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weemssapphic · 14 hours ago

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Witch reader who has the gift of seeing ghosts. Some spirits whoa re particularly stubborn dont pass on like theyre supposed to. Most of the time she ignores them becuse they're still freaking out over dying and... Well dealing with hysterical people all day would be awful. She starts her new job at nevermore (teacher or soemthing idk) and while meeting the new principle in her office she sees the old one. Leant agaisnt the desk rolling her eyes and commenting on everything the new lady is doing wrong. She accidentily laughs a few times and manages to play it off, unfortunatley Larissa is sure that reader can see her and takes it upon herself to annoy her until she acknowlages her.

Oh god hello, bet you don't even remember sending this request 😅 but I really loved it and wanted to write it even if it has been a while so here you go, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Falling Behind

Words: ~2.1k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: Larissa is dead/a ghost but it's a silly little fic I promise, also lots of flirting

Knock, knock.

You rap your hand twice against the smooth oak of the door to the principal’s office. A ball of nerves tangles in your belly but you do your best to ignore it — you got the job, after all, and you’ve already technically ‘met’ the principal a few times via phone call. You’re just here to go over some of the details of the job before your official start date on Monday — standard procedure, nothing to be anxious about. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door and you try, subtly, to wipe the sweat from your palms on the back of your coat, which is already damp from the rain outside.

“Ah, hello, come in, come in. Welcome to Nevermore,” Principal Porter says as she swings the door open, giving you an easy smile and reaching out to shake your hand before stepping back and allowing you to step into the office. “Let me take your coat — it’s pouring outside, I hope the drive up here wasn’t too difficult. Would you like some tea?”

You smile gratefully as you step into the office and shrug off your coat. “Uh, no, thank you though.”

Your attention is momentarily diverted by a tall, blonde woman in a modest, cream-colored dress and kitten heels, perched at the edge of the principal’s desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s frowning at your feet. “What’s the use in oiling the floors if everyone is just going to track mud throughout the school?” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, but you glance at your feet and find that, indeed, you’ve got a trail of dirt behind you, likely from walking up Nevermore’s gravelly drive. Your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeak out, glancing pleadingly at the blonde as you subtly shuffle around, as if that will help.

“Sorry for what, dear?” Principal Porter asks — you frown in confusion. She’s smiling at you kindly, paying absolutely no mind to the woman perched on her desk, as if she hadn’t even heard her at all.

“For, uh… for tracking all this dirt in.” You glance sheepishly at the blonde, who looks absolutely perplexed as she stares at you.

“Nonsense, dear, it’ll be easy to clean.” Principal Porter waves away your apology. “Please, have a seat at my desk. Excuse the mess, as you might remember from our calls this is my first semester here as well and I’m still getting sorted.”

You nod politely, shooting a furtive glance at the other woman, whose presence is all but ignored by Principal Porter. You remember what you’d read about the school’s former principal — the first one in Nevermore’s long and fascinating history to be murdered on school grounds. Apparently, finding a replacement after that incident had been rather difficult.

The office is indeed still somewhat bare, the walls lined with half-unpacked boxes of paintings, trinkets, office supplies. The only furniture in the room is a rather modern looking desk with a glass top, a grey, ergonomic office chair on one side and a rather plain chair on the other side, and a somewhat uncomfortable-looking chaise longue in front of the fireplace. There’s a white filing cabinet behind the desk which has definitely seen better days. Principal Porter reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a manila folder, before taking a seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

Rummaging around in your bag, you prepare yourself by pulling out some signed paperwork that you’d been sent.

“Oh, thank you,” Principal Porter says as you hand her the paperwork, taking a moment to leaf through it. “Now… where was that form regarding staff housing…” she mumbles — the woman perched beside her rolls her eyes and lets out a huff.

“You’ve flicked past it twice,” she deadpans, clearly annoyed, and you suppress a chuckle. But Principal Porter doesn’t react and your suppressed smile turns into a frown. Who the fuck is this woman and why is Principal Porter acting like she’s not - oh. It finally dawns on you, and you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece it together.

The woman perched at the edge of the principal’s desk isn’t ‘real’ in the most accepted sense of the word — she’s a ghost. As a child, you learned early on that your special ability was seeing and communicating with the dearly departed. A week after your grandfather’s funeral, your mother found you, then only five years old, sitting at the kitchen table talking to yourself about something you’d drawn — though you recall your grandfather sitting beside you clear as day.

It wasn’t until you got older that you were able to tell ghosts apart from their living counterparts more clearly, though on rare occasions you still found it a bit tricky as they appeared to you as solid, corporeal beings. It was usually the more stubborn spirits that got stuck in the mortal world, unable to fully pass on into the afterlife, and (as the mortal world was a sort of hell for most spirits) those who did get stuck here were usually in a full-blown panic. Easy to identify.

Unless you were actively involved in helping a spirit pass on, you tended to ignore them as you went about your day — it was easier that way because, usually, as soon as they realized you could see them, they would not leave you alone. And this one — the tall, statuesque blonde leant over Principal Porter’s head — has clearly realized that not only can you see and hear her, but you also seem to find her a bit funny, and she’s eyeing you with great interest.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way the woman’s eyes burn into your skull.

“Ah, here it is!” Principal Porter exclaims, abruptly bringing your attention back to the meeting as she stuffs your forms into the back of the envelope, pulls out another piece of paper and slides it towards you. “I’ve already sent this to your email last week but just in case, here’s a copy of your class schedule for this semester. You’ve got two planning periods, here,” she points to a space on Wednesday morning, “and here,” she points to a space on Thursday afternoon — the woman perched on her desk interrupts her.

“I’m sure the woman is old enough to read,” she snarks, and you let out a little snort.

“Pardon?” Principal Porter’s brows knit together in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You frown. Your eyes dart to the other woman, but you quickly look away and shake your head, missing the smirk that forms on her face. “No, I’m sorry, everything’s alright.”

Unfazed, the principal continues with a shrug, explaining to you how office hours work at Nevermore, and you nod along politely.

You find it hard to keep your eyes off the blonde, especially when she seems to get bored of Principal Porter droning on about your classes and decides to stand up and pace the length of the office, her heels loud against the hardwood floors.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“We have a small but reliable pool of substitute teachers, so if you–”

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It’s damn near impossible to focus on a word that’s being said, almost all of your attention is on the rhythmic clicks of the woman’s kitten heels, and you’re starting to wonder if she’s trying to distract you on purpose. You can feel her presence behind you, the back and forth, the way the air stirs with her every step, all unbeknownst to your new boss.

“I’m afraid we’ve had to up the class sizes for our sorcery class this year, and you’ll have 35 students–”

You don’t catch the rest of the principal’s statement because the other woman has let out a loud sigh and started to complain. “Why don’t you tell her why–”

“... due to a shortage of staff…”

“Due to complete and utter mismanagement by the school board!” The woman rounds the desk again, coming into view.

Something about her irritation is endearing to you and your cheeks twitch as you hold back a smirk — rather unsuccessfully, as you can feel her eyes on you again.

“So you can see me,” she says, and you know without looking at her that she’s talking to you — you open your mouth to answer, then snap it shut again when you remember that, though you can see and hear her, the principal can’t.

“You should tell Principal Porter,” the woman starts, the title spilling from her lips as though it's poison, “that her administrative skills leave as much to be desired as her taste in interior design.”

You let out a shocked laugh and Principal Porter wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

You nod, stutter out another apology, and spend the rest of the meeting trying to tune out the woman’s comments.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about half an hour, you finally leave Principal Porter’s office with the keys to your new quarters in hand, insisting you’re fine to go check them out by yourself. You navigate the halls of the school, following the instructions your new boss had given you to get to the staff wing, and let yourself into your new living space for the school year.

Your quarters are spacious but homey, and beautifully quiet after the last half hour of splitting your attention between two people, and you lean back against the door after closing it behind you, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to Nevermore,” an oddly familiar voice purrs, and your eyes snap open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You don’t miss the way the blonde’s lips curl into a smirk at your statement. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

She ignores your question. “Your application didn’t say that necromancy is your specialty.” Her voice is smooth like velvet and she’s batting her lashes at you, her eyes raking down your form. She’s incredibly alluring — even in death. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a necromancer on staff, it’s a pity, really, such a useful ability, don’t you think?”

“It’s a bit annoying, actually,” you retort with a frown, trying to piece together who the fuck this woman is. ‘We’ve’ never had a necromancer on staff…?

“I’ve been called many things but I think this may be the first time I’ve been called ‘annoying’, my dear.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, her voice is still sweet as honey and she takes a step towards you, towering over you.

“You’re… who are you?”

“Forgive me, it seems I haven’t formally introduced myself.” She stretches a hand out towards you — pale skin, perfectly manicured red fingernails adorning long, slender fingers, a heavy gold bracelet around her delicate wrist. “Larissa Weems.”

Larissa Weems. Weems…

Ah. It finally clicks for you, you’ve read that name before.

“You’re Nevermore’s former principal. The one who…” Your voice trails off, you feel a bit insensitive, but Larissa doesn’t seem bothered. She smirks.

“Died? Yes.”

You shake her hand. It’s cold, but it’s solid.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say it because you feel like you should, because you don’t know what else to say.

“The pleasure is all mine.” The way she says pleasure makes your mouth go dry.

“I couldn’t help but look over your resume,” she continues. “Quite an impressive background. I would have hired you, too.” Her voice drops an octave and her gaze travels down your body and your stomach does a backflip.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling your face grow warm in spite of yourself.

“I heard your voice during one of your interviews, the phone was on speaker. I thought you’d be beautiful, but it seems my expectations have been exceeded.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Larissa chuckles, her smirk widening. “Would that be so bad?” You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not.

“You’re dead.”

“And so bored, darling,” she drawls, making her way along the perimeter of your room, trailing her fingertips along the dresser against the wall, perching at the edge of the bed once she reaches it. She crosses her legs, those long legs, her skirt riding up a little, and gives you another once-over that sends a spark up your spine. “I have to admit it’s been a bit lonely these past few months… you’re the first person who’s been able to see me, you know.”

She’s dead. A ghost. She’s not ‘real’. You try to tell yourself that, but the trouble is that to you, she is real. She’s as real as anyone else and she’s sitting on your bed, giving you a look that makes you want to bury your head between her thighs.

“Am I?” you ask, your heart in your throat as you take a step towards her — you can’t help yourself, she’s magnetic. She nods and blinks slowly, as if she has you right where she wants you, and maybe this is wrong but you don’t quite have it in you to care.

She’s as real to you as anyone else, dead or alive, it’s all the same to you.

You cross the room to her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #principal weems #principal weems x reader

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emilys-bangs · 9 hours ago

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courage, dear heart | e.p

Tags: established relationship (although reader isn't really in the fic), mom!emily, college graduate eloise, momily comfort, healthy dash of angst, lots of tears and lots of reassurances, no use of yn

Summary: Eloise comes back from college—adrift, spiraling, and slinking back into the safety of Emily's shadow. Emily helps her get things straight. Inspired by this ask.

Word count: 1.8k

Emily is not quite asleep when the door handle creaks. She expects the intruding figure to be Oliver, probably looking for a phone charger or a snack, but is surprised to see Eloise’s shorter silhouette against the hallway light. Emily perks up, her body half rising off the mattress on instinct.

“Sorry.” Eloise says, cringing as she shuts the door behind her. “Were you asleep? You got in not too long ago, I thought—”

“I was awake.” Her head meets the pillow again, her eyes tracking Eloise as she rounds the other side of the bed, void of your usual presence, and lifts the duvet up. “What’s up? You couldn’t sleep?”

Emily knows the restlessness that comes with moving house. Even if “moving house” is just going back from a college dorm room to the home you grew up in. Something changes, even though—in nearly every sense—nothing has. The puzzle pieces just don’t quite fit anymore; there’s a distinct discomfort lingering even when you come back to your childhood bedroom, squirming in your bed like maybe you’d outgrown it in an inch or two while you were gone. For Emily, there was never comfort at home, even before she left. Coming back after college only confirmed her need to break free, to leave the shackles of the embassy behind and go somewhere, anywhere, else. She knows that now, Eloise feels the same, a new version of her forced back into a house that’s gone virtually untouched by time.

Emily can only hope that, unlike for her, the feeling fades.

Even in the half light, Eloise’s smile is tight. “Didn’t try.” She says, sliding in and making the bed dip, her dark head nestling on your pillow. Emily waits as she situates herself, scooting closer and closer to her own pillow until the brown of Eloise’s eyes shines bitterly in the small lampshade light on her nightstand.

It’s a color she’s not quite used to. There’s blue shadows pooling in her irises, deepening the brown to a murky black that reflects light all too easily.

Emily hadn’t noticed it right away; it had taken time, over the course of the few days Eloise has been back, to notice the dullness that blunts her usually sharp edges. Her smile, the corners of her eyes, her wilting posture. It’s all been sanded down.

Emily is reaching for the messy hairs strewn across her face when Eloise slots her head under her jaw, arm wrapping around her, hand curling around her side.

Oh.

Eloise gets comfortable against her, lifting the duvet up to her shoulders, shifting her legs this way and that, movement rustling the bedsheets. Emily lets her wriggle. She’d never grown out of her restlessness, even while stagnant; she barely lets herself settle into a comfortable position before shifting again, curling and unfurling her limbs, turning from one side to the other.

Finally she stills, a warm weight at Emily’s side. Emily’s lips curl as her own arm loops over to her daughter’s side, her hand smoothing down her back.

“Hey, bug.”

Eloise huffs softly, a warm breath at Emily’s collarbone. “You used to call me that all the time,” she says, her voice small.

Emily hums, her heart glowing. “’Cause you were my cuddle bug.” She murmurs fondly, kissing Eloise’s forehead. “My cuddly girl. You hardly left me alone. Remember that?”

When she still had baby fat clinging to her limbs, when her cheeks were rounded and full and always turned to her mother’s lips for a kiss. Eloise’s home had, for a too-short while, always been in Emily’s shadow, in her arms.

Now, back in them again, she’s quiet. Emily frowns. She’s idly playing with her daughter’s hair when she feels something hot slide across her skin. Then Eloise gasps, a choked sound, and Emily realizes they’re tears.

“Eloise,” she says, alarmed. “Honey, what—”

“I wanna go back.” Eloise cries. She fists Emily’s shirt, her sniffles muffled in the crook of her mother’s neck, “I wanna go back, Mom.”

“What, to when you’d followed me around? You can still do that, sweet girl.” It immediately feels like the wrong answer, the first one that presses itself onto her tongue. Twenty one years of parenting, and she still fumbles it sometimes. “I promise you can. Ollie does, and he’s fifteen. He wouldn’t know personal space if it was an inch from his face.” She rambles mindlessly, the words pressing up against her teeth.

Eloise doesn’t reply. Her chest heaves against Emily’s, shaking with barely suppressed sobs that echo in the quiet room, the weight of her gasps heavy in her throat. Emily automatically shushes her, dry-mouthed as she rubs between her shoulder blades.

She wants to go back.

Go back where? College? The Europe trip she just came back from? Away from home?

Emily swallows thickly. “El, baby, talk to me. Please. What is it? Where do you want to go back to?” She coaxes her up and away from her neck, heart aching as she wipes the hot tears on her cheeks.

Eloise’s face crumples. She leans into Emily’s palm, more tears dripping off her chin before they can be dried away. “To when I didn’t have to know what to do.” Her voice cracks, splintering off in the silence. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know what I want or what I should do with my life. I thought I knew,” she sniffles, roughly wiping at her nose, “but I don’t. I don’t know anything. I thought—I thought I’d have it figured out by now, why don’t I?”

The corner of her mouth pinches like yours does when you’re trying to stop it from trembling. Emily’s heart twists—at your absence, at your daughter’s helplessness. She knows firsthand what that helplessness tastes like, how it feels to be tethered in place, cold shackles around her wrists dragging her down.

Her hand dampens as she gently swipes it along Eloise’s cheek, drying her tears. “Baby, you just graduated.” She says quietly. “You’re not supposed to know anything.”

Eloise shakes her head. Her nose is cherry red, lashes glinting with hot salt. “Everyone else does.” She whispers. “A-All of my friends, the people in my classes. Everyone knows except me.” Her voice pitches higher again, trailing into a half sob.

“So what if they do?” Emily persists. “That’s good for them. You’re not in any rush, Eloise.”

She shakes her head again, staunchly. “Why do they know?” The question is so fragile it nearly breaks her. Her eyes are saucer-wide and suddenly she’s five years old again, wondering why it is her mom couldn’t make it to her preschool graduation. “I loved studying and going to class. My professors said”—a sad huff parts her lips and Emily already knows, her professors said she had potential—“they said I was good, Mom. Promising.”

The word shatters, and so does she. Eloise leans back, letting Emily’s hand fall, her own fists digging into her eyes. She curls in on herself, her normally pushed back shoulders collapsing into her chest.

“Why don’t I know and everyone else does?” She rasps, the whisper compacting into a bullet that strikes Emily’s heart front and center. It starts to bleed, dark red streams pouring outward, dripping onto her ribcage.

Eloise’s dark hair shields her face. With her head bowed, knuckles poking sharply through her skin, Emily is looking into a mirror. A mirror, thirty something years ago, cracked in all the same places.

“Because you’re like me.” She finally says. “I didn’t know, either.”

Eloise lifts her head. She blinks her bloodshot eyes, pinning some of her hair behind her ear. “Really?” She whispers.

Emily nods, a sad smile tugging at her mouth.

“But you know everything.”

She laughs softly. “El, honey, I was a kid too, once.” And a major fuckup for that matter. “I was clueless for longer than your grandma would’ve liked. I was good at the studying, and I loved college life. My major was fun.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But the moment I got my degree in hand it’s kind of like…everything stopped. I didn’t know what then.”

Eloise swipes under her eyes. Emily hands her a tissue. “What did you do?” She asks, shuffling back to her side. Her head returns to Emily’s shoulder; the breath somewhat returns to Emily’s lungs.

“I gave myself the time I knew I needed. You can imagine that wasn’t easy.” Eloise laughs wetly. Emily’s lips twitch; she shares her impatience. “But when I did, I realized I wanted to get my masters. I know you’re looking for a straight answer here, but there just isn’t one. It’s different for everyone, and you’re in no rush to figure it out. I know,” she murmurs, leaning back to look at her, “you’re restless, like me. You don’t like to sit still. But you’re gonna have to. You have to sit still and think and try new things and open yourself up to all kinds of different opportunities. But you don’t have to figure it all out by tomorrow.” Emily cups her cheek, her thumb sweeping across tacky skin. “You have so much time, baby.”

Eloise’s lashes flutter. The glaze returns to her eyes, but it stays contained this time; the tears don’t spill out. Emily lets out a breath and brings her into her chest for a lopsided, awkward hug, surrounded by pillows and limbs and foamy mattress. She squeezes and Eloise squeezes right back, exhaling shallowly into her collarbone.

“You’re twenty one.” Emily kisses her daughter’s forehead. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Eloise loosens all of a sudden, tension uncoiling like a spring. Her eyes meet Emily’s, once again childlike.

“You’re not…disappointed?”

“That you don’t have your life figured out fresh out of college?” Emily strokes her hair. “No, Eloise, I’m not disappointed. Quite the opposite—I’m so proud of you.” Emotion clogs her throat, a heavy lump settling there and numbing her tongue. Emily kisses her forehead again, again, still not quite able to believe that this is the same little girl who used to never leave her side.

“You’re just like me, El, but you’re so much better. You’re everything I did right.”

Eloise shakes her head firmly, her mouth pressed in an all too familiar line. “I’m not better than you, Mom. Don’t say that.”

Warmth swells in her chest. She’s made of salt and heat and pride, her mouth twitching equally against both tears and a smile.

“Shh.” Emily stamps a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t argue with me. Mother knows best.”

It clicks after a second and they both laugh, a little damp, a lot shaky. Eloise sniffles after their laughter dies out, her arms tight again around Emily’s back.

“I love you, Mommy.” She whispers, the words breaking cleanly in the middle.

Emily knows her voice will bear the same crack before she even responds.

“I love you too, bug.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes@yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers

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buckets-and-trees · 2 days ago

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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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papayaem · 12 hours ago

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Chasing the sun

Lando Norris x gn!reader

Summary: In which reader has been busy with work and Lando takes time to makee them feel special Warnings: Use of the petnames 'darlin' and 'sweetheart', fluff

It was one of those peaceful days in Monaco, where the skies were clear, and the bright golden sun kissed the water without a cloud in sight. Lando was, as usual, full of energy. He was always the kind of person to bring life to a room, but today, his energy was more playful than usual, with a gleam in his eye that made you smile just by looking at him.

You were sitting on the balcony of your shared apartment, watching the world go by. The scent of the ocean wafted through the air, and you could hear the faint sound of waves crashing below. It was peaceful — exactly what you needed after a busy week. You had just finished your own work and were savoring the moment of calm before everything picked up again and Lando left for another race.

But peace never lasted long when Lando was around. You heard the faint sound of footsteps behind you and turned around just as a familiar voice called your name.

"Hey, darlin'!" Lando grinned widely, leaning against the doorframe as if he had no intention of letting you have this quiet moment. His brown curls were a little messy from the wind, and he wore an oversized white quadrant hoodie, comfortable but somehow still so effortleslly gorgeous.

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful smirk. "What is it now, Norris?"

Lando’s eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well, I was just thinking… you’ve been working hard lately, haven’t you?"

"Maybe," you said, teasing him. "What’s your point?"

"My point," he said, stepping into the balcony with a dramatic flourish, "is that you deserve a break. And I’ve got just the thing."

Before you could respond, he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slipped them on, looking like he was about to take you on an adventure. "Come on, we’re going for a drive."

You couldn’t help but laugh. "A drive? Lando, we’re in Monaco. What’s new about that?"

Lando’s grin only widened. "Not just any drive. A fun one. Trust me."

You were tempted to roll your eyes, but you knew Lando well enough that when he had that look on his face, there was no changing his mind. And honestly, you could never turn down his enthusiasm and adorable smile.

"Fine," you said, standing up and stretching. "But if this is some weird attempt to get me to buy you ice cream again, I’m not falling for it."

"Wait, hold on," Lando said, holding up a finger. "That’s not a bad idea. But no, today is about you. sweetheart" He held his arm out dramatically. "Now, shall we go? The adventure awaits!"

You couldn’t help but laugh at how seriously he was taking this. Taking his arm, you allowed him to lead you out of the apartment. You weren’t sure what he had planned, but you trusted Lando—his spontaneity was one of the things you loved most about him.

The two of you slipped into his McLaren, Lando in the driver’s seat, looking way too pleased with himself as he started the engine. The purr of the car’s engine was like music to your ears, but you quickly turned your attention back to Lando. He was already looking at you, hand placed gently just above your knee, eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

Lando shot you a quick wink before turning his attention back to the road. "Somewhere special."

The drive was smooth, the roads of Monaco winding in front of you like a maze, each turn offering a new view of the harbor or a glimpse of the yachts. The sun bathed everything in a warm glow, making everything feel more magical.

You let out a contented sigh as you watched the world around you, the light breeze ruffling your hair. Lando had always had this effect on you. It wasn’t just the places he took you or the way he always seemed to know how to make a moment feel special. It was the way he made you feel: like the world had slowed down just for the two of you.

Finally, after a few minutes of winding through the streets, Lando pulled into a secluded spot near the cliffs that overlooked the sea. It was a small park, one that most tourists didn’t know about, and it had a perfect view of the ocean stretching out as far as the eye could see.

"Here we are," Lando announced, pulling the car to a stop and getting out. He opened your door with a flourish, his hand extended to help you out.

You stepped out, gazing at the view in front of you. The turquoise waves crashed against the rocks below, the scent of saltwater filling the air.

"This… this is amazing," you said, your voice soft as you looked at Lando.

Lando gave a nonchalant shrug, though you could tell he was pleased by the reaction. "Told you. I know all the best spots."

You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. His expression was soft, sincere—nothing like the playful energy he usually carried. There was something calming about him today. Something about the way he looked at you made your heart flutter.

"You really do know how to make a moment perfect," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s cheeks flushed slightly at your compliment, but he quickly masked it with a grin. "I try." He paused, eyes scanning the horizon for a moment. "I just… I wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve been working so hard, and I figured, maybe you deserve a little break."

You stepped closer to him, the wind picking up, sending strands of your hair across your face. Lando instinctively reached out to push them back, his fingers brushing against your skin. The simple gesture felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the world.

"I appreciate it," you said, your gaze locked with his. "This is exactly what I needed."

Lando’s smile softened, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. The world around you faded, and all that mattered was the quiet moment you shared together.

"Good," he said softly. "Because I’d do anything to make you smile."

You laughed, feeling warmth spread through your chest. "You’re always so cheesy."

He shrugged with that familiar grin. "I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for you."

You laughed again, shaking your head at him. "You're impossible."

"I know," Lando replied, his voice suddenly more serious. "But I’m also yours."

You could feel your heart race as his words sank in, and for a moment, everything felt even more perfect than before. Lando had this way of making you feel like the most important person in the world, and it was impossible not to fall for him more every single day.

The sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden hue. It was the perfect evening—quiet, intimate, and full of unspoken promises.

Lando leaned in closer, his hand gently resting on your shoulder as he stood beside you, both of you watching the sunset in silence. You felt his warmth next to you, his presence grounding you in the moment.

"You know," he said after a while, his voice light, "I think I could get used to days like this. With you."

You smiled, your heart swelling in your chest. "Me too."

And as the sun set over the horizon, the world seemed to shrink around you. In that moment, it was just you and Lando—no expectations, no pressures—just the two of you, enjoying the simplicity of the moment, together.

First fic on here <3

Please to not copy or Translate without permission x

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando x reader #ln4 #ln04 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #oneshot #papayaemfic

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hopelesslysoft · 2 days ago

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Her (Chishiya x reader)

Summary: Chishiya wakes up in the hospital after leaving Borderland. Something feels different — like coming that close to death changed him. And the first thing his mind goes back to…is the girl he knew before the meteor.

Warnings: none

Words: 1244

A/N: Hi there! 👋

I’m completely new here on Tumblr, so first of all — hello and thank you for stopping by!

I’ve decided to share something I’ve written, just to test the waters a bit. It’s just a small piece for now, but if it happens to resonate with you, there’s definitely room for more — maybe a collection of one-shots with this pairing, or even a longer, ongoing story. Honestly, that all depends on your interest.

Also, a small note — English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes you might come across. I really appreciate your understanding.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read — it truly means a lot. Feel free to let me know what you think!

Wishing you a lovely day — and see you around!

The clock ticked steadily, but the hands moved like time had forgotten how to flow.

The air in the room was dry, thick with the suffocating scent of disinfectant that clung to every breath, scratching his throat and burning his nostrils. The silence was dense, sticky — broken only by the soft “beep” of a monitor and the barely audible rustle of sheets when his body twitched ever so slightly.

He lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if trying to find answers up there — the kind he couldn’t locate within himself. His body didn’t feel wounded as much as it felt… alien. Detached. Like it wasn’t his. Like it was just a shell — a temporary shelter that once belonged to someone else entirely.

He couldn’t remember the exact moment his heart had stopped. But now, waking up — too alive to be dead and too hollow to really be living — everything felt fragile. As if something had been taken from him. Or maybe... something had been given to him that never should’ve been his.

He could feel it. Something had changed inside him. But it hadn’t come suddenly, like lightning. It was more like a whisper under the surface — a ripple on water once smooth, cold, dead.

Because that was what he had been: composed, impenetrable, closed off. A man no one could ever really get close to. He didn’t know attachment. He didn’t know longing. Desire was foreign to him — like a language he’d never bothered to understand.

And now... now he couldn’t sleep.

Something was tightening in his throat. And it wasn’t death. Death didn’t scare him. Maybe he had even been waiting for it — the logical end to an irrelevant journey. But it wasn’t death that hurt. What hurt was life. The life he’d been given back.

And then, in that hot, suffocating room — a memory appeared.

Y/N.

When he opened his eyes for the first time, for a split second, he was sure he could smell her. The same scent that used to linger on his sheets when she’d fallen asleep next to him. She wasn’t there. But the air felt familiar.

He jolted upright — or as close to it as his exhausted body would allow — and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands clenched tightly on his thighs, eyes locked on the wall as if it held answers he couldn’t find within himself.

He wasn’t sentimental. People came and went from his life quietly, almost unnoticed. He’d accepted that no one stayed. And he certainly never thought he’d be the one to want someone to stay.

But still — the images came back. Sharp. Painful in their simplicity.

Her — walking in without knocking, holding two coffees and that wide smile on her face. Her — sitting on the floor, hunched over textbooks, brow furrowed in concentration. Her — falling asleep on his shoulder, unaware he was pretending to sleep just to avoid talking.

She had always been there. And he had never truly seen her.

She was beautiful in a way people didn’t get used to. The kind of beauty that made people go quiet when she entered a room. But what struck him most when he met her — and what he never really understood — was that she never used it. She could’ve had everything. But she chose hard work. Lonely nights with books. Fighting for something more — something that had nothing to do with how she looked.

And even though the world could’ve been hers — even though she could’ve had anyone — she chose him.

And what did he do? Nothing. She was there. She gave everything. And he stayed cold. Closed. He treated her like something convenient, obvious. Like a presence you tolerate — but could live without.

And now... now just the thought of her clenched something deep inside him.

Not because he’d suddenly become soft. But because, for the first time, he realized he’d lost something real.

He had never been taught tenderness. There was no room for closeness in his world.

But she — that girl with the soft accent and eyes that cut right through him — she gave him something he didn’t know how to receive. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he just didn’t know how.

He remembered the way she once looked at him, smiling gently, and said:

“You act like emotions are something you’re supposed to run from.”

He didn’t respond. Just smiled faintly — like brushing off her words. Like they weren’t true. But they pierced deeper than he ever admitted.

They slid into him silently, without resistance. Because he knew she was right. He was afraid. Of feelings. Of closeness. Of her.

And yet, despite all the fear and denial, despite the terrifying moment his heart stopped beating — she was the first person his memory returned to.

Where was she now? Back in her country? With someone else — someone more mature, more human — someone who could give her what he couldn’t?

Did she still think about him?

He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted her to remember him.

He had no right to return to her world. Not after how he treated her. He knew that. He wasn’t planning to go near her. Unless… fate gave him a sign.

He shook his head, smirking bitterly at his own foolishness. A sign? He didn’t believe in that crap.

He didn’t believe in fate. Or signs. Or destiny. He believed in facts. In analysis. In control.

But still, somewhere deep and uncomfortable inside him, something wanted — for once — for his cynical side to be wrong.

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of the door opening and the squeak of wheels. A nurse rolled in his roommate and helped him settle in bed.

The guy’s body was wrapped almost entirely in bandages. His face covered with dressings, raw burns peeking through.

“Dude,” the burned boy rasped, voice rough with typical malice, dragging out his words. “Something must’ve fried in your brain during that minute without a pulse. You staring at the wall looking for tips on how to become a better person or what?”

Chishiya inhaled sharply through his nose and said nothing. Silence was familiar.

But he already knew Niragi wasn’t one to let silence stay for long.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Niragi sighed theatrically. “You go play redemption arc. I’ll use my new look for something more fun.” He pointed to his face. “I’ll say I saved an old lady from a burning house. Chicks love scarred heroes.”

But for a moment — just a flicker — there was something behind his voice. Something more than cynicism. A shadow. Maybe loneliness. Maybe something deeper, buried under all that sarcasm.

“You know what?” he added suddenly, like trying to erase the brief slip. “I think even like this, I could totally steal that pretty girl of yours.”

Chishiya looked up, intrigued.

“Who are you talking about?”

“That gorgeous foreign girl. She came by while you were still out. Asked about you, sat here quietly for a bit, then vanished. But seriously… you had her? Damn. Respect.”

Niragi kept talking, but Chishiya didn’t hear him anymore.

She had been here — when he was unconscious. It had to be her.

He wanted to ignore it. Brush it off. Tell himself it didn’t matter. But he couldn’t.

She came. Even though she didn’t have to. Even though she shouldn’t have. Even though he gave her no reason to still exist in her world.

His heart slammed in his chest. Hard. Violent. Painful.

“Seriously, if you don’t want that white gold, I’ll take it,” Niragi added in the background, shrugging.

But Chishiya wasn’t listening anymore.

He turned, eyes back on the wall. But this time, his expression was different — determined. Focused. He didn’t say a word.

But something in him had shifted. Almost imperceptibly. Yet irreversibly.

A thought, still without shape. A decision, just beginning to form.

No, Chishiya didn’t believe in fate. Or signs. Or destiny.

But he didn’t need a sign anymore.

The fact that she had been there — unlike some imagined prophecy — was tangible, real, something he could understand.

And that made it worth more than any sign ever could.

He knew he didn’t deserve a second chance with her.

But his brush with death hadn’t changed him that much.

He was still selfish. Which is why the very first thing he’d do to try and make this life worth something... Would be the most selfish act of all.

He’d get her back.

#chishiya x reader #alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #nijirô murakami #alice in boderland x reader #aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #aib x reader #aib fanfic #shuntaro chishiya #chishiya x fem!reader #chishiya x you #shuntaro chishiya x reader

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lilrobinbird · 3 days ago

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Knock-knock-knock knock-knock found this creature a bit difficult to boop, but how are you doing? :)

Are you still playing the guitar? And what songs do you like to play?

I'm back from the trip!! The creature is catched and ready to be booped :^] (it's a different bird but pay that no mind lol) This is one of the museums paintings, I'll put more under the cut

This got a little long so be prepared, also if there's any typos it's bcs I'm typing on my laptop where no autocorrect can save me

I'm still playing guitar but not too much, I'll probably get bored soon lol😅😅 It's very fun but I want to draw more in my free time again. (also there was hades 2 update which means I need to play again shfhs) Guitar now is just something I remember exists every few months or years. In highschool I started learning the last of us game main theme, so I'm mostly trying to play it again but I'm not as smooth with my fingers as I used to be. I'm trying some new songs from hades soundtrack too but otherwise I'm also just playing random chords and trying to learn new ones. Muscle memory kicked in with the most basic ones so I'm glad hehe but there are many more others that are harder or that I never learned at all. Or the ones where I always remember the fingers position but pressing them correctly and hard enough is tough lolol. Mostly when you have to hold a few strings + you use one whole finger to hold every strings at the same time (the line here is what shows this)

And now about the trip, we went to that concert I maybe mentioned and I could feel the drums inside my chest, I was scared my heart would start beating to the uneven rythm of them sfsudjsjgs. Weird feeling but I got used to it after some time and it was fun. Have you ever been to a concert btw? I only remember you've been to some festivals

I think I like concerts but I wouldn't go to them too often, very loud event lol but well that's the point of them

And more fun was definitely the warsaw national museum

flexing angel 💪

artist's barely disguised fetish

snakes🐍

bear! At first I thought he's attacking them but he's already dead and they're going back from hunting😩 still amazing painting

and some random stuff

sadly there's image limit but if I find some more pics worthy posting I'll put them in a rb

And how are you, what were you doing lately?

#ask

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flickering-nightfall · 2 years ago

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i was playing the paleo pines demo when i found out the main town area is named pebble plaza. i blacked out and several hours later, woke up to find these on my canvas

#sorry i was... SO tired of drawing backgrounds by the time i got to inv and saint's #anyways uhhh *dinosaurs your slugcats*#i have another weird crossover idea other than this. we'll see if i get around to it #after almost exclusively using rough/sketchy lines for a while it was Quite Interesting going back to smooth #i used to only use smooth for a long time too...#rain world #paleo pines #group pic #art #flickerdoodles #backgrounds were reffed from game screenshots #design patterns were reffed off in-game patterns or concept art with slugcats' colors substituted in #dp spoilers #i guess. cause of suns and inv

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mlobsters · 3 months ago

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jared padalecki, jensen ackles, rob benedict, richard speight jr jib con 2025 panel (amberdreams)

slaphappy and punchdrunk (no wonder it ended up in a piggyback ride)

+bonus

#j2 #jib15 #jibcon 2025 #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #rob benedict #richard speight jr #long post #j2gifs #mygifs #j2 gifs #jibcon #just some more nonsense. they were really on one #saw the hand holding thing so i went looking to see if i could make the quality a bit better and ended up with all ... this #not to mention whatever i ffw'd through that involved them acting like they were all in a car? that was too much for me :p #the weirdly smooth motion and slight blurring is from me using the stabilization in premiere on the video #it was pretty jittery so i just used the out of the box warp stabilization thing #which. if i knew what i was doing maybe i could make it look better but i don't and it's not in me to learn something new #because i already have remade these gifs like 3 times because i kept trying to not make them huge (failed) or forgot smthg #the joke that broke jensen at the end can only marginally be called a joke LOL but you know when something hits you just right #and perhaps you're sleep deprived/hungover/who knows what else :p

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shadowlikesvsynth · 22 days ago

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Progress on the gays

#Ik Fuka's eye is covered by his hair but in my defense it was like that in the reference image I used too #And that was made by his official illustrator #I love how much texture his hair has to it and then Piko's is just ✨️smooth✨️#These two have been a pain in the ass #Fukase #Utatane piko #Fukase vocaloid #Pikase #I'm almost done with the tuning #I may experiment with the different parameters n stuff but only if I have time #I want to make sure this releases b4 June ends because if it doesn't #I will scream #I'll start drawing the clothes tomorrow #I already made a concept sketch of how I want them to look so it shouldn't take too long #Rambles in tags #They do have eyes I just turned that layer off so I could draw the hair

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mg549 · 4 months ago

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SO THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT THEY TOOK MY FUCKING BOY?!?

#lemon demon #neilathotep #aurora borealis #my posts #i always rly liked this piece #from my lined paper era <3 #bc i don't use traditional bound sketchbooks i use a binder that i fill w/ ~20 sheets at a time #then add the next ream when i fill those up. repeat until Bursting then continue to next binder #&i used nb paper for a rly long time bc I Was A Kid&i liked the Texture (super smooth&easy to draw on) plus it was pre-hole-punched too so #i only switched to Hand Punching Copy Paper when my art started getting Attention&i wanted it to look more professional #&thats Still How I Draw Today👍im on binder number 8 iirc #&on average it takes a little over a year to a year and a half to fill them #when i first started work tho it took me TWO YEARS to fill ONE :[[[#but now they're filling back up again at my usual pace :]]]

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jaesblogstuff · 1 month ago

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Not again

That one awful time you got a UTI because you didn’t pee after and it ruined both you and Simon for days...and the future.

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s distant. Slow. Boneless and heavy and floating at the same time—like you’re made of liquid, spilled across the bed, soaking into the mattress where Simon left you.

Everything’s sensitive. Your thighs are trembling. The inside of you feels warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible—so full, so sore, still twitching from the way he held you down and ruined you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. it’s all Simon.

You might’ve fallen asleep. You’re not sure.

Then you hear him shift.

You don’t move.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble into the pillow.

He exhales slowly through his nose, amusement crackling under the surface of his voice.

“It’s been thirty.”

You groan, long and dramatic, and turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I have.” He leans in, mouth brushing behind your ear. “But you’ve got to get up now.”

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he says, not unkindly. “You do.”

“Fuck off.”

“You need to pee.”

You sigh with a full-body shudder. The last thing you want is to move. Your thighs still twitch with every shift, every reminder of how hard he’d been in you—deep and rough and mean, the kind of mean only Simon can be when he knows you like it.

And now?

Now your brain’s caught somewhere between satisfaction and irritability.

You squirm an inch and hiss at the soreness. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

He hums again. Not arguing. Not pushing. Just present.

And then you snap, just a little. Not angry, just done.

“God, why are you like this?” you bite. “You get off, and suddenly I’m a project.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, with that same frustrating calm “I get off because I wreck you, sweetheart. But I also remember what happens when you don’t move after.”

You're quiet.

“Yeah.”

You groan again. “Don’t bring it up.”

“I am bringing it up.”

He shifts beside you, moving the hair away from your damp cheek.

“You remember what happened last time.”

You do.

Unfortunately.

That time when you’d passed out immediately after sex—sore, blissed out, perfectly used—and slept the whole night through. Didn’t pee. Didn’t think to. And the next morning?

UTI. Full force.

Your insides were on fire. You couldn’t sit down without wincing. Couldn’t even have him look at you, let alone touch you.

You were grumpy. Snappy. Miserable.

He was worse.

Because not only were you suffering, but he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fuck you. Could barely cuddle you without getting a sharp “Don’t touch me, Simon.”

He was all but climbing the walls by day two. You'd heard him mutter “This is hell” when you snapped at him for putting the wrong tea in your mug.

And even then, he never said I told you so.

He just brought you cranberry juice and heated pads and ran you a bath and kissed your temple like he didn’t feel half-insane.

Now?

Now he’s not risking it.

“You were a nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing your lower back. “And I didn’t get to fuck you for a week.”

You roll onto your side to glare at him. “It was your fault too.”

“Exactly why I’m carrying you.”

You pout harder. “I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re literally talking to me right now.”

“Simon—”

He sits up and leans over, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. “I'm not doing this again.”

You huff, but you don’t fight. Your limbs flop against his chest like dead weight. You nuzzle into his collarbone, still grumbling.

“You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“Bossy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I still can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckles and carries you across the room, his big palms smoothing over your bare skin as he holds you close.

Once in the bathroom, he sets you on the toilet like something precious.

And instead of stepping back or giving you space, he stays.

Right in front of you.

He’s standing tall, bare chest in your face, warm hands on your shoulders—guiding you gently forward until your cheek rests against his stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re soft,” he says. “All bark.”

You don’t respond.

Your body’s buzzing. Your thighs are still trembling. But when you finally relax enough to pee—

“Oh—oh my God—”

You jolt.

The pressure. The release.

Your muscles seize instantly, twitching with overstimulated nerves. It’s not just peeing. It’s like a second, slow-burning orgasm. Your body shakes with it, cunt fluttering around nothing, your legs twitching like Simon’s still inside you.

You gasp against him, trembling. It's not even about the release—it’s the aftershocks. The sudden emptiness as your muscles unclench. The way your cunt spasms around nothing as your body reacts to being let go.

Simon holds you tighter.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of his sweatpants.

His hands drop to your back.

“Easy, love. Just let it happen.”

Your knees buckle where they’re spread. You squeeze his sweatpants for balance, forehead still pressed to his stomach as you twitch through it—little pulses, flutters, everything still too much.

Your voice breaks. “Feels like—feels like I’m coming again.”

“I know.”

“Still—God, it’s still in my spine—”

You twitch again. His arms stay firm. He pets down your back, anchoring you, holding you upright as your body finishes unwinding in slow, shaking pulses.

And you do. You feel everything. His hands rubbing your back. The warmth of his chest under your cheek. The way he steadies your thighs when they jerk.

And when it’s over—when your breath evens out, and the spasm finally dies down, you just stay there. Arms weak. Legs numb. Whole body ruined.

Simon strokes your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You did perfect.”

“I’m mad at you,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

“You always say that.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘don’t stop.’”

You groan. “I was lying.”

“You were begging.”

You slap his thigh half-heartedly. “I hate you.” He grins and helps you stand, supporting you like your knees might give out again—which they might, honestly.

You lean on him as he cleans you up, wipes you with practiced tenderness, and carries you back to bed without another word.

Once there, he slides one of his shirts over your head, tucks you under the blanket, and stretches out beside you with one arm around your waist.

Your face is buried in his chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady, solid.

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cathnospam · 2 months ago

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Your best friend Bakugo has a very interesting habit of laying FACE DOWN between your thighs when he comes over.

It’s not often he comes to your dorm since he’s been so busy lately, but when he can, he either takes you away from UA or lock your door and spend the evening there with you if he’s not in the mood with anybody else. Which you don’t mind, next to Kiri and Deku you’re his closest friend. #1 closest female friend he ever had . Probably for as long as you both became self aware.

And when you both do the second option to stay in your room he goes to use your shower, comes out with nothing but his dog tag you got him and black sweats. You’re usually laying on your back reading something on tumblr or playing on your switch when you feel the weight of your best friend spread your legs and comfortably lay between your thighs.

The only slight problem is that once he is completely out of it he shift his head a lot and he lands face first in your crotch.

It’s not THAT BAD, you’re not technically feeling anything seeing as your body is not extremely sensitive to touch, but his forehead on your pelvis, but you’ve looked up at your full length mirror to see how he sleeps on you and if anybody walked in…

well…

it would look like he’s eating rather than sleeping.

You clearly don’t hate it nor complain, you just don’t remember when he ever became this touchy.

Once you started to fall asleep your hands landed in his hair, fingers twitching causing a small scratch to his scalp. He’d wake up before you, a small string of spit on your inner thigh he wipes off and that’s what stirs you awake.

“My bad.” The rasp in his voice makes you blink yourself awake, holding your upper half on your elbows, “We been sleep for 5 hours? the hell.” He got up from his position to stretch and grabbed a water from your fridge.

“Well you seemed exhausted…and comfortable. Didn’t wanna wake ya.”

Your tone made him turn his head at you and glare, “The hell that’s supposed to mean.”

“Nothing,” You already knew this was going to turn into a bickering fiasco, so you debated for a moment if you should indulge him or not,

and you did.

“You just needa start sleeping on your back and not your stomach.”

“Don’t tell me how to sleep.”

“Well if i’m going to be your personal pillow I just want you to know about how badly you sleep on me if someone were to walk in on us.”

“What?!”

You reach out and take his hand, he stares at it before your grab it to pull him down and readjust him to the same position he was when sleeping, but turned his head to face the mirror, “Ya see.”

“I—“

It’s like you could feel his cheek warm up, his hands definitely started to sweat as they gripped your leg, his face was a mix of anger and embarrassment, you wasn’t sure if this was something he may unfriend you for actually.

“Well why didn’t you say anything!?…Pervert.”

“PER-PER-PERVERT?!”

“YES PERVERT?”

“I didn’t wanna annoy you while you slept last time i did you fucking popped me with an explosion! ….And my thighs are soft and smooth I don’t need no bruisers and scars on ‘em!”

“Oh for fucks sake.” Bakugo groans in annoyance to get up and grabs his bag, but he honestly didn’t want to leave, but he’s bakugo of course he’s going to be dramatic, “Just say you liked it and get over it.”

“You liked it too?! I’m not mad or anything you can use me all you want, ‘Suki.”

“Oh don’t make it fucking weird, y/n.”

He did though. He kept sleeping between your thighs because whether he admits it or not you’re the best sleep he’s ever had.

Just this time he sleeps on his back.

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arolesbianism · 1 year ago

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Oh baby I am getting way to ambitious with my current oni run for someone who's laptop starts screaming anytime it opens steam

#rat rambles #oni posting #Ive started expanding my base area not for the sake of providing more living space or whatver but so I can build a museum #Im going to have an artifact section an art section and ideally a critter section if I can decide how I would go abt that #Im also going to have a sporechid exhibit since Ive never actually tried to use them before #its going to be right above the biobot room since thats going to be the entrance of the museum #I may also further expand downwards at some point to build a mega relaxation section with as many rec buildings as I can affort to maintain #more focus on variety that pure numbers tho I just wanna use the stuff I usually never use #and lemme tell you my dupes will use none of them since theyre too obsessed with their damn phones but its ok I forgive them #now one thing thats going to be annoying abt this project is that for the critter section Im going to need a Lot of glass #the goal is to keep one wild creature in each containment room and to have each be fairly healthy for the critter #now I definitely wont be doing every critter as quite franky I dont have space for that #currently my only real plan is for an oakshell exhibit but I wanna do more of them #maybe a cuddle pip one would work? Id also like a shine bug one but idk how exactly to go abt it #mainly because ideally Id want one of the fancier shine bugs but I am firm on keeping these guys wild #and itd probably take a lot of work to get a wild radiant bug or smth #well more like a lot of time #I could just try to get a more middle of the pack shine bug and just call that good enough #Im pretty sure shine bug morph rates only change when they eat so in theory I could get away with taht #although technically speaking the morph odds can always just happen anyways so maybe I just leave it and hope for the best #like I have the food to spare I could very easily breed fancy shinebugs if I wanted to again I just wanna keep them wild #but yeah other critter options probably include dreckos and maybe a long haired slickster if I feel like putting in the effort #a drecko exhibit would be pretty simple tho Id just have to decide which morph #Im unsure if I wanna do a hatch exhibit or not simply because I dont have ideas to make it look cool #like I feel like for a hatch Id want it to be a stone or smooth hatch but again the breeding problem arises #now one thing I should definitely do at some point is go grab a gassy moo for the museum but thats a maybe project #mostly because I still have trauma from the last time I did a gassy moo trip lol #speaking off I still need to build a rocket that can actually be used to explore new planets #so far all my rocketry has been for data banks and artifacts #although I did just today get my first drillcone rocket up and running

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bi-writes · 7 months ago

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anatomy of us (3) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 3 (9.8k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence (this part contains graphic depictions of gore + murder + minor character death), military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2

The mirror betrays you. There’s someone staring back, but it isn’t you. You don’t recognize her. Whoever is there, she’s a traitor. A liar. She stole what used to be your body, and now you can only stare back as she lifts her hands to your face and touches your skin.

It’s warm. Your cheeks are warm to the touch, skin bouncy and firm. When you pull on the apples of your cheeks, they bounce right back, elastic almost. You’re glowing, too. Your skin has never looked so soft, so smooth.

Something’s different.

You bring your hands up and cup your own breasts. When you squeeze, you shudder, realizing how sensitive you are. They ache a little, feel heavier than normal. Your bra feels a little tight, too. Your hands drop and grip the sink firm, and you swallow hard before turning to face the door.

Your body is telling you something. It’s trying to talk to you. It’s natural, you know it is, and it is inevitable, and you shouldn’t hate your omega for it because she can’t help it, but you do. It’s what’s happening to you because you’re off your meds. Your hormones are firing like they never have before, and the voice in your head is starting to talk to you in a way that sounds way too appealing. She’s starting to sound right. You like the way she’s talking to you, especially after…

You haven’t spoken to him yet. You haven’t talked about it. It’s only been a few days, but you don’t think you can sleep next to him for one more night and pretend like you don’t know what it’s like for him to be dick-deep inside of you and satiating the shrill insanity that lives under your skin.

So big. So capable. Isn’t he so strong? I bet he tastes good. Let’s find out.

You open the bathroom door slowly. Simon is sitting there on the bed, phone in his hand. He’s typing, eyes narrowed in thought, and you make the door creak so he knows you’ve come out.

“Everythin’ olright in there?” Simon asks. He doesn’t look up from his phone. You decide to be mean, because you can be. You want to be.

Fuck off, you tell her, try to. All she wants to do is get Simon on his back on that bed.

Can we just suck his dick already? It’s right there.

“What do you care?” You mumble. You go to the closet to pick out something to wear. It’s a Sunday, which means there won’t be much to do today besides relax and eat. Johnny invited you to Mass, which you promptly declined, and you didn’t much feel like spending time with Captain Price or finding out which beta would be underneath Gaz tonight (more than one, would be your guess, but it could’ve been another alpha, too, he doesn’t seem to care as long as he can devour something whole).

You don’t turn around to see Simon’s reaction. Maybe he doesn’t react at all. You grab a pair of jeans and drop your sleep shorts. Ever since Simon had taken you on a roof, you decided it was no use trying to change in the bathroom anymore–he’d seen everything, anyways. You step into the jeans and pull them up, jumping a little to get them over your hips, and just as you’re about to adjust the waist, you feel him come up behind you.

Simon grips both sides of your jeans and hikes them up around your middle. You suck in a breath as he slides his hands around, zipping them up, deft fingers finding the button and fastening them. You huff as he keeps walking, forcing your front flat against the closet doors until he can press his chest up against you from behind.

Remember how good he felt? Let’s do it again. Take them off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss. Your omega purrs. She softens your insides. You grip the closet, irritated, but you can’t help the way you bend at the hip and push back into him. He snarls as he puts his hands on your hips, holding you there. You can feel her, pushing against you. It’s getting harder every day to shove her backwards–there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to.

Is that part me? Or are we drifting together?

“Wot does it look like?” Simon murmurs. “I smell you.”

Yes, yes, yes, let him. Take it off. Take them off. Let him have it.

“What did I say before?” You let your arms fall, and you smack his hands off of you. You turn around to glare up at him, grinding your teeth. “Boundaries, Simon. You need to ask for permission.”

“I don’t have to do anythin’,” Simon bites back. “I said some things before, too, didn’t I? Y’r mine.”

Oh, that’s how he wants it to be. You can see it in his eyes, the way his alpha is feeding him lies. Feeding into his ego. He’s got tendrils that are choking him from the inside-out, trying to tell him to be the bigger species, the more dominant figure. Your omega wants to let him, but that isn’t you. Fuck submission–it’s just not your style. You’re a taker, not a giver, and your omega will need to learn that the hard way.

You lean up on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. You meet his alpha in the middle, not backing down. You can be nasty, too. You can be dangerous. You might not have his build nor his strength, but omegas have teeth, and they are sharp.

“Then you better sleep with one fucking eye open, Simon. Cause I’ll kill you if you put your hands on me without asking.”

You make sure you hit him on your way around him. You open the drawers of the dresser angrily, ripping a shirt out. You slip your pajama shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and you fit your bra straps over your shoulder before turning around. Simon is still staring like a dog–eyes watery and intense, staring right at your tits, and you grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him.

“Oh my god!” You cry, and he sucks on his teeth under the mask.

“Mmm…” He puts a hand over his chest, rubbing there. If he didn’t have it on, you have a feeling he’d a smug grin on his stupid face. “My mate is fuckin’ naked, wot you want me to do, look away?”

“Yes, exactly, you pig,” you mumble, clasping your bra and fixing it to cover yourself before slipping your t-shirt on. You frown as you pick up a clip to tie up your hair. “And we’re not mates.”

“Tha’ right?”

“That’s right,” you say curtly. You turn to give him a hard stare as you slip your boots on. “As far as anyone else can tell, I’m not claimed.” You run a few fingers over your scent gland. Soft. Unmarked. Pulsing.

It’s like you’re taunting him. He snarls a little at that, something low and territorial under the mask.

“Tha’ wot you want? Me to claim you?”

“No,” you stand on your toes, faces barely touching. The air in the room is humid and thick, curling, competing scents making you a little dizzy. “I want you to drop dead.”

It’s half of a lie. It would be funny, you think, to see Simon eat a bullet or catch on fire and perish in a frenzy of equal pain and misery, but you know Kate would just do it all over again to you. There are no shortage of alphas at her disposal. With a swipe of her signature, she can have you moved halfway across the world again, and you’d like to not end up on the CIA’s bad side because you keep spending all their money on flights and bribes to get you some kind of mate that will tolerate an indifferent omega such as yourself.

An unruly one. A terrible one. A decisive one.

You don’t really want Simon dead. Better the beast you know than the one you don’t, and from the time you’ve spent with Simon, he is all bark, no bite.

For now.

Meals are always awkward. You feel like all you and Simon do is snap at each other lately. Call each other names. Spit nasty insults. Maybe it isn’t fair to be angry with Simon; you have a feeling he didn’t have much of a choice, same as you, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing really changes in his life the way it changes in yours.

Simon isn’t the one that loses himself. Simon isn’t the one that has to wear a brand on himself, a permanent reminder of his submission. Simon isn’t the one that has to succumb to things he can’t control about himself–the heats that last for days, the ones that will burn you from the inside out until it gets that nasty fill that your omega was born for.

Ruts just aren’t the same, you don’t believe it. They can swallow them down. Save them for later. It isn’t a comfortable thing to do, but if an alpha is missing their omega, they can satiate themselves with a lazy hand or a soft mouth until they get what they’re searching for.

Omegas aren’t offered the same luxury. If you don’t get what your omega feeds off of, she might kill you–and you don’t need to be reminded that you and your omega aren’t exactly on great terms.

The boys are quiet at breakfast. John has secluded himself in his office for the day, but Simon’s sergeants are pretty quiet for how much they usually babble. They are, however, shoving their faces in with food in a matter that makes you scowl.

They’re dogs, really. Johnny looks positively famished. He’s got his cheeks pillowed with eggs and toast, and you look away from Gaz as he tips his head back to wash down a mouthful of ham with coffee.

You jump when you feel a fist hit the table. It rattles the trays, and Johnny’s orange juice splatters a little outside of the cup. Simon is back from the kitchen, sliding your own tray in front of you. Your mouth waters a little at the smell of the freshly baked croissant and moka pot of coffee that waits for you, and the sergeants grumble a little as they look up at their lieutenant.

“Would you both fuckin’ eat with y’r fuckin’ mouths closed?” Simon snaps. “Bloody rats eat more proper than you lot.”

“What’s the matter, LT?” Johnny gulps down his food, wiping his mouth with a wet thumb. He smiles at you with teeth, and you pick up your fork to busy yourself. You can see feel his crazy eyes on you, trained on your face. He licks over his teeth as he does. “Want us to be proper gentlemen around yer bonnie girl?” He wiggles his tongue at you. “What’s proper about knotting a pretty little omega like tha’, aye? Can smell ‘er from ‘ere…Smell like taffy.”

Simon takes a seat on the bench next to Johnny. You stare wide-eyed as Simon cocks his head to the side. Your eyes water a little as you see Simon slide a big hand up Johnny’s neck. He leans into it, clearly comfortable (you’re going to try and forget this observation), but his face contorts from contentment to sheer pain as Simon wraps his gloved fingers into the curls of his mohawk and pulls. Johnny’s neck snaps back at a hard angle, making him hiss and kick his legs out. They bang against the table, shaking it, and Gaz looks down at his plate as Simon tugs Johnny close to him.

“You listen ‘ere, Sergeant. I’ll say this once, and I won’t repeat it,” Simon growls. “If I hear you say one more word about my mate’s cunt, I’ll rip your throat out with my own teeth. Don’t care ‘ow many times you’ve covered me or saved my arse on the field. My rank is her rank, so from now on, I want you to drop y’r eyes when she looks at you, and I want you to say, yes, ma’am, and nothin’ else, you ‘ear that?” Johnny grits his teeth as Simon shakes his head violently, holding him firm. “And if I hear about it when I’m not around, I’ll let her cut y’r dick off, yeah? Or maybe I’ll let her shoot you in the head again. And trust me, mate, she won’t miss–”

“Simon,” you interrupt gently. Simon’s face turns, and you meet his eyes. You shake your head a little. “It’s…it’s okay. Johnny’s just a huge flirt, and it came out wrong. Didn’t it, Johnny?”

Simon closes his fist, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes are a little darker than you’re used to. You’re not sure he’ll listen to you, but when you see his fingers start to loosen, you relax a little. You don’t understand why he’s defending you, anyways, but maybe Simon has some twisted moral code when it comes to insulting his mate.

That only he gets to, and no one else.

“Yeah–” Johnny spits, and when Simon lets him go roughly, Johnny just laughs a little. His cheeks are rosy, and he tries to shake it off, but you can tell by the way he averts his eyes and the smell that wafts from him–Johnny is terrified of his lieutenant.

Simon stands, making the table rattle again. Johnny’s cup spills over the edge, and your cutlery falls to the floor as he makes his way out of the mess hall, throwing the doors open and letting them slam shut behind him. You scoff, rolling your eyes, and you swipe Gaz’s fork from his tray before continuing to eat.

“What the fuck is his problem?” You stab your sausage with the fork, cutting it angrily, and Johnny clears his throat. His rubs the back of his neck, rolling it out carefully.

“Yer serious?” Johnny scoffs. “Fuckin’ big man is in love with ye.”

Not me. He’s in love with…her.

“He’s just mad because he thinks he’s the only one entitled to say anything derogatory to me,” you explain. “He’s such an asshole, I swear. So are you, Johnny, by the way–I’m not gonna wet your dick for you, go flirt with someone else.”

Gaz snorts, shaking his head, and you pour him a little more coffee from the pot Simon left for you and some for yourself.

“Kind of sweet, innit?” Gaz murmurs. “He cares about you, you know.”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow. “Has a real funny way of showing it. You don’t see him when we’re alone. He’s mean. I don’t know what goes on in your heads, but your kind jump to conclusions. And you assume. And you’re too aggressive.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Gaz asks. He turns to look at you, shrugging. “That’s how we’re made.”

“I try everyday to be anything but how I’m made,” you say lowly.

It’s a lousy excuse, especially for an operative like him. Kyle and Johnny are no strangers to aversion or high-stakes. There is combat, and then there is what this team does. You’ve peeked at the papers on Simon’s desk. You’ve read the files you have no clearance to read. For the air-headedness that Simon radiates, he’s excellent at writing post-op reports, with fine detail. He doesn’t miss anything. This team isn’t something like SWAT–they don’t carry big guns for show and break down suburban houses. They hit foreign targets without a trace and eliminate threats before they blink. They are in and out of a building in thirty minutes, and they leave no man behind and no target alive. Each of them are experts in their own subject, and even with Johnny’s big, disgusting mouth, you cannot deny what makes him special.

He could make an explosive out of regular kitchen supplies; maybe even out of the toiletries you keep in a go-bag. His affection for chemistry is as equal to that of a good, protein-rich meal. Kyle is no different–you’ve seen him just for fun program an auto-correct feature into John’s laptop that replaced every word that he typed that started with a vowel to shitfucker. You saw him do it remotely. Over Bluetooth. With a Blackberry.

These aren’t just operators. These aren’t just idiot, self-engorged, misogynistic and animalistic men that panted and waited for orders like lovesick puppies, they are much too intelligent and way too self-aware. You won’t take that’s how we’re made as an excuse–it’s beneath them, if you’re being honest, and it’s infuriating. They aren’t a normal pack, and they never will be, and so you need them to stop using stereotypical excuses as reason for them being just like the rest.

It is conscious. It’s disgusting. It’s exactly as you thought it would be.

“Well maybe if ye tried that less, tried just being what ye are…things would be easier for ye,” Johnny mutters, picking up his overturned cup and sighing sharply through his nose. You drop your fork and lean forward on your elbows.

Oh, alright. If Johnny wants to play rank, then you can play rank.

“You know, you both have a lot of nerve,” you say lowly. “I would start being very fucking nice to me from now on. Simon and I may not get along, and maybe we never will. But he sure as shit won’t stand aside if tuck my tail between my legs and blame one of you for something you didn’t do.”

“Thought you said he hated you?” Gaz mocks. “Thought you said he was mean?”

You stand up and shove your tray towards them, starting to walk. You lean over to murmur in Gaz’s ear.

“He is,” you threaten. “But he’s still an alpha, my alpha, and pussy talks, Gaz. You’d know. You’ve been drooling for it since I sat down. I can smell you, too.”

You pat Gaz’s cheek a bit too roughly, and he snarls a little. You smile to yourself as you make your way out, and down the hall, you see a familiar shadow disappear around the corner into the darkness. You cross your arms over your chest, sighing, and then you start towards it.

When you round the corner, he’s standing right there. Leaned against the wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His face twitches under the mask. You move to stand in front of him so you can get his eyes.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t want to babysit me, you can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“I have others to answer to if something happens to you.”

“Don’t act like you care what other people think. Especially your superiors.” You roll your eyes. You don’t have much more time to talk to him. Or berate him, you were still deciding. A shadow comes up next to you, and when you turn, Captain Price is staring at you both, nodding his head behind him.

“I need to have a word. With both of you.”

You give Simon a look, but he doesn’t give one back. He merely slips a hand down your back and puts you in front of him, ushering you to walk. You’ve never been reprimanded by a superior, not because of a mission or anything of stake, so you can’t help the feeling that overcomes you–something of failure.

Had you done something wrong? Surely you had.

John’s office is bigger than Simon’s, but just as messy. Messier. There’s a pretty beta secretary out in front of it, and she smiles at you and waves. She’s too cute–too sweet. She probably puts sugar in John’s tea to make him smile or draws little smiley faces on messages from missed calls. You pity her and wish you were her all the same. When she notices your solemn face, she shrinks and dips her head, picking up her pen and continuing to fill out some forms.

John waits for both you and Simon to sit before shutting his office door behind him. He sucks on his teeth before tossing his hat onto his desk, nodding towards the two creaky seats in front of him.

“Sit.”

“Rather stand,” Simon counters, but one hard look from his captain, and Simon is begrudgingly taking a seat. The metal creaks under his weight, and you take a seat next to him. John sits on his desk in front of you both, and he looks at Simon before ending on you.

The scents in the air are driving you insane. You take a breath to try and keep your eyes from watering, but it’s difficult.

“You know, Kit, our team isn’t known for…following the rules,” John begins. “But I was assured that…if anything went wrong, that my lieutenant here would be responsible. He vouched for you.”

You fold your hands in your lap. You prepare yourself for the beratement. You sit up a little straighter, squaring your shoulders. The neutral expression your face falls into seems to irk your captain. He scrunches his nose a bit, smoothing a palm over the papers in front of him. He’s trying to establish his air of dominance, but it’s increasingly easy to stare him back down when your alpha sits right beside you.

There’s comfort in his presence, and your omega feeds on it.

“I saw you shoot. Got a good eye for those kinds of things, I’ll admit,” John nods. “And you did well in training. Followed Simon. His orders. Saw you clearin’ rooms like you’ve been on this team for years.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blue, but empty. “He was right. Fast learner. You know your place.” You narrow your eyes at that, and he hums. “But it doesn’t change what this is. What you are.”

You’re surprised at the way your omega curls in your gut. Angry. There’s an alpha insulting you, but this one isn’t yours. She warms your hands, and you dig your nails into your chair to keep her calm. She wants to bite, and she’s confident with Simon at her side.

“An asset?” You try talking instead.

“A liability.” John leans forward. “You put my men in danger. Going into heat like that.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s alienation. You are an outsider. Not part of his pack. John draws a circle around himself, and you are not included in it, and the sentiment leaks into his words like a flood, and it hits you through the chest. Your lip trembles just slightly, but you swallow down the rejection, keeping it close. Your omega whimpers–an alpha, though it is not your own, is isolating you, and it hurts her.

“She didn’t–” Simon is interrupted by John’s laughter.

“You were off comms for 15 minutes and 37 seconds, an amount of time that during an op is fucking critical and could’ve blown the entire operation!” John snaps. “I told you to be fucking careful, I told you both to take precautions, and you failed me. I can understand you–” He points at you, and omega lingers unsaid, “but you, Simon? You–”

“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,” you interrupt. “I should’ve known.”

“He’s your alpha, it’s his fuckin’ job,” John clarifies. “But Simon has more than one job, and on that day, it was keeping the target in his sight and waiting for my fuckin’ say.”

“Don’t reprimand him for making the call,” you tell him. “I’m the one who misread what I was feeling. I’m the one who distracted him from what he was doing. I’m the one who was projecting so badly, he had to help. It’s me. I screwed up. I’m just as much of your team as they are, so hold me accountable, not Simon.”

“You are not on my team, you are my problem.”

She wails. She grips your heart in both hands and hangs on, crying, wailing, begging you to say something to make him approve of you. She so desperately wants to be included in Simon’s pack, and it aches inside to be pushed away. You dig your nails in further, and you don’t realize how much your scent is flaring. Simon gets one whiff of it and snarls. His hands close into fists.

You goin’ to let tha’ wanker talk to your mate tha’ way? You goin’ to let another alpha walk all over her? He’s challenging you, tha’s wot this is, innit?

“Choose y’r next words wisely, Captain.” Simon finally speaks, and his tone rattles you. His voice dips low, and you can hear his alpha soaking into his words, and the bitterness in the air has to be him deciding whether or not today would be a good day to stand up to his captain.

“Tha’ right, Simon?” John murmurs. “Is that an order?”

Simon stands. Immediately, the humidity in the room expands, and you nearly choke from the sting of their scents in the air. Simon is much larger than John. He’s so much bigger, so much wider. You stand, too, and when Simon feels your hand along his bicep, his shoulders loosen just an inch.

Your omega may beg for approval and inclusion, but even she stands down when you remind her of the importance of pack bonds. You are not mated, and Simon has his own to keep, so you must appease. It hurts to do it, but you know you will thank yourself later.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you say softly. “I-It won’t happen again. I swear…I promise.” Your eyes water, and you try to hold in the cough you’re holding. “First time…and the last time.”

Simon’s task force is a unique group. Four alphas–a lot of ego and fighting dominance in one bunch. It’s normally not done. They like to have a nice mix of betas and alphas to keep groups balanced, but Kate needed an exceptional group, so she built one. Four alphas in one pack is not common, but it works–and she has the stats to prove it.

You wonder if she knew what would happen when she threw you into the mix. How each of them might react when an omega tried to slip in between them. If Kyle would try to sink his teeth in. If Johnny would pass out from panting so fucking hard. If John would let his resolve slip for just long enough to blur the lines between a commanding officer and his subordinate.

Maybe Simon reacted just as she expected. That he would see what was meant just for him and pull her apart so he could slip under her ribs and stay right there. You have not been claimed, and yet–it is truth. They know it, Simon knows it, you know it, and so does your omega.

Simon paces in his room. A slow pace, but paces, and you observe him from your place on the bed as he breathes deeply. His alpha is leaking through the cracks, and you can smell his anger. It fumes, makes your nose curl. It’s a bitter scent. Your omega purrs in your chest–she wants to soothe him.

We will do no such thing. Shut the fuck up.

“You need to let me handle things when we get cornered like tha’.”

“I’m a big girl, Simon,” you say softly. “And it was my mistake.”

“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Simon explains. “I’m your alpha.”

“I don’t care,” you shake your head. “You don’t speak for me.”

“No, I speak for us both,” Simon points a finger at you, coming closer. “For you and for me, and you need to understand tha’.”

You glare up at him. In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s still letting his alpha bleed when he’s angry. You need to understand nothing–Simon needs to learn. He needs to learn that the omega they write about in textbooks isn’t reality. You fight your omega tooth and nail for control, and you are still on top for now. Simon needs to learn this. He needs to learn that you are not easily influenced by command. You may smell like an omega. You may keen like an omega.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I submit like an omega.

“Fuck you.”

Don’t talk like that…you know you want to.

“Ya already ‘ave, kitty,” Simon spits. “Would you like to go again?”

“I know this is hard for you to get through your thick head,” you whisper. “But just because I fucked you doesn’t mean anything. What happened between us was clinical. Your dick is medicine, and there was nothing I could do, and that is where this ends. You can tell yourself over and over again that you are my mate…that you’re my hero, that you saved me, but maybe next time, I’ll just let my omega kill me. The thought of you inside of me ever again makes me physically fucking sick.”

You’re a bad liar.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say lowly. He leans closer, until his face is nearly against yours. “You’re a pathetic, insecure, waste of space. I will never be your mate, and I pity every omega that might come after me, that has the unfortunate mistake of thinking you could claim them with any sense at all. You use and you abuse, and you have your head so far up your ass, I don’t think you know what’s real and what isn’t.”

Simon stares. You stare back. Your chest heaves, and so does his, and you keep your eyes on each other as you stare back and forth. His eyes are so dark. Beautiful, but so dark, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s not long that you notice his lashes fade to blonde at the end of them. His skin, where it bleeds from the eye-black he wears to the pale color of his face, has freckles scattered around the eyes. You can see the raised, white line of a scar that is just peeking from under the mask.

Isn’t he so pretty?

“On your knees,” Simon murmurs.

It’s whiplash. One moment, your entire body is buzzing. Angry, fiery–you can feel it shaking you. You hate him with ever fiber, want to smack the smug look you know he wears under that mask. You hate the power that he has over you and how much he relishes in it. The next moment, in a few slow words, it vanishes.

Like it was never even there at all.

“Excuse me?” You breathe.

“On your knees. Lose the pants. ‘n y’r knickers.”

“What makes you–”

“Won’t ask again.”

We need this. We need this. We need this.

It’s just that easy. For all the resolve that it feels like you have, maybe you really have none. You blink, but then he hears the sound of you toeing off your boots. They hit the floor, and then your cargos are falling on top of them, and then you’re turning over, sliding along the warm sheets of his bed until you’re lying on your tummy, ass up, and you’re closing your eyes as his gloved hands push your panties down your thighs until they’re around your knees.

You don’t really know who’s doing it. You’re afraid to think about it too hard, because you know that it just might be you.

He eats nasty. All tongue. He spreads your ass with big palms, and you gurgle when he kisses your folds with tongue. Your brain starts to fog, and you relax easily. He kisses soft and slow, but wet. You fist the blankets, pushing back, and he slides a thumb down to smooth over your puffy clit very gently. He hisses when he sees your hole flex in response, a drop of slick falling onto his palm.

“Kitty, why didn’t ya just say so?” Simon asks, stupid and fascinated by you. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted y’r pretty pussy kissed, hmm?”

“Because I hate you–” You whine, and Simon slips his tongue inside of you. You babble, your mouth dropping open, and he hums as he gets a taste of you before pulling back, smacking his lips. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, and his alpha howls. He’s never spoken to him this way, not really. The only time his alpha has ever really come to the forefront like this was the times he thought he was close to death; but Simon’s never been this close to life, either.

“I know,” he coos. “I know ya do. But this isn’t personal, is it?” He uses his thumbs to open you up, growling when he sees your hole pucker a little. A dribble of slick falls, and he catches it with his tongue, swallowing it down. “How’d ya put it, luv? ‘s medicine?”

“Your dick is medicine.”

“My mouth, too, I reckon.”

“Shut the fuck up, and eat me, baby,” you whimper, and he opens his mouth wide and licks with a thick tongue. He presses his mouth to your cunt and eats, bobbing his head as he alternates between slobbering licks and eager sucking. His tongue slides between your folds occasionally before slipping into you, and you curl your toes every time he brushes against your clit. His thumb will sometimes circle it, or his tongue will suck softly, but he never stays there too long. Simon likes to tease. He likes to make you a little desperate, likes to get you soft and drippy and dizzy, and then he gives in a little. He gives you two fingers, gloved still, and you push back against his face with gentle grinds as he fucks you softly with his hand. It’s agony and relief all at once.

“Like tha’?” He asks. He sounds amused. You hope his hard cock gets pinched by his zipper.

“Mmm–” You try. You arch your back, getting up onto your elbows, and Simon uses his free hand to give one side of your ass a nice smack, jiggling it gently before kissing where he hit. You giggle at that, soft and airy.

“Answer me, omega.”

“Fucking love it,” you gasp. “Big fingers–”

Simon laughs at that. You can smell his ego, but you don’t have it in you to say something smart. It’s true. Even with his hand, he fucks good, hitting deep. His mouth did wonders, and you’re dripping along his hand. His glove is soaked, and his forearm is wet, and when you glance down at the sheets, they are damp and dark with the mess you made. Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in to eat more, pulling his fingers out so he can use his mouth again, tongue deep as he sucks and hinges that big jaw to get a mouthful of you and groan. You taste good–nice and sweet, thick juices wetting his chin, and he squeezes your ass in appreciation when you throw it back and smother him. He likes this. Likes the lack of air, the wet pussy, the soft whines. He’s content here, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to move anytime soon, and he doesn’t complain. He just opens his mouth and swirls and tongue and fuck–your clit is in his mouth, and you’re crying.

It’s too kind. An alpha kneeling for their mate. Taking pleasure in their pleasure. It’s not unheard of, but it’s…unorthodox. It confuses you. Your omega cries with happiness, but she’s confused, too. She doesn’t expect pleasure just for pleasure–but she wants it, she wants more of it, she’s digging her nails into your skin to try and get you to convince Simon to give you more, more, more.

“Give it to me,” Simon murmurs. “‘s olright. Give it to me.”

“Simon–”

“Mhm,” he nods, cocking his head and taking your clit into his mouth again. “Give it ‘ere.”

Your orgasm hits hard, but it’s nice and slow. Your thighs shake, but Simon sinks into you, breathing out through his nose as he delicately laps at your clit. He doesn’t stop, swallowing as you come into his mouth, keeping the pace to make sure your orgasm fizzles just as good as it hit you.

You sink to your tummy when he pulls away. Your knees give out, and he slips your panties completely off, and you flop onto the dry side of the bed. You start to cry. Not tears of relief, but tears of pain. Of what is inevitable. Of the hard truth that you loathe more than anything.

Simon can never force you. You will always want him, you think. There will always be something in the back of your mind that aches for him, and you try and you try and you try to fight it off, but you want him so viscerally, it cuts you deep where you’ll never notice it.

“Say wotever you want about me,” Simon mutters. “Tell yourself wotever you want that helps you sleep at night, hate me oll you want. But I take care of wot’s mine.” He strokes your hair out of your eyes, leaning down, and you cry harder. You clutch a pillow, hug it tight, and your eyes flutter open as you look at him. His mask is still hiked up just under his nose, and you can see half his face. Scars that cut across him like paintbrush strokes, adding texture and depth where there shouldn’t be.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” you whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like for every single part of yourself to betray what you want. You don’t get it. Y-You don’t understand, you never will. You will always have the upper hand, and y-you will never know what it’s like to not have a choice.”

Simon continues to brush through your hair with his fingers. Soothing you gently, coaxing you into a headspace that feels like white noise. You whine, and Simon comes closer. He presses his mouth to your forehead, soft, gentle, his scent close enough that your beating heart slows down considerably just in response.

“No, I won’t,” Simon agrees. “But that’s what you are. You’re an omega.”

He says it like it’s so simple. Like it explains everything in the entire world. Being an omega is the simplest answer he could ever give, and it explains every variable, every nuance, every quirk that makes you you. It explains every time you sink to your knees for him. It explains how easily you let him fuck you on a rooftop in a foreign country. It explains how even though you hate him with every fiber of your being, there is somehow no one else you want standing over you now.

“I’m still me.”

“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You cannot change wot you are. You’re fighting her, and you will lose.”

You wonder, for just a second, if Simon is speaking from experience. Have there been times when his alpha takes over? Does it take control? Are there times when he looks in the mirror, too, and doesn’t know who is staring back?

“I hate her, too,” you spit. “I hate her, and I hate you.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his terrible face. The first one you’ve ever seen. You hate the urge you have to lean forward and kiss it.

“She is you.”

“Then I hate me. I hate myself.”

Simon changes the sheets silently. He picks you up and moves you when he has to–two big, burly arms picking you up like you’re a feather. You cling to his neck, studying him, and you find yourself not being able to look away. He’s so capable. He’s so independent. He’s so reactive to your needs, it infuriates you, how could one man be so in tune with you, more than yourself?

He drapes all new blankets over you. He turns out most of the lights, except for the low glow of the yellow lamp on his desk. He tucks you in, making sure you’re warm, and then he bends down to say something to you, in your ear.

“Dunno wot you think,” he tells you, “but there will be no omega after you.” His voice drops low, and when you close your eyes, you hear his alpha. Threatening, affirmative, exact. “You are mine. I’ll not ‘ave another. The sooner you accept tha’, the easier things’ll be for you.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Eat a dick.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Much prefer y’r cunt, kitty.”

Simon’s protection is instinctual. It’s not really a choice, it’s subconscious. He watches you braid your hair in your room, observes as you tuck it behind your ears and tie it off your face. He hovers as you gear up. Watches you buckle your belt, strap your tact vest, adjust your helmet. He comes over after you’ve laced your boots, tugging on your vest to make sure it’s secure and fastening your helmet for you. You let him as you clip your watch on, closing your eyes as he smooths a thumb across your cheek and turns you towards the door.

It’s a long flight. You fall asleep, your face smushed against his arm, and when you wake up, Simon is still sitting there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. John smokes, Gaz has a folded up little book in his hand with what seems like sudoku pages, and Johnny is twirling what looks like a fidget spinner in one hand. You blink awake, but it’s dark out, pitch-black.

That’s the job. Dark, where you can use night as cover. Stealth. You and Simon have been tasked with clearing out one building on your own. Several stories, possible targets inside, presumed armed and dangerous. You were given the clear to eliminate any threats on sight–the op is capture or kill, and John made that very clear in a small room that reeked of his authority.

The bird drops you a few kilometers from where your target building lies. You flip the night-vision down, flicking it on, and you stick to Simon like glue as you follow him silently through empty streets. You’re somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and unfeeling and just on the border of Russia. You aren’t privy to any more details; all you know is that your mission is to be Simon’s cover, and you have the face of your target memorized and burned into the back of your eyes.

You spot your target building at the end of the block. The streetlight flickers, and it looks like a low-income apartment building. It’s very small, dilapidated, with a peeling entrance door that has the window broken, hastily patched up with duct tape. It’s no trouble for Simon to stick the scope of his rifle through the duct table and shred the remaining glass to pieces, putting his hand through the window and unlocking the door easily.

The first few floors are clear. Simon always enters a room first, with you in quick succession. You are silent, touch and go, soft taps on shoulders that the both of you can read immediately. You’re in tune with him. When he steps left, so do you. When he turns, you cover, when he sweeps up, you sweep down. It’s a dance, a very well coordinated one, and it lets Simon breathe easier when he realizes how well you’ve adapted to each other over a short period of time.

Just a few weeks, and you are two sides of each other.

Simon swallows down the prideful purr in his chest. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

When you make your way to the top floor, just below the roof, your chest starts to feel warm. You pause at the top of the stairs as Simon keeps his rifle trained at the first door in front of him. You swallow hard, widening your stance to keep yourself upright. You shake your head, trying to toss the jitters off of you. Your throat hurts as the saliva goes down.

Simon clears the room with you shuffling close behind. You blink rapidly when you see two of Simon, and he whips around suddenly. You can see him through your night vision stiffening in front of you. Shoulders tensing, fingers gripping his rifle tighter. You pause as he comes close to you, and your eyes water when he lifts one hand from his gun to cup your face gently.

You know what he’s asking. You nod shakily, and he taps his wrist with two fingers.

Give me two minutes, is what he’s saying to you.

You don’t get two minutes.

The door behind you slams open. Two men breach inside, and they come at you with a force too strong, and you go flying towards the far wall. Your back hits it hard, and you collapse onto the ground. Your whole body aches, and you know there will an array of nasty bruises under the skin. Your helmet took the brunt of the hit, but you still feel dizzy as it falls off your head, clattering to the ground. You cough, scrambling for your rifle that is a few feet away from you now, and Simon drops one of them with a few easy bullets, but the second man uses his dead companion as cover, throwing the body at Simon until he can lunge at him.

Simon swipes the blade out of his boot and goes for his weak spots. He manages to get him under the arm, across his thigh, but Simon is wearing a lot of gear, and with the weight of a dead alpha getting tossed at him again, he gets moved backwards enough to lose his footing, and then it happens.

The man’s gun fires, and it goes straight for Simon’s head. A flash of light that seals some sick sort of fate that you know can’t be yours. It’s not you that screams in response.

It is your omega.

You launch yourself at him. In your daze, your omega finds clarity, and she seizes her moment. You slip the blade out of its place in your thigh holster, and you toss a nearby chair at him to incapacitate his gun. It gets trapped underneath it, enough time for you to jump and land on him from behind.

He’s an alpha. Physically, you should be no match for him given your size differences, but something else is taking over. Your nails don’t just grab, they pierce his skin. Digging it, shredding flesh, and you bring your blade down over and over again against his chest. He screams in pain, trying to wriggle you off. You lock your ankles around his middle, keeping your hand coming, tearing with your nails and slicing with your knife, but he manages to get an arm underneath you and throw you off.

You hit the ground again roughly, but it doesn’t stop your omega. She gets right back up, but he tackles you. He uses his weight to pin you down, and the knife rings as it slides across the room, but your omega doesn’t let it stop her. He got too close, and she will make sure he regrets it.

He went for your mate, and she cannot have that. She won’t survive without him. Unclaimed, but she doesn’t care–Simon is hers, and she won’t let him go without something all-encompassing and violent. He’ll have to pry Simon out of her dead hands. You feel like you’re watching from the sidelines. You’re not yourself. It’s the first time that you don’t really care.

You scream, leaning up, and he doesn’t get a moment to think before you sink your teeth into the plush of his scent gland and rip it clean out.

Fuck. There’s blood gushing everywhere, spurting from where you’ve severed the gland. The gland is precious, anatomically–it provides most of the oxygen to the brain, and it’s what seals the bond. While it can’t be marked the same way an omega’s can, an alpha can’t survive without it. You’re finding out just how precious it is as you watch an alpha cough and sputter once he realizes what’s happening to him.

He crawls off of you, trying to use his hand to put pressure to his neck, but it’s no use. He leans against the wall and chokes, blood filling his mouth, and you spit out the flesh from between your teeth as you watch him gurgle and kick his feet out. He reaches out for you, pleading in his eyes, but you feel no mercy. There’s tears coming down his face now, and you watch with a scowl as the blood spills between his fingers instead of bringing his brain precious life.

Good fucking riddance.

You turn over once you’re satisfied he won’t get up. You see Simon still sprawled on his back behind you, and you scramble to get to him. You grab his helmet and throw it off, and you start to cry, feeling around and realizing there’s something sticky oozing and pooling onto your fingers. You can’t see very well in the dark, but you put pressure anyways, unsure of what you’re dealing with. Your heartbeat is loud, and it echoes in your ears.

“No–No!” You gasp. You grab Simon’s radio, hands shaking as you press down onto the button.

“Bravo-6, d-do you c-copy?” You cry. “Bravo-6, answer–please–”

“Kit?” John’s voice comes out surprised, low. “What happened?”

“Si–Ghost–” You sob, “W-We need a medevac! Medevac–top floor–”

Your hands continue to shake as you reach for the bottom of his mask and rip it off. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without the mask, but you need to know. You need to know.

His face–it is a little ugly. The eye-black is smeared across his freckles, bleeding across his face from the sweat. He has scars everywhere; they criss-cross along his cheek, cut his lips, but you ignore that as you lean down and put your ear to his mouth.

His breaths come shallow and slow.

You cry with relief, feeling around with your fingers. When all you feel is blood, you pick up his helmet and cry harder when you notice the side of the helmet has been grazed, and the bullet casing lies near his head.

He had missed.

He missed.

You cup his face, tapping his cheeks gently, trying to wake him up.

“Simon?” You whisper, sniffling. “Simon, wake up. Please wake up. Please–”

You can’t carry him. Even if you tried to get your omega to help you, you aren’t physically strong enough to pick him up and carry him out. He’s too big and too heavy, and you wouldn’t be useful anyways; you’d be without cover trying to haul his ass to a bird that’s just too far away.

“Simon–”

He coughs. You gasp, wrapping an arm under him and trying to sit him up. He’s so much heavier with all of his gear on, but you do it anyways, lifting him up and laying his head in your lap. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, and you cup the back of his neck.

“I thought he killed you–” You sob. Simon hums, his eyes opening and closing, and you smooth a few fingers down his cheek, relieved to hear him breathe. In and out, in and out, low and slow as he blinks away the spots in his vision.

Your eyes meet. It’s not a look you were expecting. You expected him to be angry, but he’s not. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You must look a sight, you think. There must be blood on your face, staining your teeth, but all of your senses are dulled as you try and read him.

Your hands shake as you brush a bit of dust off his face. Your fingers are trembling, but it’s grounding to touch him and see him blink those dark eyes up at you. God, he’s not ugly, no, he’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful. He’ll never be prettier than the way he is now. Raw and vulnerable–Simon is most himself here, you think, stuck in the in-between of an operation. This is where he must feel everything the most. You open your mouth to say something else, to ask him if he’s okay, but then his face scrunches when he finally realizes where you are.

“On the door,” Simon mutters. “Get y’r gun on the fuckin’ door.”

“Simon–”

“Now!”

You scramble to reach for the handgun in your thigh holster, turning to get up on your knees and cover the door. You will your hands to stop shaking, gripping the handle of the gun tight to keep them steady. You can hear Simon getting himself together behind you. Shuffling onto his feet, picking up his rifle and his helmet. When you look over your shoulder for just a second, you notice his mask is back on.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, east building clear,” Simon rasps. He shoves his way past you, rattling you a little, and you stare at his back, defeated, as he clears the rest of the floor before making his way up the last flight of stairs. You hear your captain responding on comms, but you’re not paying enough attention. Simon slams the roof door shut once its behind you, and you wipe your eyes as Simon gets situated for overwatch as you cover the door.

“Simon, are you–”

“I don’t want to hear another word outta you unless we got contact on this fuckin’ roof,” Simon interrupts.

“I saved your ass!” You cry. “I did that! He would’ve killed you, you fucking asshole, so for once in your life, can you just look at me and say a fucking thank you?!”

Maybe Simon’s right. If you fight your omega, maybe you will lose. She might just kill you. You know she can. You’ve seen it happen before. Omegas that didn’t listen, losing themselves to the insanity of their inner struggle. It’s a violent end. It’s like they electrocute from the inside-out. Their minds betray them, and they let it take over, and with no alpha to soothe them, they’re just gone. If they drift too far, you can’t get yourself back.

Use me. I know what to do. I can get him back.

You do the only other thing you can try; you let your omega do the talking. The sweet, syrupy voice. The soft lilt. The edge that glides, doesn’t cut, the one that will hit his ear just right and hopefully get his alpha tick-tick-ticking inside of his head. The one that didn’t work on Kate–but Kate was not your mate. Kate never responded to you at all, not the way Simon does, and Kate has never tasted your cunt. Her alpha doesn’t know what she’s missing.

I can do it. Let me in.

“Please, Simon,” you beg. You see his fingers twitch as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. They falter, adjusting it just a few degrees too far. Simon doesn’t make mistakes, but then again he’s never had his omega purring in his ear like that. “Please.”

You make your way to him, curling a hand around his bicep. You tug him closer, trying to get him to look at you. He resists, but it’s a pathetic kind of resistance. The kind that you can overpower with just another firm tug. You can sense it, his hesitance, and your omega giggles in your head.

I have him. I can do it. Don’t worry.

“John was right,” Simon breathes. “You’re a problem. A liability.”

A liability because he doesn’t belong to anyone but you, maybe. He’s John’s liability. Not yours. Simon may be a part of their pack, but they should’ve picked up a fucking book when they knew you were coming. Submissiveness might be an inherent “trait” of your kind, but you realize now that is just a lie that alphas tell omegas to keep them quiet.

To keep them soft. To keep them begging. It’s probably something that your kind have learned over time, so distinct that you inherit it from someone that came before you, but you’re convinced that this kind of obedience and docility can be unlearned. It can be used.

If an omega cries, it would be stupid for an alpha to ignore it. It’s in their DNA–with just a soft whine, you can make Simon drop that rifle and bend you over any surface. They say it is for your sake. They say it is because omegas must be serviced or else they will succumb to themselves, but that isn’t what this is, and that’s not why omegas aren’t allowed in the field.

They’re not allowed because you can make Simon defy orders; because John can tell Simon something, and you can tell him something else, and you’re almost certain you know which way Simon will lean.

“Please just look at me, Simon,” you whisper. “Please.”

You cradle his face when he finally does. Your palms touch his wet mask, likely soaked with his own blood. You stand on your toes and draw his face closer to yours.

Fuck them for making you feel small. Fuck them for making you feel less than. Fuck anyone that ever made you feel like you were anything but in control, including her. If she just explained what she could do, this could’ve been a lot easier. If she just told you what she was capable of, you could’ve worked together. You could’ve given her what she wanted, and she could’ve given you what you wanted, and it could’ve been so much simpler.

“Gonna get me fuckin’ killed,” Simon growls. You start to cry again. Not because what he’s saying hurts you, but because he’s still bleeding, and all you can see when you close your eyes is that gun firing right at his head.

This is your ticket. This is your way out. Fuck Kate for making you believe that all you were meant for was being in his bed. You’re so close–aren’t you? You didn’t realize how close you were, but now you do, and you know exactly what to do.

You’re going to make them very, very sorry. You’re going to make them regret ever letting you inside. Your divisive, spitfire nature was not your line of defense. It was the indication of the future you always dreamed of, the future that is one bite-mark away from being tangible. You can taste it, like you taste what Simon wants in the air.

I can do it. I can help you. Let me in.

There was never a reason to be afraid. If anything, they should’ve been afraid of you.

You kiss him. It’s not a proper kiss, because his face is still covered, but you kiss Simon anyways. His cheeks warm, and his lips part, and you kiss him softly over and over as you take his face into your hands. When his arm slides around your waist, your omega is comfortable letting your knees buckle.

She knows already that Simon will catch you.

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