister. He snatches a mostly-full bottle of whiskey from a shelf near the oven.

He pats your shoulder as he passes. “We gotta go.”

You put up no fight at all and follow him. He leads you back through the living room and back bedroom.

He takes the steps down the back of the house slowly, looking towards the front. You follow, minding your footfalls. He checks over his shoulder, back at you, then points over at a barn on the other side of a clearing.

“Hosea’s got ‘em distracted,” he says, his voice hushed. “Now, you wait for my signal and we’ll go.”

You peek around the corner. The boy is a ways away, leaning on the fence and looking out on the pasture. Hosea… has the man of the house face-down on a picnic table, rubbing and poking at his back.

“See, now this, here…” Hosea looks over and spots you and Arthur. He nods over at the barn, then presses the knuckles of his thumbs into Crawford’s back. “This…! Is a technique from the Far East. You should be feeling some – some movement along your spine.”

“Kinda, yeah,” Crawford mumbles into the table.

Arthur sticks low to the ground, so you copy him. He snaps his fingers and starts walking, and you follow. He leads you around the back, past the water tower, and into the barn; all the while, Hosea still has that man (metaphorically) showing his belly.

Arthur pulls the barn door open just wide enough to usher you inside, then he follows and shuts the door. There aren’t any windows, and despite the one desperate oil lamp, it’s still reasonably dark.

Two horses are strapped to a fancy-looking wagon. It’s coated in a fire engine red paint-job and the brand on the side reads DAVIS OVERLAND DESPATCH CO.

“Overland Despatch,” you say, pointing up to the yellow lettering. “Isn’t it spelled with an ‘I’? D-I-S…patch.”

Arthur pats one of the horses on the neck. “How am I supposed to know?”

I’m just trying to talk to you! You say in your head in a song-song voice. Who could ever imagine… Me, of all people, trying so hard to be nice for some jerk!

“I… you… read,” you mumble. “I thought… you liked reading?”

“Well, now you can go and have a nice conversation with Lenny.” Arthur tugs on the horses’ straps and reins, making sure they’re connected properly. “The kid loves readin’.”

“I know,” you say. “I-I’ve talked to him before – about books.”

One of the barn doors swings open, Hosea sneaks in, then promptly closes the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and brushes the lapels of his coat clean of nonexistent dust and dirt.

“My friends, the time comes where we must make our exit.” Hosea points at you. “You – get in the wagon. Arthur – come drive with me.”

You open the carriage door and hop inside, while Arthur and Hosea climb up into the driver’s seats. There’s the sound of a horse being whipped, then the stagecoach jolts forward and starts moving.

The barn doors crash open accompanied by the sound of hooves pounding dirt. You brace a hand against the side as the carriage rocks. Through the window, you can see Carmody Dell getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Belmont, Bronya and Silver Dollar trot behind, easily keeping pace with Arthur.

This is nice. The job was clean – you did well. At least, you think you did well… didn’t you? $200 wasn’t something to stick your nose up at in 1899 (or even in 2024, really).

“So, what were you able to lift from the house?” Hosea asks once Carmody Dell has disappeared over the horizon.

“Found some money stashed away upstairs,” Arthur says. “Must be a few hundred – not too bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Hosea agrees.

I’ll tell them about my find later, you decide. Talking would be awkward, given that they’re outside of the carriage while I’m inside… or maybe I’m being weird.

You settle down and actually take the time to look around. The inside of the stagecoach is plush – or what flew for ‘plush’ back in the now. There’s a seat that kind of looks like the seats at the back of the bus on one side, and another on the opposite side.

You sit and push down on the upholstered leather. It’s firm, but soft. You shift how you’re sitting, and the firm cushions give way to some amount of comfort.

It’s not quite as comfortable as the mattress you have at home, but it’s loads better than the nonexistent mattress you have at camp. You lean your head against one of the wooden beams that lines the window.

The plains outside are marked sparsely, only by bunches of shrubs, trees, and the occasional homestead. It kind of reminds you of long car rides when you were a kid, without a phone or music to distract you from the exceptionally boring ride.

The way Arthur drives causes the stagecoach to rock back and forth slowly. The horses almost seem to pound their hooves to a steady, rhythmic beat. Your eyes are heavy, and you feel tired.

Robbing a house really takes it out of someone that’s not fit to rob houses, you guess.

Your shoulders sag, heavy, with the weight of a child. A blond boy named Sasha, no older than seven. You know this as a matter of fact, of course.

There’s something resembling a kalash in your hands, and a revolver serves as your sidearm. Sasha had really only come with you after noticing the guns you have with you – and his uncle’s guts splattered on the metal floor. He hadn’t screamed or yelled or done anything a normal child would’ve done. He just sat there, saying, “He’s dead? Uncle’s dead? But how will I get home? He was supposed to take me home.”

The children of the Metro are a perplexing thing. They were born underground, are being raised underground. Sasha alone has been through hell, and from what he told you about the monsters and the nosalis that attacked his uncle, he only stayed alive by sheer luck. Yet he’s still chugging along, gripping the top of your head for balance, not a worry in the world aside from when you’ll shoot your gun next and how loud and exciting it’ll be.

The tunnels you and Sasha snake through are claustrophobic, just barely bent into a shape meant for long-term human inhabitants. The V.I. Lenin Metro was never meant to have so many bodies crammed into it, but humans have a tendency to do anything they can to survive. Both parties just cursed their rotten luck and made do.

The ceiling, once so low you had to take Sasha off your shoulders to crouch down with you, now opens up into a silo-like room that breaks the surface. Sparse planks of wood are nailed into a makeshift roof, but slits of light still break through. The sky you can see is a bleak bluish-white, and you can hear the faint sound of a blizzard a few kilometers away.

“What’s that up there?” Sasha asks, pointing to the partial ceiling. Before you can respond, he continues: “Wait! Uncle showed me a picture once… The sk-sky. That’s the sky, isn’t it? It’s like… a painted ceiling!”

“Mhm.” You nod as you survey the room. There’s a tunnel up a good eight or ten meters in the side that leads into Hole Station. Light from lanterns leaks from the station’s entrance into the greater area. A scout fire at your feet illuminates a ladder that leads up to platforms that give way to a precariously-balanced extension ladder that rests on the lip of the floor of the station entrance.

“I’ll be famous,” Sasha parades from atop your shoulders. “I saw the sky!”

Not so sure about that, kid, you want to say. I see the sky all the time and I’m a perfect nobody.

You hold an arm up above your head and Sasha latches on. You lift him halfway up the ladder, then let go of him to stabilize the outer rails as he climbs. Once he’s up and out of the way, you follow after him.

You lean and put one of your feet on the platform Sasha is on to test the stability with your added weight. The sheet of metal doesn’t move. With careful steps, you get onto the platform, ushering Sasha along in front of you until he stops in front of the foot of the extension ladder.

“Hey!” You try to call up into the station’s entrance. Your voice is too weak, and the wisps of wind coming down from the surface isn’t enough to carry it. You bend down and bang your palm against the sheet metal below your feet.

Two men peek out, each dressed similarly to you – guns, kevlar, light and malleable metal bound to their shins and thighs by rope. A woman pushes one of them aside and immediately cries out a hoarse, “Sasha! That’s my boy; they have my Sasha!”

You snap an arm around Sasha’s middle to prevent him from running to his mother. He thrashes against you, but stops when his mom tells him to.

“I’ll hold this side of the ladder,” one man shouts over the gap. He gets on his knees and holds the ladder’s outer rings. “You get the other.”

You point at Sasha with a stern finger. “Wa… wait.”

You shift and hold the outer rings, then lift Sasha onto the ladder, careful of the flat-ish angle. He climbs on his hands and knees, completely focused on the ladder and oblivious to his mother’s fretting. She watches him with wide eyes, back and forth between Sasha and the ladder, her bottom lip pinched between her thumb and forefinger in worry. He just bumbles along, laughing delightedly when his mother scoops him up as he crosses into Hole Station.

You carefully follow Sasha’s footsteps, although you have to accommodate an extra ninety kilograms – both from you being an adult and all the gear you have on your person. Your ascent is not nearly as eventful as his.

A man claps you on the shoulder as you enter the station. He watches with you as Sasha’s mother fusses over him, pulling his clothes aside to check for any injuries, speaking to him in a soft but quick Ruslish.

“Thank you.” The man removes his hand from your shoulder. He starts walking, and you follow him.

The entrance is small and defensible. Hooks hammered into stone walls hold lit oil lanterns, their small flames contained by glass. Your headlamp would be a better source of light, but you don’t say anything. It’s called Hole Station, and probably for a reason. (You don’t really know if it was named that before 2013, but it’s not that important now.)

“If you had any idea how much that boy means…” The man shakes his head. “His father is really important to all of us, and if his son died, well… It would’ve killed him.”

You look over and see Sasha’s mother kneeling, her son in front of her. Tears carry the kohl that lines her eyes into black rivers that cut down her pale face.

“Where’s Mikhail?” She asks. “How’d you get up here?”

“Uncle is dead, Mom,” Sasha says. It’s clear that while he knows what the words mean and what order to put them in, he doesn’t fully know what it means when a person dies. “But this person took me on their shoulders – I helped them shoot the monsters!”

Sasha’s mother catches you out of the corner of her eye and stands, cradling Sasha’s face to her belly. “O, слава богу. Thank you for saving my son! I – I can never repay you, but…”

She pulls a cartridge – 45 military-grade bullets, you presume – out of her pocket and holds it out to you. “Take these cartridges. At least it’s something.”

Something in the back of your mind snaps. It tells you to take them. You scraped your way into adulthood, and you need everything you can to stay out of a shallow grave. This woman has a husband and a father for her child. And it’s not like you’re robbing her, either – she’s willingly giving up something with purchasing power, which is rare in the Metro. She fully knows what she’s doing.

You reach out and wrap her fingers around the cartridge, pushing them back towards her and shaking your head. She waits for a moment, then nods and tucks it away in her pocket.

As the two men lead you further along into Hole Station, you can’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Sasha’s mother is back to fussing over him, holding his baby-fat face and talking to him softly.

Your teeth grit together and you’re suddenly seething with jealousy. What are you jealous of? Sasha? He’s a child. You don’t want to be a child. Sasha’s mother? She nearly worried herself to death when her kid went away from home. You don’t want to worry like that. Maybe you’d like to have someone worry over you like that, but, no… this is a distinctly different feeling.

So why are you jealous? Are you angry? What do they have that you don’t? What the hell of theirs could you even want?

A child, that something in the back of your mind says. Where’s your baby? Your beautiful baby girl… Have you put her down to bed? Where’s she gone?

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