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bluebutterflytattooed · 2 months ago

Text

GAME ON

Rugby!Sevika x College Roommate Reader

CHAPTER THREE

You had just finished applying your nighttime moisturizer when you heard a low, annoyed sigh from behind yourself.

You glanced over your shoulder to find Sevika lying on her bed, metal arm draped across her forehead, legs stretched out, her phone resting on her stomach. Her damp hair was messy from a post-practice shower, strands sticking to her forehead, and she was wearing nothing but a white ribbed wife beater and loose blue boxers.

The sight of her like that—relaxed, undone—was unfairly attractive.

You quickly turned back to your vanity, pretending to be deeply invested in you skincare routine. "What’s with the dramatic sighing?"

Sevika let out another long exhale, more over dramatic than the last. "I need help."

You frowned slightly, dabbing a bit of lip balm on. "With…?"

"Homework," Sevika admitted begrudgingly. "Stats. It’s kicking my ass."

You bit back a smile. You had never heard Sevika admit to struggling with anything. "And you want my help?"

Your roommate rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. "Yeah, princess, I do."

Something about the way she said princess—all slow and teasing—made your stomach tighten in a way you did not appreciate.

You cleared your throat, shaking it off. "Alright," you said, standing up and stretching. "Let’s see what we’re working with."

Sevika scooted over, making space for you to sit on the edge of her bed. The dorm wasn’t huge, so the proximity was unavoidable. You could feel the warmth radiating off Sevika’s skin, smell the faint mix of clean laundry, soap, and something deeper—woodsy and warm.

You focused very, very hard on Sevika’s laptop screen. "Okay, show me where you’re stuck."

Sevika groaned, running a hand through her damp hair. "Literally all of it."

You bit back a laugh and pulled the laptop onto your lap, scanning the assignment. "It’s not that bad. You just have to break it down."

For the next twenty minutes, you walked Sevika through the basics, explaining things in a way that actually made sense. Sevika, to her credit, tried to keep up, even though she was clearly exhausted.

At some point, she flopped back onto her pillows, groaning dramatically. "I don’t know how you do this."

You smirked. "Because I actually pay attention in class?"

Sevika opened one eye. "Rude."

You shrugged. "Just saying."

She smirked, eyes flickering toward your desk, cluttered with makeup and textbooks. "You’re such a nerd, you know that?"

You scoffed. "I am not."

"You literally have color-coded notebooks and a planner with stickers," The woman next to you teased.

"And you have no organization at all," You shot back.

"That’s why I have you," Sevika said, voice low and easy.

Your breath hitched for a fraction of a second before you yourself to ignore whatever that meant.

Instead, you changed the subject. "What do you listen to when you study?"

Sevika stretched her arms above her head, considering. "Depends. If I actually need to focus, probably Frank Ocean... If I’m hyping myself up? Kendrick."

You raised an eyebrow. "You would listen to Kendrick."

She smirked. "What, you don’t?"

"I mean, I do sometimes," you admitted. "But I listen to a lot of Queen, Chappel Roan…"

Sevika tilted her head. "Okay, Queen is solid. I didn’t know you had taste."

You rolled your eyes. "Gee, thanks."

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence. You leaned back slightly, stretching out your legs, your knee brushing against Sevika’s massive thigh. You pretended not to notice the slight touch.

Sevika’s gaze flickered toward your bed, and a slow smirk spread across her face. "You know," she said, "your bed looks like it belongs to a twelve-year-old."

You gasped. "Excuse me?"

She chuckled, nodding toward the pink fluffy comforter, the fairy lights strung up along the headboard, three extra fluffy blankets, the literal pile of stuffed animals.

"Do not come for my bed," you said, crossing your arms. "It’s cozy."

"It’s adorable. And childish," Sevika corrected, clearly amused.

You huffed. "Well, yours looks like a prison cot."

Your incredibly rude roommate shrugged. "What, you want me to throw a few teddy bears on it?"

You smirked. "I dare you."

Sevika chuckled, shaking her head. "Not happening, princess."

You rolled her eyes at her, standing up and stretching. "Your loss. Stuffed animals are great."

Sevika watched you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. But then she just smirked. "Night, Y/N. Thanks for the homework help."

You nodded, slipping into bed and turning off the light. "Night, Sevika."

——————————————————————

That night, you had a dream.

A very inappropriate, very vivid dream.

You were back in the dorm, but something was different. The air was heavy, charged. You was standing in front of Sevika, close enough to feel her warmth, close enough to notice the way her eyes darkened as she looked at you.

Sevika reached out, her metal fingers brushing against your bare shoulder, trailing down your arm in a way that sent a shiver through your entire body.

"You drive me insane, you know that?" Sevika’s voice was low, rough. Almost scary.

You swallowed hard. "I—"

Before you could finish the thought, Sevika’s hands were on your waist, tugging you forward. Your bodies pressed together, and you could feel every hard line of muscle against your own soft curves.

Sevika leaned in, lips ghosting over your neck, breath warm against your skin. "I bet you taste as sweet as you smell."

Your knees nearly buckled.

You felt Sevika’s mouth trail lower down your neck, hot and teasing, and—

You woke up gasping for air.

Your heart was pounding, your skin burning, your entire body wired with heat.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the dream to disapear, willing yourself to forget.

But it was no use.

Because now, when you looked over at Sevika’s sleeping figure—her broad shoulders, her steady breathing, the way her wife beater had ridden up just enough to reveal a sliver of brown skin—all you could think about was how it had felt to have Sevika’s hands on her.

Even if it had only been a dream.

————————————————————————-

The cafe was cozy, nestled between two bookstores on a quiet street just off campus. It smelled like espresso and sugar, warm with the hum of soft indie music playing overhead. Students occupied almost every table, laptops open, notebooks spread out, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the steady murmur of conversation.

You sat across from Sevika in a booth near the window, your laptop open in front of you, a half-drunk strawberry iced matcha in your hand. You had thrown your hair up into an updo a few minutes ago, not thinking much of it—until she noticed Sevika watching you.

You weren’t sure why Sevika was watching you, but something about the weight of her gaze made your stomach tighten into knots and flood with butterflies.

You focused on your laptop, pretending that you weren’t suddenly very aware of Sevika’s eyes on you.

"So, where were we?" You asked, clearing your throat.

Your roommate blinked, as if she had been lost in thought. "Uh. Something about probability."

You bit back a smile. "Something about probability?"

Sevika smirked, sipping her incredibly boring espresso. "I don’t know, princess. That’s your job to figure out."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," Sevika said, leaning forward on her elbows, "you agreed to help me."

You sighed dramatically, clicking back onto the stats assignment. "Unfortunately."

Sevika chuckled but let you get back to explaining. For the next hour, you walked her through the material, breaking it down in a way that made sense, your fingers tapping against the table as you spoke.

Sevika wasn’t listening as much as she should have been.

She was too distracted by the way you absentmindedly chewed your bottom lip while you concentrated. The way your tank top hugged your figure perfectly, the soft golden glint of your necklaces, the smooth lines of your throat.

She definitely wasn’t thinking about the way you had lifted your arms to tie up your hair earlier, exposing the subtle curve of your waist, the sliver of tanned skin above the waistband of your jeans.

Nope. Not thinking about that at all.

You, on the other hand, were struggling for very different reasons.

Your mind had been a disaster all morning. Every time you looked at Sevika—really looked at her—flashes of last night’s dream hit you like a freight train. The heat of Sevika’s hands on your waist. The low rasp of her voice. The way her lips had felt, warm and teasing against your skin—

You clenched your jaw, pushing the thought far, far away. You were being ridiculous. It was just a dream.

Sevika caught you staring. "You good?"

Your face burned bright red. "Yes."

Sevika narrowed her eyes slightly, but let it go.

You wrapped up the study session about twenty minutes later, finishing off your drinks as students came and went around you two.

Sevika stretched her arms above her head, letting out a deep sigh. "Alright, nerd. I think my brain is officially fried."

You snorted. "I’m shocked you lasted this long."

Sevika smirked, leaning back into the booth. "You underestimate me."

You raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"

The woman chuckled but didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her head slightly. "What are you up to now?"

You finished the last of your matcha. "Dance studio."

Sevika nodded. "Solo practice?"

"Yeah," you said, slipping your laptop into your tote bag. "I need to get in a few extra hours before I try out for the dance team next week."

Sevika hummed, considering. "Maybe I’ll stop by sometime. See if you’re actually good or if the school’s just desperate for dancers."

You gasped, scandalized. "I’ll have you know, I’m very good."

She smirked, amused by her indignation. "I guess I’ll just have to see for myself."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

———————————————————————

The dance studio was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like you could breathe again.

You stood in front of the mirror, hands resting on your hips, your water bottle set on the floor nearby. The room smelled faintly of wood and sweat, of polished floors and effort. It was your second home, the place where you could let everything else fall away.

But today, your mind would not shut up.

You had spent the entire study session fighting off the most inconvenient thoughts about Sevika, and now, as you stretched, those thoughts slipped through the cracks again.

Sevika, lying in bed with damp hair. Sevika, watching you tie up your hair with that unreadable look in her eyes. Sevika, calling you princess in that low, teasing voice.

You groaned, pressing your palms against your face. "Get it together."

You turned on the music, hoping it would drown out everything else going on in your mind.

———————————————————————

You lounged on your bed, a box of Raising Cane’s resting on your lap as you dipped a crinkle fry into a little tub of Cane’s sauce. Jinx and Mel were sprawled out across your comforter, all three of you decked out in fluffy pajamas and matching face masks—Jinx’s was neon pink, Mel’s a smooth clay green, and yours a soft lavender shade.

"I swear to God, this is peak self-care," Jinx said through a mouthful of chicken tenders, licking sauce off her fingers.

"I’m telling you," Mel chimed in, stretching her legs out, "nothing beats a greasy fast food binge and skincare. Even though those things are not related, like, at all."

You hummed in agreement, taking a sip of your iced tea. It had been a long day, and a girls’ night was exactly what you needed—something normal, safe, and completely unrelated to…

You shoved the thought away before it could form.

Jinx, ever the instigator, tossed a napkin at your face. "So, Y/N," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "Speaking of things that nothing beats, and no one beats this certain persons hotness-"

You groaned. "Nope. Not doing this."

Mel giggled, adjusting her headband. "Come on! You’ve been weird all day."

"I have not."

Jinx rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet. "Babe. You so have.

You made the very unfortunate mistake of hesitating. It was a fraction of a second, but it was enough for both of them to pounce.

"Oh my God," Jinx gasped, sitting up. "You’re hiding something."

Mel gasped. "Did something happen?!"

"No!" You squeaked, your face already heating up and betraying you and your lies.

Jinx grinned. "Y/N."

"No."

"Y/N."

"I hate you."

Mel grabbed your shoulders. "Spill."

You groaned, tossing your head back against your pillows. "It was just a stupid dream, okay?! That’s all."

Mel and Jinx screamed.

"Oh, this is wild," Jinx said, bouncing excitedly. "What kind of dream? Did you have a sex dream?"

"I hate you both."

"Was it about—" Mel gasped dramatically. "Sevika?"

You shoved a pillow over your face. "Oh my God."

Jinx practically vibrated with excitement. "You had a sex dream about Sevika?" She squealed.

You groaned into the pillow. "Please kill me."

Mel giggled, grabbing your arm. "Tell us everything."

"I will not."

Jinx nudged you. "Y/N. You have to."

You peeked out from behind the pillow, your face turning a violent shade of red. "It was just—" You cleared your throat. "It was…her. And me. And she was…um."

Jinx and Mel leaned in, eager to hear more.

"She was, uh…" You swallowed. "Very…close."

They screamed.

Mel fanned herself. "Oh my God."

Jinx grabbed your wrist, shaking it. "Are you kidding?! That’s so hot."

"It was not," You insisted. "It was humiliating."

Mel waggled her eyebrows. "Or…was it revealing?"

You threw a fry at her. She scowled at you and ate it.

Jinx grinned. "Okay, okay, but like…objectively speaking, Sevika is hot. Even though she like, has this stupid rivalry thing with Vi."

You groaned. "Don’t."

Mel wiggled her fingers. "Doooon’t deny it."

You buried your face in your hands. "I hate this conversation."

Before they could tease you more, the dorm door swung open.

And in walked Sevika.

She was sweaty, her skin glowing from the gym, dressed in loose gray sweatpants and a very tight compression shirt that clung to every inch of muscle. She had her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her hair damp from sweat, and she looked unfairly attractive.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Sevika glanced at you and your friends, amused. "Should I be concerned about the screaming?"

Mel, being the worst, smirked. "Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing important."

Jinx giggled. "Nothing you’d be interested in."

You suddenly had the urge to die.

Sevika raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off, tossing her bag onto her bed. She stretched her arms behind her head, the motion making her shirt ride up just enough to show a flash of her abs.

You were not looking.

(Okay, you were absolutely looking.)

Sevika smirked, tilting her head. "What? You three gossiping about me?"

Jinx beamed. "Why? Would you want us to?"

Sevika let out a low chuckle, and oh no.

Her gaze flicked to you, slow and assessing. "Depends."

Your brain shut down. Sevika was flirting with you, which Jinx and Mel caught onto immediately.

"Oh my God," Mel whispered dramatically.

You could feel your face heating up once again. It’s like you had a permanent blush. You were still thinking about The Dream, and now Sevika was standing there, looking annoyingly attractive, all muscle and sweat and teasing smirks. You cleared your throat, gripping your drink a little too hard. "We were just…talking."

Sevika’s smirk widened. "Just talking?"

Jinx grinned. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Sevika chuckled, grabbing a water bottle from her desk. "You’re all so weird."

Mel hummed. "And you’re so sweaty."

Sevika took a swig of water. "Thanks, princess."

You nearly choked on air.

Jinx and Mel had never looked so satisfied with themselves.

Sevika glanced at you, something amused in her gaze. Then, without another word, she grabbed her towel and headed toward the bathroom.

The second the door shut, all hell broke loose.

Jinx grabbed your shoulders, shaking you. "She so wants you."

Mel screamed into a pillow, overcome with giggles. "Did you see that?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I hate my life."

Jinx cackled. "Oh, babe. This is just the beginning."

The moment you all heard the shower turn on in the jack-and-Jill bathroom, your friends pounced.

You had barely taken a breath before Jinx grabbed you by the shoulders for a second time, eyes wild with mischeif. "Okay, listen up. We are going to make Sevika fall in love with you."

Your eyes widened in terror. "Excuse me?!"

Mel clapped her hands together, grinning. "No more playgirl Sevika. No more random girls in your dorm. No more flirting with you and pretending it means nothing. Nope. We are making her obsessed with you."

Your mouth gaped open. "You guys are insane, and so is this plan."

Jinx ignored you. "Step one: We use science. Psychological warfare, if you will."

You groaned. "Oh my God."

"Shut up, you love us."

"Not right now, I don’t."

Mel giggled. "Okay, okay, so here’s the plan."

Jinx leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "First, we use colors."

You blinked. "…Colors?" This is about the craziest thing you’ve ever heard.

Mel nodded sagely. "Sevika definitely has a favorite color, and also a favorite color that you wear sometimes. You need to wear it all the time."

Jinx grinned. "We already know she loves when you wear navy blue. You should also test out black and red. Vi says that Sevika likes those colors

You covered your face. "You guys are the worst."

Jinx poked your side. "Next: you have to start wearing things that’ll make her suffer."

"What?!"

"You know," Mel smirked, "tank tops, little shorts, crop tops. Walk around the dorm in tiny pajama sets. Maybe a towel every now and then."

You gasped, scandalized. "Mel!"

"What?" She sipped her iced tea innocently. "Just saying, if Sevika is already flirting with you when you’re not trying, imagine what happens when you do."

You groaned, dropping your head onto Jinx’s shoulder. "I hate this conversation."

Jinx patted your back. "No, babe, you love it."

Mel nudged you. "Next step: flirt with other people."

You shot up. "What?" You exclaimed again.

"Jealousy," Mel explained. "She needs to see other people wanting you. It’ll make her crazy."

You hesitated. "That feels kind of…mean."

Mel shrugged. "You don’t actually have to do anything. Just be you. We both saw her at the party. She noticed when you danced with Jinx’s sister. She noticed every guy who flirted with you. She notices everything about you, Y/N. You just need to turn up the heat."

Jinx grinned. "Oh, and you have to start going to her rugby games."

You tilted her head. "But I already support her—"

"Not like that," Jinx interrupted. "You need to show up in something cute, act like her biggest fan, and make sure she knows it."

Mel nodded. "And you have to make sure she sees you caring about her. Ask about her games, check in when she’s tired, bring her coffee when she has a rough practice. Girls like her act all tough, but deep down? They melt when someone actually gives a shit."

Jinx snapped her fingers. "Oh! And you have to invite her to your dance performance."

Mel gasped. "Yes! Can you imagine? Watching you on stage? Looking perfect and stunning and untouchable?"

You bit your lip. "I mean…that would be kind of nice."

Mel grinned. "Oh, babe. It would ruin her."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You two are pure evil."

"Thank you," Mel said sweetly.

Jinx sat back, stretching. "Okay, that’s the plan. If you follow all of this, Sevika will be wrapped around your finger by Christmas."

You chewed your bottom lip, mind spinning. Could this actually work? Did you even want it to work? Sevika was…Sevika. Complicated. Dangerous. Gorgeous. Annoying.

But also—warm. And funny. And thoughtful, when she wasn’t being a menace.

And lately, you had been thinking about her way more than you should.

You exhaled. "I hate you guys."

Jinx smirked. "No, babe. You love us."

Meanwhile…

Sevika stood just outside the bathroom door, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still damp. She had stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago, so she had heard Mel and Jinx planning

And she had heard everything.

She smirked to herself, leaning against the wall.

So.

You were about to start playing games?

Cute.

Sevika had been holding herself back for weeks. She wasn’t stupid—she knew there was something between them, something electric and alive whenever they were in the same room. She had flirted, teased, pushed just enough to get a reaction. But now?

Now you were going to start testing her limits?

Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you just started.

Sevika ran a hand through her hair, her smirk deepening.

If you wanted to make her fall?

Then it was only fair that Sevika did the same.

Game on.

—————————————————————————-

oh my gyatt guys this is a long chapter😭 ALSO it has a title yay! i didn’t think that so many people would love this story, thank you!!

also oh my god finals are kicking my ass. if i’m slow with updates then that’s why!

i love you, blue🦋

tag list: @vahnilla @elliesngirl @naniiiii12 @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliesgffrfr @nymanas @yashirawr @leeidk87 @imvioletscupcake @caffeine-pup @too-x @vxtanne31 @sleepycrybbylaiah @rosebg @pipirka827363829

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kortac-sweetheart · 4 months ago

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thinkin abt: classic “traitor” sergeant you and tf 141, except you have a different trauma response

cw: angst no comfort (yet), mentions of torture and physical harm, derealization, reader believes they deserve their torture (honestly selfship coded sorry) shout out to hedgehog’s dilemma one of my favorite dilemmas, very VERY canon divergent, no use of (y/n)

pt 2 with kortac maybe? as they slowly rehabilitate you and you learn to open up again

for as long as you can remember you’ve been an outsider. never quite fitting in with your classmates or even your “friends”. your two acquaintances (more like) in elementary school would drag you along, like a glorified pet, wherever they went. only to turn around and ignore you, chatting happily with each other as if you weren’t there.

and when you were older, you didn’t have any friends in class. always electing to sit by yourself and disturbing nothing and no one. fading into the background, like a shadow.

eventually you wind up joining the military, efficiently climbing the ranks until you land sergeant in task force 141. for the first few years of you joining, it’s much the same. that feeling of being other always lingering in the back of your mind, only amplified when observing the others in the team.

how soap easily makes gaz and price laugh, and even coaxing a chuckle out of ghost. how effortlessly they talk to each other, to the way tackling one another in a bear hug in the base halls was no big deal. almost envious at how openly they interacted with each other.

witnessing it makes you feel like you’re in school again. forcibly reverts you to the younger you that endured your so-called friends ignoring you.

but you don’t bring it up. ever. being here and fighting alongside them is already treading thin ice in your mind. already impeding upon their well established relationships. an intruder. an outsider. a stranger. a nuisance.

you linger behind them in hallways, erring from their side and sight around base. sitting far from the others during briefings, eating alone during mealtime. absent from post mission celebrations.

you keep them at arms length despite them being your teammates. it’s not their fault, it’s yours.

if i let them in, it’ll only hurt again.

but they break down your walls slowly, oh so painfully slowly. johnny now jokes besides you in the break room and during meal times, conversation is always pleasant with kyle, whilst simon looks out for you, very, very quietly. and john isn’t afraid to tell you of the good work you do on field, ruffling your hair like a proud dad.

things seem to be looking bright for you.

until they aren’t.

you fall asleep peacefully in your bed only to wake up strapped to an uncomfortable metal chair in the base’s interrogation room. a mole, unbeknownst to the rest of the team had planted evidence framing you and accusing you of betraying them. taking advantage of the thin fault line in your relationships, vulnerable and unsteady, compared to the stalwart trust they already had in each other. then, subsequently tearing that fault wide open, in order to break the team from the inside out.

your tenuous and fragile relationships finally blooming, only to be crushed under heel in a single night.

the light strains your eyes and the tight ropes dig painfully into your flesh, back aching and head throbbing as you await your fate.

three sets of eyes that only started to gaze warmly at you are now long gone. replaced with a plethora of emotions, betrayal, ire, resentment, bitterness, distrust.

you try to plead your case, that you have no idea what’s going on or what they’re talking about. you’ve never heard of any of these people in your life, nor have you ever heard of that operation at all.

but all of it is futile. you can see it clear as day in their eyes. they glare at you with such distain, it’s akin to what they gave their enemies on the field; except much much worse. this time it’s personal, someone they thought they knew.

they don’t believe you.

you realize that quickly. and after that you become borderline unresponsive. shutting down, physically, mentally, retreating into your mind, a desperate attempt to keep yourself safe from your allies-turned-tormentors.

you no longer scream your protests, all cries of agony quieted down until there wasn’t a single peep from you. although your tears never cease.

it angers them. they yell in your face, demanding answers to questions you haven’t the ability to answer. why were you being so difficult? if you’d just answer it’d be easier on you and them.

they subject you to a whole torrent of horrors. the restraints tightening and digging into your flesh, blood seeping into the rope. ghost slashes a knife up the side of your face, from your jaw to above your eyebrow bone. your eye just barely making it out unscathed because you shut it in time. then they start to rip your nails out, painfully, one by one. each time you don’t answer them, another one is torn out.

(they remember what you said offhandedly. that you didn’t like others being pushy, that you valued your autonomy highly. and what better way to break you than to rid you of it? stripping you of your nails, slashing at your muscles, tightening the ropes until you bled. anything, everything to ruin what little sovereignty you had left.)

despite being swathed deep in the recesses of your mind, you can still hear them. their voices muddied and muffled, as if underwater and you’re left unable to discern who’s words are who’s. not that it mattered anyway. the venom in their tone remained the same no matter who spoke.

“disgusting fucking traitor.”

“you’re such a pathetic piece of shit.”

“aww, cry some more.”

“should’ve never trusted you.”

“what an utterly worthless burden. only served to drag down the team.”

their words seep into your mind like poison through blood. it leaves you doubting, frantically questioning all moments you’ve shared with them. leaves you spiraling deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of your mind. your safe haven, and your cold prison.

did they always think this?

did they always hate me?

what did i do wrong?

i must’ve done something wrong to deserve this.

i deserve this.

i’m sorry.

you still remain motionless, and they scoff, looking down at you as they ash their cigarettes on your bruised skin. you don’t react. soap, frenzied, aggravated and wound up, lands a hard punch straight in your jaw. your head flying back with a sickening crunch before hanging low over your lap, face obscured.

gaz violently yanks your hair back, revealing your battered face. the lighting of the room casting long, tired shadows across it as he forces you to look at them. and you do, but not quite at them.

you don’t stare at them. you stare through them. like they aren’t there, like YOU aren’t there. they see nothing behind your eyes. it was like you were already dead. and maybe, at this point, it would’ve been better if you were.

hours blend into days and days possibly into weeks. your life has been nothing but torment and agony for who knows how long. never allowed a moment of rest or respite, being violently slapped awake if you’ve ever got lucky enough to grasp at increasingly ephemeral shut eye. time slips away into nothingness when your whole life has turned to pain.

they’re starting to grow more desperate for answers; despite everything they’ve thrown at you, you still haven’t “cracked”. and so they turn to more.. permanent methods of harm.

by the time price barges through the door, alarming everyone that you were innocent and you were falsely framed by a mole, your pinky is already severed and falling to the floor.

as if it were only a cruel nightmare, everything ceases immediately. and you pass out as you’re rushed to the base medics.

you’re awake once again, but you’re not quite all there. still safely tucked away in the depths of your mind. everyday is still a blur as your battered and beaten body tries to heal, ignoring the pity in passersby eyes’ and forced to rely on the kindness of base medics for hygiene. as if it wasn’t humiliating enough to end up in such a state.

even in your semi lucid state you still recognize them, the weight of their gait and their footfalls against the floor. always bracing for further injury whenever they draw nearer, clenched eyes, hunched posture, and a deep grimace. turned away out of fear for an impact you can’t ever guarantee is truly gone.

you silently reject their help, withdraw in on yourself to a state they’ve never seen before. you stop talking to them entirely, stop talking to everyone for that matter. whenever they try to sit next to you, you always flinch before scooting away from them, or most times you hobble away from them entirely. they never stop you. and you never look back.

(they wish you would yell at them. slap them, lash out at them, anything would be better than your numb indifference towards them now. with your anger they know for sure that you’re still in there, but, now. now it’s like a wraith is haunting the halls, more of a ghost than the man fool himself could ever hope to be.)

you return to the field as soon as you can. and everyone is surprised that your performance hasn’t suffered as much as they thought it would, considering… everything.

you’re already burdening everyone enough. if your performance were to decline then they would surely toss you aside, and everything would be for naught.

but the higher ups can see the mental toll it takes on you. to be besides them, as if this never happened. everyone can see the way they inadvertently hurt you more, can see the writing on the wall if you continue to work with them.

and so, they set up a transfer. to kortac.

you certainly have no complaints, but your ex-tormentors undoubtedly do. up in arms about the whole thing until they’re told to stand down. to follow orders.

just like they did before.

things were the same in the days leading up to the transfer. you avoid them, taking different hallways around base. never interacting more than the bare minimum, efficiently finishing missions without small talk or celebration. and always rejecting their offers of help with a faraway look and shake of your head.

and on the day of the transfer, they still try to plead for you to stay. to apologize for what cannot, and can never be undone.

you’re fed up with all of it.

clearing your throat and murmuring just loud enough for them to hear,

“forgive me if i’m speaking out of line, but who was the one to call me quote, “an utterly worthless burden?” was it lieutenant riley or sergeant mactavish? perhaps it was sergeant garrick? well… it doesn’t matter anyway. you’ll be better off without a detriment dragging down your team.”

they look heartbroken, stammering out apologies after apologies, but it all sounds so empty to you. until johnny whimpers out “god, we’re so sorry. you didn’t deserve what we did to you, not at all. we’d— we’d do anything to take it back!” he’d go on and on until you cut him off.

“didn’t deserve it? of course i deserved it, i must have done something worth punishing. otherwise… otherwise…” you were trembling, your hands painfully clutching your arms. your head bent over and face obscured from your hair, eerily similar to when you were being tortured. the sight of you so battered and broken burned into their mind.

foolishly, someone reaches out a hand towards you and you jerk back violently, as if burned. hyperventilating and quivering as you dig your painfully throbbing fingers into your arms, eyes wide like a frightened animal. the sight of them, looking at you so concerned, the sight of your missing pinky and your bloodied fingertips, it’s all too much. the room in spinning, the floor is collapsing underneath you and your head feels like it’s underwater, “don’t— don’t touch me!”

your voice feels like it doesn’t belong to you, and you can’t take it anymore. blindly rushing out the door as fast as your feet can carry you. running away from the room— away from them, they don’t move to stop you, rooted firmly in place.

they knew they fucked up immensely, but it was only then that they understood the magnitude in which they ruined you. unintentionally led you to believe that you deserved the hell they put you through, only confirming and fortifying your feelings of being an outsider.

unworthy, burdening, all of those hurtful notions you held about yourself that they had once tried to erase, back a thousand fold.

and they had no one but themselves to blame for it.

(they nearly buckled under the weight of their actions. realizing that they’d never get the chance to even attempt to atone for what they’ve done. that you’d leave forever believing that they had hated you the whole time. and that you hate them now, too.)

pt2

#tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #john price x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #god i hate tagging all of them #reason why i dont really write for tf141 lol #anyway #is this angsty enough? ive reread it too much and now i cant feel sad reading it #ending is kinda ass but adhd is kicking my ass so #and i dont want to hold onto this any longer #i need like 3 business days to recover from writing this #leon writes ˖◛⁺��♡#cod x reader

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renthony · 1 year ago

Text

In Defense of Shitty Queer Art

Queer art has a long history of being censored and sidelined. In 1895, Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray was used as evidence in the author’s sodomy trials. From the 1930s to the 1960s, the American Hays Code prohibited depictions of queerness in film, defining it as “sex perversion.” In 2020, the book Steven Universe: End of an Era by Chris McDonnell confirmed that Rebecca Sugar’s insistence on including a sapphic wedding in the show is what triggered its cancellation by Cartoon Network. According to the American Library Association, of the top ten most challenged books in 2023, seven were targeted for their queer content. Across time, place, and medium, queer art has been ruthlessly targeted by censors and protesters, and at times it seems there might be no end in sight.

So why, then, are queer spaces so viciously critical of queer art?

Name any piece of moderately-well-known queer media, and you can find immense, vitriolic discourse surrounding it. Audiences debate whether queer media is good representation, bad representation, or whether it’s otherwise too problematic to engage with. Artists are picked apart under a microscope to make sure their morals are pure enough and their identities queer enough. Every minor fault—real or perceived—is compiled in discourse dossiers and spread around online. Lines are drawn, and callout posts are made against those who get too close to “problematic art.”

Modern examples abound, such as the TV show Steven Universe, the video game Dream Daddy, or the webcomic Boyfriends, but it’s far from a new phenomenon. In his book Hi Honey, I’m Homo!, queer pop culture analyst Matt Baume writes about an example from the 1970s, where the ABC sitcom titled Soap was protested by homophobes and queer audiences alike—before a single episode of the show ever aired. Audiences didn’t wait to actually watch the show before passing judgment and writing protest letters.

After so many years starved for positive representation, it’s understandable for queer audiences to crave depictions where we’re treated well. It’s exhausting to only ever see the same tired gay tropes and subtext, and queer audiences deserve more. Yet the way to more, better, varied representation is not to insist on perfection. The pursuit of perfection is poison in art, and it’s no different when that art happens to be queer.

When the pool of queer art is so limited, it feels horrible when a piece of queer art doesn’t live up to expectations. Even if the representation is technically good, it’s disappointing to get excited for a queer story only for that story to underwhelm and frustrate you.

But the world needs that disappointing art. It needs mediocre art. It even needs the bad art. The world needs to reach a point where queer artists can fearlessly make a mess, because if queer artists can only strive for perfection, the less art they can make. They may eventually produce a masterpiece, but a single masterpiece is still a drop in the bucket compared to the oceans of censorship. The only way to drown out bigotry and offensive stereotypes created by bigots is to allow queer artists the ability to experiment, learn through making mistakes, and represent their queer truth even if it clashes with someone else’s.

If queer artists aren’t allowed to make garbage, we can never make those masterpieces everyone craves. If queer artists are terrified at all times that their art will be targeted both by bigots and their own queer communities, queer art cannot thrive.

Let queer artists make shitty art. Let allies to queer people try their hand at representation, even if they miss the mark. Let queer art be messy, and let the artists screw up without fear of overblown retribution.

It’s the only way we’ll ever get more queer art.

Like this essay? Tip me on Ko-Fi, pledge to my Patreon, or commission an essay on the topic of your choice!

#original essays #original post #media studies #queer history #queer media #queer issues #fandom issues

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cod-indulgences · 5 months ago

Note

may i suggest 141 going out to and meet stripper!reader

Poly!141 x female!reader, stripping, gangbang, dubcon, fingering, oral, spit roasting, deep throating, breathplay, anal, comeplay, noncon drugging, kidnapping yes these got darker out of nowhere

Anon I hope you like this because something in it ate me alive and I blacked out into 4.5k of smut and a hard left into fucked up land

now posted on AO3!

Now this was a good night to be working.

Everyone had picked good music, the drinks and cash were flowing, and you had managed to land four of the biggest guys in the place all to yourself.

Normally you didn't like the military types- they spent a lot but also expected extra just for their "service", as if sitting around a base and driving jeeps made them special. These guys, though, were something else- scarred, bulging muscles that looked like they came from work, not the gym. They introduced themselves with what sounded like code names, and you knew those were legit because the only one that was sort of impressive was Ghost, and he was the quietest of the bunch, sitting in the corner of the booth. Their captain, Price, had an air of authority that made you purr daddy at him while thanking him for a tip, he blushed, fucking cute, which got a laugh from Ghost, also fucking cute.

And they definitely knew how to make a girl feel appreciated.

Money slid down the strap of your shoes and tucked into your bra, Soap and Gaz grinning and bringing bringing folded bills up to you in their teeth, so you can tug it free with your tits or curl your tongue around it like a kiss. When you sat on Price's lap and stole his hat for yourself, offering to return it if he bought you a drink, the man's hand had come up like he was about to grip your thigh and then deliberately pulled away, which holy fuck, was he actually obeying the no touching rule?? He didn't even try for a pinch or pretend he didn't notice??

You signaled the bouncer a peace sign, and held Price's gaze as you slowly dragged his fingers up the outside of your thigh, letting him feel your skin all the way to the narrow strap of your thong panties, before letting him go. The other three all oohed at him, teasing him for being the first one to get a hand on you, while he blushed again under his mustache.

This was dangerous, because now you were starting to like them.

The men kept you busy, anytime you weren't on stage being beckoned back to them, money flowing from their hands to yours, drinks bought, your fingers tugging belt loops, plucking their shirt sleeves, climbing into their laps and teasing your weight along their cocks. You could touch them, and kept the bouncer in eyesight, but they all kept their hands to themselves unless you gave permission.

Gaz took a shot out of your cleavage with Soap holding your bare tits from behind, his hands big and warm, and you laughed as Gaz turned bright red when he choked on the drink.

Soaps thumbs slid over your nipples as he let you go, and oh fuck, there's that little clench that means you need a break. Because you like stripping, you like the fast cash and attention, but the dark dirty secret was, it turned you fucking on.

Bouncing your ass on stage, spinning on the pole with your thighs open and only a tiny little thong to cover your pussy. Tits squeezed and groped under your own hands just for men to line up for a taste, a little touch, before you're away and leaving them wanting. All the validation you could need combined with the sheer physical pleasure of dancing, enjoying your body, feeling your muscles warm and your skin flush under the strobe lights.

Except you don't get a break, because Gaz is coming back with two shots and hopeful eyes, wanting a second chance, and Soap already has your tits squeezed up against the cold glass, and Gaz is licking into your cleavage and dipping his tongue to curl into the glass, oh shit.

You whimper as Soap's hands tighten, and he grinds against your ass. You flash another peace sign, and behind Gaz, Price smirks, Ghost leaning in to say something in his ear.

Gaz holds the second shot to your lips and you open obediently, swallowing the liquor as Soap wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your neck.

"Give 'em that sign, love, you know you're fine," Soap says, and you flash another peace sign at the bouncer, watching him nod and turn to check the other dancers. Gaz tugs you out of his arms and over to their table, and you slide in and climb into Ghost's lap, feeling a little lightheaded. The big man pulls you to sit properly against him, back to chest, and spreads his knees so that your legs part around him. Price stares at the little scrap of fabric over your pussy, and you actually feel a little gush of slick when he licks his lips.

"Give us a dance, love?" Ghost says into your ear, and when you've barely squeaked out a yes before he's fucking lifting you up, carrying you back toward the sectioned off booths for private shows. You gape when Price puts a thick wad of cash into your hand- fucking hell- and you realize that all four men are following Ghost back to the booths. Together.

You clamp your thighs together and peel off a few of the bills to pass to the bouncer on booth duty. He raises his eyebrows and whistles at you, then pockets the cash and waves you in.

The booths aren't monitored, is the thing, which is why someone is always outside. They're supposed to track how long a girl is in a booth, if she's dancing or maybe doing something else- but even the good guys who check in and walk dancers to their cars after a shift can be bought off to look the other way for a bit.

You've never had to buy them off. You've always danced, maybe teased a little more than you would on stage, and then gotten paid your due. You'd been too nervous, maybe somehow shy, about crossing the final line, no matter how much money was flashed your way.

Now though- four big men crammed into the little booth, music pounding in your head- now all you want is to let loose. When Ghost sets you on your feet and rubs his thumb over your lips, you realize you'd be doing this for fucking free. You let his thumb pop in and suck on it, flicking your tongue around the base, and he grins, scars creasing his cheeks. He lets you go, and you spin in place, Ghost sitting down next to Price on the cushioned bench seat, Gaz and Soap leaning on the walls.

The song changes and you dance, more sensual than you would on a stage- this isn't a performance, this is for them, and you feel the weight of their eyes as you play with your breasts, swing your hips and ass, touching yourself and driving your own pleasure up and up.

You brace a hand on the wall of the booth, bent at the waist with your ass facing them, and- Jesus fuck, you really are doing this- you drag your free hand down your stomach, slipping into your panties, and make sure they all can see how you slide a finger into your pussy, smooth and slick, a little moan muffled under the bass beat.

There's a deep groan of want from behind you, and you look over your shoulder to see all four of them locked on, watching you, and it goes right to your core. There's not much room- the booths are meant for a single dancer and customer, not one regular person and four giants, and you can practically feel it get hotter. Gaz brings a hand up, hovering over your ass, and when you nod at him he slides his fingers under the strap of the little (soaked) panties and-

Oh fuck, he just ripped it off, snapped elastic dangling, and the little scrap over your cunt stays put only by how wet you are-

Gaz peels it away, dropping your panties to the floor, and you slide a second finger inside and moan louder. Fuck, that was the hottest thing that's ever happened to you, and now you have your bare cunt spread out in front of them, too wet to be professional, just a girl who wants to get fucked.

Someone moves your hand away, and you only know it's Price by the scrape of his mustache on your ass as he kneels down and shoves his face into your pussy, licking from clit to hole in one swipe, and you nearly crash to the floor in surprise. Soap gets up at your face and you brace against him, instead of the wall, gripping the side of your throat with one hand as he angles your face for a kiss, sucking on your tongue, devouring you. Price's tongue is hot and wet, teasing your clit and hole both- oh fuck, licking your asshole, little soft flicks of his tongue that make you whine into Soap's mouth when he goes back to your clit again. Someone else lifts your leg up, opening your thighs more for Price. You're balanced on one mile-high heel, and when two different hands start groping your breasts you wobble dangerously.

"Here, love, let's get you settled-" that's Ghost in your ear, his lips tracing the shell, and Price pops off your clit as you're lifted and shuffled around to sit like you had at the table- Ghost behind you, back to his chest, his thighs opened up to spread yours. This time though, he gets his hands under your knees, lifting up as well as out- both your holes are presented this way, the soft pink flesh of your pussy gleaming wet under the strobes, and Price gets back to eating you out even harder, sucking deeper, curling his whole tongue inside you to stroke your g-spot, god, you'd never been eaten out this well. The only fingers that have touched your pussy are your own, all the men still have their pants buttoned, cocks big straining bulges. Ghost grinds up against your ass, and when Price finally slips a finger inside, you think of being split open on Ghost's cock while Price sucks your clit, and come right there, thighs shaking and lips parted in a moan.

Price sits back, fingering you gently through the aftershocks, his mustache wet. "Good girl, love, that's gorgeous," he says, and pats your pussy, a little wet slap. "Nice and relaxed now. Simon, you want her first?"

Simon- Ghost, you realize- huffs into your ear and lifts you up. He's fucking holding you in midair, Jesus christ, the muscle control alone- and Price pops his jeans open and holds the man's cock at your hole before you can even blink. It hits you that he's about to do just what you had imagined, and your pussy winks where a little creamy slick is leaking out.

Soap swears, "Fuck LT, either stick it in her or hand her over," and you hear Gaz laugh at him as Ghost lowers you so slowly down, his arms steady under your knees, your pathetic whimpers as he splits you open coming almost on beat. He seats you on his lap, your pussy stretched, and even before you can catch your breath from the cock shoved up to your lungs he's moving, thrusting up and pulling down, your whole body held in place to be used.

You're moaning nonstop, each thrust in shoving a little squeaky sound out, each long pull back a desperate needy noise. Your eyes slide closed, and someone tuts, pinching your nipple until they open again, whining.

Price is still kneeling in front of you, but he's got his cock out, jacking the rigid flesh to the rhythm Ghost is fucking you. He's huge too, big and thick, and you think about him shoving inside while you're still sloppy and open from Ghost.

The man groans behind you, "fuck birdie, I felt that. Got so fucking tight. You like watching him huh?" You moan a weak yes, and shake as Soap's hand comes to your clit, teasing it with just his fingertips. "Going to come for daddy to see?" You should never have made that dumb joke, but its too late now, because daddy is ringing in your ears like a bell, and Ghost is slamming his cock into you so hard it hurts, and Soap has his fingers rolling over your clit, Gaz sucking on his neck with both hands pulling out their cocks together, big and heavy, stroking them off.

You come again with white sparkles behind your eyes, and Ghost drops your legs to get his hands on your tits, squeezing each so hard you shout. It hurts, it's too much, but his grip is rock solid. He's fucking using your tits like handles to fuck you up and down the last little bit, milking his cock, and you feel another orgasm creep up on the heels of the last, pussy clenching and clit throbbing, the mess of your combined come leaking out around Ghost's cock.

You don't bother trying to stand up, you can't, feeling so fucked out and you've only had one of them, fuck. Soap helps you sit forward, and you whine as your thighs twitch.

He tuts and pushes your hair back from your face, damp with sweat. "Poor lass, gone all come drunk already. Want to take her with me Kyle?"

Gaz grins and pulls your hips up, off Ghost, and you're turned sideways. The man is sitting on the bench looking rather come-drunk himself, eyes dark and sweet, his cock still sticky as it softens against his belly. You did that, you put that look on his face and that streak of slick down his balls, and you shiver and moan as the other two arrange you between them, kneeling down, Gaz behind you and Soap in front. You realize what they're after as Gaz pulls your ass cheeks apart, rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, spreading the slick around further, and Soap cradles your head and helps you brace against his thighs. "Nice and easy, lovie," he says, and you open your mouth and slide down onto his cock as Gaz slides his into you.

Full at both ends, the heavy hot taste of cock in your mouth, another smoothly thrusting in and out of you, and you lean into the easy rhythm and let go. The two men are big and strong, they can move and hold you where they want, all you have to do is keep sucking and not choke. It's good, comforting even, feeling a slower syrupy arousal building up in you. Your breasts hang and bounce, and you're hyper-aware of them, of your nipples and how you want them to be pinched again, groped by Ghost's huge hands.

Then Gaz shoves in deep and holds himself still, both hands gripping your waist, and you have a moment of confusion before Soap pulls your bracing hand away and pushes, cock going all the way back, bumping your throat. You try to cough around him and you can't, and can't pull away or get leverage- a little curl of fear grows in your belly. You whine and plead up at him with wet eyes, and Soap grins at you like a jackal.

Gaz pulls back a little and slams home, and your body pushes forward, and Soap pops into your throat for an eternal second, and you have a sudden realization that he's fucking your throat the same way Gaz is fucking your cunt, making a space for himself. Both men pull back out, not all the way- you cough and gasp and feel your pussy drooling- and then thrust in again. You hear the wet garbled sounds you're making- you can't moan or breathe around the cock stuffing your face- feel a string of slick snake down your thigh where your pussy is already overfull of come and cock- and fuck it. Who cares if you make it out of this. You've never felt hotter, more wanted, your clit throbbing, and that syrupy arousal climbs through your limbs again. You feel suffused with it, a warm glow, and Gaz groans as your pussy begins to bounce.

"fuckin- she's fucking half gone and still working her pussy on me. Soap, hold up a sec," and when the man slows and holds his cock half in your mouth, you whine and lick sloppily at it, your hips grinding back, wanting more of what they're giving you. Soaps gets a hand down to pinch your nipple, and tugs, pulling the little nub until your whole breast is peaked, you're whimpering and trying to smack your clit back on Gaz's balls, and he lets you go to grip your head in both hands and fuck your face, too fast to breathe around, drooling a frothy mix of spit and precome as your eyelids flutter.

"imagine what she'd look like in ropes, tied up all proper," he grunts, and Gaz's hips stutter, fucking you out of rhythm with Soap, your body jostled and bouncing, groaning and quivering and coming between them. Your pussy aches and your throat spasms around Soap, one hand weakly coming up to clutch at his wrist, as he holds you down against his balls. Your belly heaves as you instinctively fight for air, and the lights around Soap's head flash a halo of pink and blue prisms as he comes down your throat, pulling out to jerk his cock over your face, sloppy, your makeup streaking and ruined. You collapse onto the floor, your hips held up as Gaz keeps fucking your pussy. The mess drooling out of your mouth smears on your cheeks, bubbling as you whimper, your overstimulated body feeling the aches and aftershocks of multiple orgasms, dancing, being stretched and fucked.

There's so much come and slick spread around your pussy, it's wet up your ass, and you feel at a remove how Gaz is swiping his fingers through the mess, scooping up a palmful, but it doesn't register really.

Until he pauses his hips and you feel two fingers slide into your ass.

You keen into the sticky floor as his fingers probe deep. "Opened right up," he comments, and fucking hooks his fingers, using your asshole like a grip to fuck into you again. It hurts, and your pussy clamps down tight, struggling under a new pressure from the inside. Your moaning goes unheeded, and Gaz shushes you with a little pat to your ass. "Settle down, you're fine," he soothes, and rubs your clit. It's still swelled up and sensitive, and your moaning hits a new pitch, muscles tensing in anticipation of another orgasm as he plays you with both hands, fingers stroking and pulling in your ass, thumb flicking over your clit like he's lighting a match, and you sob into the puddle of spit and come under you as your body betrays you, coming in a wave down to your cramping feet. Gaz holds his cock deep inside, grinding, and you feel his come spilling out: hot drippy mess that oozes onto the floor when he lets go and you collapse, splayed out, both holes winking at the men gathered around.

How long had you even been back here? How long had they been driving you insane with pleasure?

Price's boots are in front of your face, and some buried desire pushes you up, brings your tongue out to lap at the leather, over the tight laces. Ghost moans above you, and you hear the other voices swearing.

You scrape yourself to your knees, blinking up at Price with eyes full of tears. You're still in your heels, but it's the only clothing left, your makeup smeared away and hair in a wild tangle. There's come over your face, drips down your chest and tits, smeared all over your pussy, ass, and thighs.

Price is hard, the foreskin pulled back and tip wet, still so heavy he hangs down over his balls. You open your mouth and kiss it, licking clumsily along the shaft, little whimpering moans trickling out of you. Price cups your cheek gently, and fresh tears trickle out of your eyes. You'd give him anything right now.

"Sweet thing, any other day I'd be fucking your throat even harder than Johnny did, but tonight I've got other plans for you," he says, and the bench seat scrapes the floor as Soap hauls it over, turning it cross-wise, and Price helps you stagger upright just enough to lay down on your back. You sigh in relief at the relative comfort of the padded cushion, and Ghost sits on the end just behind your head, straddling it. His cock is back in his boxers, pants still open, the half-hard shape of him bumping the top of your head.

Ghost lifts your hands and presses them to his belly, twining your fingers together. You wonder muzzily what he's doing, and then a slow awareness grips your addled brain. Price is between your legs, pants down and open, cock fully out, and you look down to see him pressing in.

Why does it feel so strange?

It's another moment before your brain turns over and your mouth opens on a moan, a sob, a plea- the heavy hot cock isn't going into your pussy, but your ass.

Tiny little hole barely opened up with two fingers, smeared inside and out with come and slick, stretching out over Price's fucking hammer, and your thighs start to spasm as an ache grows in your lower back. He's splitting you in two, your hole squeezing tight to try and keep him out, but you can't- you're too exhausted, muscles weak with orgasms, heart hammering in your chest as you realize he's going to fuck you nearly dry, and you're going to come while he does it.

Your pussy throbs from abuse, swollen and sensitive, your clit erect and aching, straining up like it's own little prick, ready to be stroked. Your nipples are so hard they hurt, breasts sore from groping and the rough floor, and when Price works the last final inch inside you cling to Ghost's hands and take it, the burning in your ass and the empty clenching of your pussy, pouring slick down onto your asshole and making each thrust a little smoother, wetter. Ghost gets one hand free and pinches your nipples as you cry, smacks your breasts, grips one in his fist and squeezes like he's going to crush it. It hurts so much it goes around to good again.

If you have any words they're nonsense, if you have any sounds other than a cry or moan they're lost to you. Price's cock slams in and out of your asshole and your body sings with it. The music still plays, a thumping beat that you feel in your chest.

Ghost's cock appears by your cheek, the wrong angle to suck it, but you can watch his fingers stroke over the skin, the precome dripping out of his hole, the shiny thin skin of the head flushed red. He comes with a grunt, and the warm wet streaks splash over your breasts, puddling in your cleavage and down your neck. Price swipes a hand through the mess and puts his fingers to your mouth- you open and let him stroke your tongue, too blissed out to suck but eager for the weight in your mouth.

Low cursing, and Price puts his hand down on your throat instead. You lay your head back, giving him more room, and feel his hips slam in, fucking into an orgasm, your clit smacking at his groin when he bottoms out. It's nearly enough, just a little more to drag you over the edge one last time, please let this be the last time, and you get it when he looks down into your eyes and says, "Come now, pet, come for me."

You black out.

You wake up- or blink- or something. Your body aches and burns, and someone is gently wiping down between your legs with a soft cloth. Someone else is kissing your throat, licking away the come and sweat, and another does the same to your breasts. The lights are flashing too brightly, the music too big and loud. Someone shushes you and cleans your face, this time with a damp wipe, and you gasp for water that comes to your lips in a plastic bottle. Its cool and sweet and you blink up at Soap, holding it to your lips, feeling shivery and precious.

Price finishes cleaning you up with a little, careful touch around your clit, and pats your thigh when you flinch. Your shoes are missing. "There, love, take it slow," he says, "don't stand up yet. You're alright."

Gaz takes one last lick of your tits, suckling on your nipple to get the drop of come that was stuck. Soap does the same behind your ear. Ghost- oh, he's holding you, cradled in his arms like a comfort toy.

There's no way you can go back out to the floor, talk to girls and guys and act like you didn't just have a religious experience in this booth. How long have you been there? How many song changes? Was anyone looking for you?

As Price stands with a groan, hands on his knees, you reach out and catch his wrist. You swallow around the lump in your throat. "Don't leave," you beg, and he blinks at you before smiling so kindly you tear up.

Ghost squeezes you up, big arms strong and safe, Gaz and Soap so warm right next to you. The lights are still too bright, a halo around their heads, Price outlined in sparkles.

"Oh, dove, we won't leave you, not ever. And you won't leave us. Been keeping an eye on you for a while, finally took our chance when we could, we aren't giving you up now."

You nod along, happy down to your bones. You didn't know you missed them until you had them. Your men, your boys, they'll take you home? Keep you forever?

Wait- which home? Your home?

Soap brings the water back to you and you swallow gratefully, parched. Your throat aches, but it's a good ache.

Ghost lifts you up like he did the first time, and you snuggle down into his shoulder, closing your eyes. You're so fucking tired.

There's a shuffling, low voices you can't make out over the music. Gaz has your bag from the dressing room, that's sweet. You'll need your normal clothes. They help lift your sweatpants up your legs, work your rubbery arms through the T-shirt. No shoes, Ghost picks you up again. Out of the booth, down the hall- the sudden chill of open air and a door that takes you into a calm, quiet night. A big van with blacked out windows, soft leather seats you lay across with a sigh. A heavy coat over your shoulders, more murmuring that's not important. More sweet water down your throat, more soothing touches and kisses.

The van's engine turns over, and drives off, your dancing heels left in the corner of the booth and your phone sitting in the locker where Gaz had stolen your bag. The bouncers who looked the other way pocketed thick stacks of cash and shrugged when asked if they saw you leave. The only things left from the night were a couple of dirty shot glasses, one with a little filmy layer stuck to the bottom, and your shoes and the snapped elastic of your panties shoved into a corner.

669 notes · View notes

silkensago · 7 days ago

Text

cloudy with a chance of you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ megumi fushiguro x fem reader. 1.8k words — mutual pining. post-rain tenderness. friends to lovers. ⭑ you show up at his door soaked, shivering, and clutching convenience store ramen like a life raft—because of course you forgot your umbrella. but maybe that’s just the kind of girl you are. and maybe he’s just the kind of boy who always keeps a towel ready anyway.

Megumi really thought you would’ve noticed by now.

Okay, maybe that’s on him.

Maybe it’s his fault for being subtle. But in his defense, he didn’t think it would fly completely over your head. You’re not that dense. At least, not normally.

He couldn't say the same for Itadori or Nobara, but you? Out of all his classmates and even including Gojo-sensei, unfortunately—it was your intelligence and quick wit he trusted the most.

You were the one who could identify the origins of a curse from fragments of folklore and figure out a strategy faster than anyone else. He always admired that about you. The way your mind worked. The way you were both fast and precise—like a blade drawn only halfway, never wasted.

But apparently when he lends you his scarf since you always forget to pack one, or when he orders your favorite drink during a late mission debrief, or when he instinctively shields you with his cursed energy even when you’re more than capable of defending yourself—

You give him that annoyingly cute, soft smile, pat his arm, and say, “You’re such a good friend, Gumi.”

He grits his teeth.

It was already a confusing enough process to even realize he had feelings for you. Months of awkward silences and overthinking on his end and giving himself tiny mental slaps in the face every time his heart fluttered when you said his name.

But this? This was worse.

Because now he knows you like him too.

The problem is—you don’t think he likes you.

Apparently, offering you his last piece of mochi after a 14-hour exorcism shift isn’t “obvious enough.” Neither is remembering that you hate raw fish and silently swapping meals with you during team dinners. He even brought you that ugly little pufferfish keychain last week—the one you joked about wanting from a claw machine back in March and said that it looked like him.

You’d stared at it like he handed you a bomb. Then smiled. Said thanks. And once again that dreaded word: friend.

He snorts under his breath.

It’s not that he doesn’t love being your friend. He does. But he wants to be that—and more.

He wondered if he’d spent so long waiting that the chance had already slipped past without him noticing.

You’re sitting beside him now on the train, going over the mission briefing that was sent out this morning, finger trailing along the paper like you're trying to trace the arc of a cursed spirit’s movement. His eyes are on you, of course.

He knows it’s dumb. Staring won’t help.

It finally tips over during a rainy walk back from the convenience store.

[18:02] You:

heading to the store!! do u want anything?

[18:02] Gumi Bear 🐟:

No check the weather

[18:03] You:

bruh ur so boring

[18:03] Gumi Bear 🐟:

“Bruh” it’s going to rain

Don’t come crying to me if your dumb self gets soaked

[18:03] You:

i’m not gonna get soaked :(

also rude. i’m not dumb.

[18:04] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Debatable

[18:04] You:

:////

[18:17] You:

ok i may be a little teeny bit soaked

BUT i got the good melon bread for us

[18:17] You:

also can you open the door

i forgot your code again LOL

[18:18] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Coming

Don’t drip on my floor

[18:18] You:

ok mom

The door swings open just as the sky really lets loose.

You’re half-soaked and giggling, wind whipping your hoodie strings across your face as you try to shield the ramen and melon bread in your arms from the rain like they’re priceless artifacts.

Megumi stares at you from the doorway, hair damp and sticking up a little at the ends, wearing a soft white tee that clings faintly to his collarbones. He smells warm—like he just stepped out of the shower—and good, like cedar soap and something clean and familiar you can’t place your finger on. He always smells like that. It’s distracting.

“You idiot,” he says, yanking at your sleeve and stepping aside so you can stumble in, your socks already squelching uncomfortably. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

You huff, brushing water off your sleeves. “Because someone said it was going to rain, not it is raining!”

Megumi snorts, softly shutting the door behind you. “You could’ve just gone back to get one.”

“I was already soggy by then,” you mutter, clutching the food tighter. “So there’s no point.”

Then, like fate wants to rub it in, you trip a little on the entryway rug and nearly topple over, screeching like a wet cat as you flail to protect the instant noodles.

That’s what does it.

He actually laughs. Really laughs. It’s soft and breathy and sounds like it came out by accident.

And you, still dripping, still cold, can’t stop looking at him.

“What?” Megumi says, still half-smiling, as he flicks a raindrop off your nose like it personally offended him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

You swallow. Shrug.

“You laughed.”

“So?”

“I like it.” I like you.

That’s all you say. No teasing this time. Just that, dropped quietly into the space between you like a penny into a wishing well.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches forward, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, and tugs you the rest of the way in.

And then, softer, almost under his breath, “Go change. You know where my clothes are, right?”

You nod, heart thumping, already headed to the drawer with the oversized black shirt that smells like him.

The ramen sits forgotten on the counter. The silence stretches long, warm, quiet. And this time, you don’t mind it at all.

When you reach his dorm, you’re still damp and flushed and a little breathless from running. Your socks squish in your shoes. His hair is sticking up funny, and yours is plastered to your cheeks. You don’t say anything else when he tosses you a towel and turns a blind eye when you steal the hoodie he sleeps in.

It’s only when you're both settled, when your ramen sits forgotten on the counter and the flickering warmth of his desk lamp paints everything soft amber, that it all feels too much and not enough at once.

The quiet between you feels different now. Lighter, like a breath finally exhaled after holding it for too long. The small dorm room, with its cramped shelves and posters peeling slightly at the edges, feels like the safest place in the world.

He pulls out a worn board game from his shelf, that one you always joked you could beat him at if you tried hard enough. Tonight, though, he lets you win every round without complaint, smirking with quiet amusement.

“You’re terrible at this,” he says, shaking his head. “But somehow, you always win.”

He pokes your cheek.

Not hard, just enough to make you blink.

“Stop that,” he says, voice low and blunt—but the tiny flicker of amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You blink up at him, startled. “Stop what?”

“That.” He tilts his head, hand still midair like he might poke you again. “You always chew your cheek when you’re nervous.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says easily, and then adds, “You did it before the dorm ramen cook-off last month, remember? When you thought Kugisaki was going to dump hot sauce in your pot as a prank.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, then pause. “That doesn’t count!”

Megumi snorts. “Never before missions, though. You’re always weirdly calm before those.”

“I’m not calm,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “I just hide it better.”

His fingers brush yours for a second, quick, barely-there contact, like he’s checking you’re still grounded.

“You don’t have to hide it with me,” he says quietly.

And just like that, you’re chewing your cheek again.

He pokes it a second time.

“Quit it.”

The silence returns, but this time it’s comfortable. Drowsy, even. Your hands find each other, fingers curling together without thought. Megumi squeezes yours and clears his throat, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.

“You always fall asleep first.” There’s a teasing edge in his voice.

“'Cause I’m smarter,” you retort, and he chuckles softly.

As you settle under the blanket, the space between you narrows. His shoulder brushes yours, sending a quiet thrill through your spine. He’s so warm.

Your eyelids grow heavy, but just before sleep claims you, you feel his fingers tighten around yours.

When you wake, the room is darker, but he’s awake, watching you with those steady eyes that seem to see everything, know more than they let on. That know you.

“You’re really here,” he says, voice softer than you expected. There’s a delicious rasp to it that you’ve only heard in your dreams.

You squeeze his hand. “Always.”

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just brushes his thumb over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. It's soft. Full. Like the space between heartbeats.

His gaze lingers on you, like he’s still not sure you’re real.

You smile, barely. “Stop staring.”

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You let out a quiet breath. Shift a little closer. Feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours. His arm finds its way around you, steady and careful, and you let your head rest just under his chin.

The rain outside has slowed to a whisper.

And in the stillness, with the air smelling faintly of his shampoo and your matcha he must’ve woken up early to make—somehow escaping your vice-like bear hug to do it—the quiet between you finally settles. Whatever’s been hanging between the two of you for months, like morning dew on spring grass, it’s been there all along. You just hadn’t noticed it catching the light.

You used to go out of your way to look pretty whenever he was around—careful hair, subtle makeup, a little more effort in the way you dressed—before you really got to know each other. Like you were trying to impress someone you weren’t sure would even notice, which he definitely did, but not because of all that. You were a magnet for people because of who you were.

And not that he didn’t think you looked radiant then. But now, after all these months, watching you snuggled up close beside him with your hair tangled in a bedhead mess and a little drool at the corner of your mouth, his breath catches.

You’ve never looked more beautiful.

This is the boy who’s held you crying with your makeup smudged, the one who knows the exact face you make when you get a little too adventurous ordering food at a new restaurant as he switches his plate for yours. The one who holds all those small, imperfect moments close, without judgment, because to him, they’re part of you.

This is real.

And you’re not going anywhere.

#megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #megumi x fem reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #megumi fluff #jjk fluff

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quarterlifekitty · 7 months ago

Note

okay, I had been thinking about but after you commented on my post it’s just— [explodes]

maybe a weaknesses post with the CoD men on your monthly? I’m begging on my knees, I’m sure they (König) could fix me❤️‍🩹✨also thinking about how König probably refers to it as “strawberry week” (German euphemism for it) [explodes pt 2]

Maybe? Machveil. For you? Anything. Also, please look at my favorite period euphemisms, found while researching for this post:

ペリー来航 - Arrival of Matthew Perry

Le petit clown qui saigne du nez - The little clown with a nose bleeding

Weaknesses part 9: the red death

cw: period play, breeding mention, exhibitionism mention

Gaz grew up with a sister— he is no stranger to the ill tidings that come with owning a uterus. He’s a man that probably already has pads and tampons at his place for guests. And Gaz is the kind of son of a bitch who kinda likes it when you’re sick, cause it means he gets to spend time nursing you— so he loves your period. Picking up comfort foods, doing a bit of extra laundry, making sure your vibrator is charged. He calls it “Lady time”.

Soap is not very sympathetic in this matter. He finds it kinda funny, to be honest. He’ll still do anything you ask, but he has a condescending little smile on his face. Calls you his little ketchup packet. Tickles you, knowing it makes you gush a little. That said, he will eat you out during it. His doglike nature knows no bounds. Refers to it as being “on the rag”.

Ghost is like a knight in your royal service when you’ve got a rough menstrual. At your command in any matter, no matter the inconvenience, with no complaint. While he will fuck you and make you cum, it’s purely for your benefit. Blood usually reminds him a bit too much of work for it to be a huge turn on. But he does melt under the praise of “none of my boyfriends before would do this for me— they all said it was gross :(“. Makes him feel like a real man. He calls it Shark Week.

Price feels, in just the tiniest way, like resources have been wasted when you get your period. Like… you’re paying rent on an empty apartment (your baby chamber) when it could be full (with a baby). He’ll never say that, but it’s in the back of his mind. And if you loudly complain about being on you’re period a lot he’ll be like “I know a way to make it stop for a while :{)” (the curly bracket is his mustache). Like man, shut up. Also, blame it on being English, but he’s constantly offering tea for every single symptom. He calls it “code red”.

König. This is a sick man. He feels a bit bad about it, but he does like that your period makes you so slick, and so sensitive— he doesn’t even have to do anything to get you going before he fucks you. Despite his career, he rather likes the look of your blood all over his cock and splashing up his pelvis. And he gets super proud if he’s the first man to ever fuck you on your period. He buys you a big, expensive box of imported chocolate truffles when you’re having a terrible period. Calls it “Erdbeerwoche” (strawberry week).

Nikolai… patron saint of your helplessness. Thinks of your period as a part of his responsibility as your man. Happy wife happy life type of thing. He does a lot of cooking. And he keeps you perched on his thigh at every opportunity for as long as you can stand it. He’s got a hand dipping into your panties and playing with you throughout the day (his non dominant, but that’s never stopped him) while he works, relaxes, entertains guests (Price). Makes you cum until you’re a boneless mess, your blood soaked clean through his jeans. Calls it “Красная шапочка (krasnaya shapochka)” (little red riding hood)

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maplesyrupsainz · 1 year ago

Text

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙bows before bros | LN4 ˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: lando norris x actress!reader y/n (she/her)

genre: social media au

warnings: sooo super fluffy!!

summary: in which a trail of bows leads to everyone's new fav grid couple

a/n: feel like i havent written for lando in ages so here we are!!

request!!!: I’d like to request an au for lando where y/n’s an actress who’s getting recognized more and more, she’s really humble and sweet but pretty similar to lando as a goofy and funny girly(idk why but I picture Sabrina carpenter vibes) 🎀 if u could add a little scene of some of the f1 drivers and wags reacting to their relationship/talking to the media how they’ve never seen lando so happy. Just a sappy and goofy couple living life (manifesting✨🕯️)

fc: sabrina carpenter

my masterlist

instagram ->

yourusername

liked by reneerapp, sydney_sweeney, and 301,283 others

yourusername sooo where else can i put bows? 🎀

view all 6,918 comments

user1 omg the bunny is so cute im going to do that

user2 i dont wear bows in a coquette way i wear bows in an y/n y/l/n way

liked by yourusername

user3 i love seeing y/n in her movies so srs then going on her ig & it's jus this

reneerapp put them on your hand soap 🥺

yourusername you make jokes but i really will do that

user4 LOL as u should y/n!!!

user5 oh i love her

sydney_sweeney this is so real of you!!

yourusername i knew you'd get it

sydney_sweeney bows before bros ‼️

yourusername louder 🗣️

landonorris

liked by sydney_sweeney, danielricciardo, and 819,055 others

landonorris you got my heart loud.

view all 11,193 comments

user6 okay simp lando?

user7 HUH????

user8 looking a LOT like a soft launch i cant lie to u

user9 thts what i was thinking.....

user10 the bows...... anyone one else thinking what im thinking?

user11 DONT EVEN SAY IT

user12 VERY y/n y/l/n coded

user13 y/n was here vibes

oscarpiastri simp simp simp

landonorris shutup pastry boy

yourusername posted a story

liked by sydney_sweeney, daisyedgarjones, and 89,541 others

user14 so cute ily y/n

user15 my spidey senses are tingling

user16 is this a hint that ur dating lando norris.

user17 feels very very targeted miss y/n

user18 our bow queen 🙇‍♀️

twitter ->

instagram ->

landonorris posted a story

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 159,701 others

user22 omg y/n y/l/n is ur gf fr

user23 never thought i'd see the day lando norris pulled

user24 THE BOW AND THE MCLAREN HOODIE AHHH

user25 the most y/n thing i've ever seen

danielricciardo she's made you soft

landonorris she definitely hasnt i'll tell you that much

danielricciardo right. not what i meant but great to know thank you so much

yourusername

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 661,328 others

yourusername feeling orange 🍊

view all 16,754 comments

user26 oh my god

user27 is this the hard launch

mclaren your best look yet, y/n!

yourusername 🤭 feel very honoured

user28 next we want orange bows

liked by yourusername

sydney_sweeney sports 🤢 but make it girly 🎀

yourusername me with everything

landonorris it's papaya y/n we've been over this

yourusername there isnt a papaya emoji ✨🎀💕🫶🍊

user29 omg they're first public interaction...?

user30 they're in love i called it.

interviews ->

twitter ->

instagram ->

landonorris posted a story

liked by lilymhe, carlossainz55, and 157,814 others

user36 omg lol

user37 THAT'S Y/N'S CAT

user38 lol at ur response to ur friends saying ur obsessed with a girl is to post her cat on ur story with bows on

sydney_sweeney one of us now

landonorris this feels like a cult

user39 the coquettification of lando norris

user40 the y/nification of lando norris

landonorris

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 1,091,727 others

landonorris my response to everyone talking about me recently is you would be the same if you bagged a girl like mine

tagged: yourusername

view all 22,183 comments

user41 A GIRL LIKE MINEEEEE

user42 how did he do it

lilymhe congratulations 🥂

carlossainz55 yippee!!

oscarpiastri we are all beyond proud of you lando

danielricciardo good for you bro

charles_leclerc happy for you

mclaren our fav girl!!

yourusername 🤭🧡

user43 all the celebrations in the comments 💀

user44 they had no faith in him fr

yourusername blushing and giggling at this!!! i love my lil lando!!!!!

landonorris you what?

yourusername i wont be taking questions at this time

landonorris you love me so bad

landonorris i love you so bad

THE END 🧡

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 smau #f1 fic #f1 x reader #smau #f1 imagine #lando norris #ln4 #ln4 x y/n #ln4 smau #ln4 fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you #maddie's smau

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rawme-price · 3 days ago

Text

Someone asked abt the broken wrist comment on my 141!reader post so....here's the context lol (fair warning I dont write seriously and I dont care abt grammar. Severe injury, but everything's been discussed and consented to beforehand <3)

Nights like these are usually saved for special occasions. Either u or one of the other guys just cant seem to settle down no matter how much you work out or spar. Sure it takes the itch off for a moment, but then ur right back to restlessness.

Which ofc leads to ur favourite activity with the 141, a small hunting game. The woods work just fine, but gaz recently found an abandoned concrete building that may have been a mall at one point (dont question it), so you guys decide to play there. Color coded blankets and pillows mark out each of ur bases, and in the car ride over ghost is giving you a particularly hungry look.

You may or may not have been teasing him all week. Besides, you know that price is definitely doing after soap as payback for the sargeant edging him last time, and ur pretty sure price has got an alliance going with gaz.

Which means all of ghosts focus will be on you. A smirk tugging at your lips, you plan exactly how you'll have ghost once you capture him.

You've chosen a pretty nice place as ur base, in what was probably the good court. Open space, but dim and comfy enough for when u get ghost in there. then the hunt begins, and all of that 141 training kicks in.

Equipped with some handcuffs, a knife, and a flashlight the same as all the others, you sneak through the mall. Ghost tends to have the advantage in these situations, but you also know Ghost, which means u pay extra attention to the deep shadows and the small alcoves.

As expected, you spot the glint of a knife a few paces ahead, blood thrumming in ur veins as u approach. It takes work, and a brutal scuffle that has ur head ringing, but eventually u get ghost pinned in a headlock.

"Can't wait to edge you until youre crying, si." You murmer huskily, reaching to chain his wrists together. As ur hauling ghost back to ur base, you listen mildly to the echoed sobs coming from a bit aways. Seems like price found soap, then.

Ur so caught up in listening to soaps whines that u dont think about how little ghost is resisting until its too late. Between one breath and the next ur suddenly on the floor with ghosts hands wrapped around ur throat. You punch his kidney, roll away, but hes quick to get right back on you.

In fact, it seems that ghost is so eager that he plans to fuck you right there, not bothering to take u to his base. This, of course, means u have all the rights to fight back according to the rules. You play along, let him think ur giving up. Just when ghost is pressing into u, ur fist connects with his jaw. Ghost makes a startled sound of pain, followed by a sharp growl.

Ghost manhandles u, presses against those broken bones anytime u get a bit too feisty, fucks u until ur nearly passed out. Its brutal, it's painful, its heaven.

You try to use that distraction to reach ur knife, but he grabs ur arms and bodily slams you into the floor again. A sick *crack* echoes, and blinding paint flair up ur left arm, but his body is so hot and heavy above u that u dont care.

Uh anyways price chews simon tf out once yall regroup, ur wrist feeling much more painful than pleasurable. U look the doctors in the eyes and lie through ur teeth "yeah, took a nasty tumble while training. Tried to catch myself like a dumbass, real embarrassing." But its fine bc ghost gives u apology head afterwards <33

#cod #cod smut #simon ghost riley #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut

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intrepidacious · 10 days ago

Text

time after time [9]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 12.9k

chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

nine: out of the past

Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.

From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.

At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.

The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.

Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.

"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"

"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.

You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"

"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."

You were going to kill him.

"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.

"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"

"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."

Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?

Otherwise, it’d just linger.

You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."

"Could you not—"

With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—

Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.

Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.

"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.

They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.

With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.

Today was a dumpster fire.

"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."

"I magically pushed you into the wall?"

"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"

You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.

"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"

"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."

His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."

"Sounds impractical."

You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."

He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."

You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.

I’m keeping an eye on her.

You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.

Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.

That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.

* * * * *

It doesn’t make any sense.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.

I never hit the ground.

"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."

That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.

"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."

You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"

Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.

Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.

"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."

You blink several times. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."

It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."

Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."

"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.

"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."

You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.

"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."

"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"

"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."

"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."

Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"

"And why not?"

You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"

"And what if it does?"

Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.

"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."

"That’s not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair."

You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.

Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.

That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.

So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."

He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"

In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."

"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.

Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.

"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.

He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.

"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"

You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.

"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.

He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.

Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.

"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."

His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.

In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.

He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."

With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt��honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.

Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.

"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.

With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.

You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.

"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.

You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.

There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"

"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"

He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.

The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.

"You were saying?"

Your brain short-circuits.

He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.

Inhale. Exhale.

And then—

"Am I interrupting something?"

Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.

"Go shower, Twelve."

And just like that, the moment has passed.

You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.

"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.

* * *

You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.

I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?

Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.

This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.

One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.

Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?

You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.

Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.

There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.

It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?

Or so you’ve thought.

The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.

I’m getting Bucky out of this.

As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.

Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.

Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.

If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.

You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.

"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.

"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"

Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.

"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."

"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.

"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."

"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.

Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—

"Twelve …"

You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.

Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.

So how many weapons is he hiding right now?

"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."

Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.

That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.

"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.

"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"

"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.

Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.

"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.

His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"

"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."

Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."

There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."

"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.

"Yup."

"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.

"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.

"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.

"That so?"

You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."

* * *

It’s odd to be back.

Everything about it feels wrong.

You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.

Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.

New ones are already sprouting, though.

Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.

Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.

The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.

The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.

You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.

Yours.

"This feels strange."

You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."

The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.

The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.

You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.

It should be autumn by now.

Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.

"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.

"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."

It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.

You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."

The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.

"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"

You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."

He stares at you. "Sorry?"

"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."

"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"

You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."

"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.

"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.

"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"

"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.

"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—

"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."

You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.

His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.

The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.

"How about we make a game out of it?"

He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"

"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."

"I don’t like that rule."

"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."

You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."

The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.

"Your turn, Buck."

You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.

Get a damn grip.

You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."

"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.

"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."

His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.

"Out loud, next time."

"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.

"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."

More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.

"I already knew that."

"My bad."

There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.

He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"

You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."

Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.

When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.

As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.

But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.

Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.

Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.

He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.

Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.

"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."

You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.

"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.

And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"

You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"

He nods.

"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."

"I’m supposed to stay in control."

"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"

He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."

You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"

He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."

"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."

Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.

"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."

He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"

"What?"

He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.

"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"

A beat passes.

"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."

It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.

"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.

"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.

"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."

Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”

"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."

You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinky is still empty. "No, I’m not."

"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."

"It’s not," you huff.

"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"

London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.

"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.

"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"

Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”

"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."

"One that I have no control over, remember?"

"Not yet."

You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"

"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.

"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?

Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …

"Wait!" you say.

He freezes.

You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"What’s that?"

It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.

"That’s my invisibility cape."

"You have an invisibility cape?"

"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."

"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"

"I didn’t think it was important."

"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, go on then."

You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.

Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.

"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.

It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."

"I have an idea."

* * *

"For the record, I hate your ideas."

"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.

You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.

"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.

"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"

You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.

Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.

You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.

"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.

"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."

You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.

Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.

The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.

If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.

Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.

You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.

I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …

Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.

"You with me?" Bucky mutters.

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."

177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.

However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.

For some reason, it’s not all that scary.

Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.

Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.

You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.

Bingo.

You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.

To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.

Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.

He left his gloves in the stolen car.

The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.

You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.

None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.

Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—

Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.

You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.

Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.

Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.

His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.

"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.

You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.

He does it again.

"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.

"You," the voice behind you says sharply.

Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.

"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."

"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."

"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."

The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—

"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"

And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.

* * *

The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.

Wait. Rewind for context.

Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.

Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.

But your powers didn’t like that.

Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.

You knew you needed help.

The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.

One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.

You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.

Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.

Time itself.

That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.

Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.

Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.

It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.

You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.

How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.

You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.

For a while, things got better anyway.

You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.

Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.

Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.

Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.

You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.

You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.

That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?

You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.

You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.

If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.

Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

What a disappointment you are.

There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.

Not that you wanted any part of that.

You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.

Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.

It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.

You were still in London when the world was decimated.

The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.

You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.

It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.

You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.

You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.

Right?

Right.

…

Anyway.

The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.

* * *

When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.

You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.

That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?

A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.

To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"

Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.

You don’t hesitate before you take it.

Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.

If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.

Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.

"It’s a good thing you came here."

"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."

"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."

There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.

Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"

You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.

Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.

You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.

"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"

"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."

"A few what now?" you say.

"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.

"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."

"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."

"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.

You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.

"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."

"So you’re saying I could do it now?"

"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"

You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.

Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.

"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."

You swallow. "What things?"

"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."

"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.

Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."

"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."

"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."

"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"

"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."

"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."

"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"

Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.

You shake your head.

"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"

You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.

"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."

"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.

"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."

Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."

"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."

"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."

"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"

You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"

Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.

It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.

You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.

Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.

Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.

"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."

You nod, your throat still clogged up.

"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"

We.

"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."

Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …

"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."

You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.

Strange frowns. "What? No."

"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."

"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.

True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.

"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."

"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.

"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."

"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."

He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."

"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?

It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."

"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"

"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."

"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"

"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."

"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"

"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."

You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.

You kiss him.

It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.

You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"

His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"

But you’re still falling.

And then, with a start, you wake up.

* * * * *

"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.

You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."

"And it’s just you?"

You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."

Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.

"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."

You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.

You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.

He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.

Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.

Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.

Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.

"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"

"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"

"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."

"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"

"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."

Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"

"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."

Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.

In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.

"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."

It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.

On your second try.

"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."

"What?" you both said at the same time.

"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"

Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."

"I don’t like this," Bucky said.

"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."

"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"

"Officially, yes."

Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"

"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."

You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.

Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.

"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"

For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

chapter ten

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #time after time

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naomijoestar · 8 months ago

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⋆.ೃ JJBA SCENARIOS ࿔*:･

Masterlist here <3

genre: fluff

warnings: none

characters: bucciarati, abbacchio, mista, narancia, fugo, giorno, trish

notes: F!reader, I wanted this to be perfect since I have been neglecting you guys lately, but I’m sorry if it’s not as good as my other work, I’m sick and have been quite lazy but I still wanted to post something :)

Bucci gang members react to making their unemotional s/o belly laugh

Bruno Bucciarati

He likened a stand battle to “two pastries fighting over which one gets to be dunked in coffee first.” The sheer absurdity of it, especially coming from him of all people, caught you off guard, and before you knew it, you were laughing harder than you ever expected.

Bruno would be taken aback for just a second, his sharp eyes widening as he registers the sound of your laughter, something he rarely, if ever, hears. As the seriousness fades from his face, his features soften into a gentle smile. He’s always respected your calm demeanor, never pushing you to express yourself in ways you weren’t comfortable with, but seeing you belly laugh? That’s a gift. He wouldn’t say much in the moment, perhaps something like, “I’m glad I could make you laugh,” in his calm and soothing voice. He’d likely reach out to brush a strand of hair from your face. For the rest of the day, he’d carry that memory close, and he might even go out of his way to gently tease you later, trying to recreate that moment. Beneath it all, though, is a deep sense of contentment, knowing that he’s made you feel something so pure and genuine.

Leone Abbacchio

Abbacchio had been making dry, sarcastic remarks about Mista’s antics when he suddenly mimicked the way Mista usually ran into battle, complete with exaggerated arm movements and a goofy expression. You’d never expected him to be that dramatic—especially with his serious, brooding exterior—so seeing him so suddenly and unexpectedly imitate his friend with such deadpan accuracy made you lose it.

Leone might at first not know what he’s hearing, especially if your laughter is something completely new to him. He’d probably do a double-take, blinking in disbelief, before his lips would twist into a subtle smirk. His usual gruff demeanor would crack just a bit, and although he wouldn’t outright comment on your sudden burst of joy, there’s no denying the soft warmth in his eyes. He’d watch you, relishing the sound, silently amused and more than a little proud of himself. Later, he might poke fun at you in that dry, sarcastic way of his, something like, “Didn’t know you had it in you,” all the while concealing how much it actually meant to him to see you let go like that. Abbacchio wouldn’t push you to laugh more, but deep down, he’d always treasure that moment as one of the rare times he got to see that side of you.

Guido Mista

Mista decided to dramatically reenact a tragic scene from a soap opera he’d seen, with fake sobbing, swooning, and rolling on the floor. It was so over-the-top, and combined with the Pistols’ enthusiastic cheering, you couldn’t hold it in.

Mista would be over the moon. The second your laughter hit his ears, his whole face would light up, and he’d immediately start laughing along with you, his signature carefree energy only amplifying the moment. “I knew I could get you!” he’d exclaim, pointing at you in excitement like he’d just cracked some impossible code. He’d probably make it his new mission to keep trying to make you laugh, constantly cracking jokes or doing something silly to see if he could get that reaction again. “Oh man, this is great! You’ve got such a cute laugh!” he’d tease, completely unfiltered. The Pistols, of course, would be all over the moment too, chiming in with their usual banter, “See? We’re hilarious!” Mista would never let you live it down, but it’d all be in good fun, because deep down, he’s genuinely happy to have brought out such a joyous response from you.

Narancia Ghirga

Narancia had been arguing with Mista about something incredibly trivial, like who had the best dance moves. In the middle of their back-and-forth, Narancia suddenly busted out a dance, flailing his arms around while singing off-key at the top of his lungs. It was so unexpected that you couldn’t help but laugh uncontrollably at the sight of him dancing like no one was watching.

At first, he wouldn’t even believe it. “Wait, you’re laughing?!” he’d shout, eyes wide with excitement as he watches you. His energy would immediately match yours, maybe even go beyond it. He’d start laughing too, loud and infectious, almost like he couldn’t control it. “I did it! I made you laugh!” he’d say, full of pride, practically bouncing on his feet. He’d be so proud of himself, and he wouldn’t be able to resist mimicking the damce moves that made you laugh, just to see if he could get that reaction again. For the next few days, he’d probably keep bringing it up, reminding you of how he got you to crack. “See? I knew I was funny!” But beyond all the teasing, there’d be something more tender in his wide grin—pure happiness at seeing you break out of your usual reserved nature, if only for a moment.

Pannacotta Fugo

Fugo had been tutoring you on some random fact he’d picked up. He was getting more and more worked up, and just as he was reaching his point, he completely lost his train of thought. His frustration bubbled over as he let out a long, exaggerated groan, slumping in his chair dramatically. His sudden change from intense focus to utter exasperation caught you off guard, and you couldn’t help but burst into laughter at how serious he’d been about it.

Fugo’s reaction would be a mix of surprise and confusion. At first, he’d freeze, staring at you like he couldn’t quite process what was happening. He’s so used to your calm, composed nature that hearing your laughter, especially something as unrestrained as a belly laugh, would be a bit of a shock to him. After a beat, a small, incredulous smile would tug at the corners of his mouth. “You’re…laughing?” he’d ask, still trying to wrap his head around it. His expression would soften, and even though he might not say much, you’d notice a quiet sense of pride in his gaze, knowing that he brought you a moment of joy. Fugo isn’t one to openly express his emotions, but from then on, you might catch him stealing glances your way, as if he’s hoping to recreate that moment—only in a quieter, more subtle way, like a shared inside joke.

Giorno Giovanna

He casually mentioned how Mista’s stand could easily solve a math problem that had been troubling you, “He could just shoot at the wrong answer and the bullet would find the right one.” The deadpan delivery paired with the sheer absurdity of the idea coming from Giorno of all people, made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

Giorno’s response would be understated, but deeply appreciative. When he hears your laughter, his first instinct would be to observe, taking in the sight of you laughing so freely, as if committing it to memory. His expression wouldn’t change drastically, but there would be a notable shift in his eyes, a kind of warmth that wasn’t there before. “I’m happy I could make you laugh,” he’d say softly, his voice laced with sincerity. He wouldn’t push the moment or draw too much attention to it, but you’d feel his affection in the way he looks at you, a kind of quiet understanding passing between you. Giorno values your reserved nature and respects it deeply, but seeing you let loose, even for a moment, would feel like an intimate victory for him—proof that you feel safe enough to open up around him.

Trish Una

Trish had been ranting about something that annoyed her, when she suddenly realized how ridiculous her rant sounded. With a dramatic sigh, she flopped down next to you and imitated herself, making her voice high-pitched and whiny, mocking her earlier complaints. “Oh nooo, my nail polish chipped! What ever will I do” she said in an exaggerated tone, throwing her hands in the air. Her imitation of herself was so spot-on that you couldn’t help but crack up.

Trish would absolutely love it. The second you start laughing, she’d probably gasp in exaggerated surprise, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Oh my God, I made you laugh!” she’d say, her voice full of delight. She’d move closer, maybe even gently grab your arm or hand, as if to keep the moment going. Trish would bask in the joy of seeing you so open, knowing how rare it is for you to express yourself so freely. “I knew I could get you!” she’d tease, flashing you a confident grin. For the rest of the day, she’d feel a kind of glowing pride, not so subtly reminding you about how she cracked your tough exterior. “You should laugh more often—it suits you,” she might say, giving you a playful wink. The moment would bond the two of you even closer, as she sees your laughter as a sign of trust and comfort in her presence.

If you liked this make sure to check out my other work! If you want me to write anything for any jjba character 1-7 don’t be shy to request it <3

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python333 · 2 years ago

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task force 141 reacting to [reader] giving them a 'happy father's day' card — python333

— — — —

synopsis you give the tf141 boys some happy father's day cards!!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & younger!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], reader is intended to be around 16/17-20/21 but can be interpreted as older as long as they're below 24 (just so that the headcanons make more sense), maybe ooc?

note i'm so sorry but there's no gaz in this one BUT i can explain why!! i was doing my research (going through three different tumblr posts) to figure out the actual age of each character and gaz is apparently 24?? in new updates or whatever?? anyway, even before i found that out, i could only ever imagine writing him as an older brother, simply because he doesn't feel fatherly to me but still has those protecive-familial vibes so if yall want me to write something on him being ur older brother then feel free to request/reply/comment or whatever and i will! :3 this is all comfort no hurt and pure fluff so enjoy!!

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ OH GOD.

➥ man i don’t even have daddy issues and i’m crying.

➥ gives you that one dad smile he has—y’all know the one. don’t pretend you don’t—and thanks you for it.

➥ gives you a lil hug too because why not?

➥ tears up just the tiniest bit but it’s pretty unnoticeable but i need you to know that it’s there.

➥ either keeps it propped up on his desk, in one of the drawers of his desk, or puts it in a small frame and puts that on or in his desk.

➥ definitely reads it at least once a week.

➥ he’s so genuinely flattered by it i think that after you leave his office he’d tear up a bit.

➥ you thought he was acting as a father figure to you before?

➥ be prepared for him to take it to a whole nother level.

➥ starts getting you cheesy birthday cards after you start giving him father’s day cards.

➥ is he a father biologically? no. is he one mentally, emotionally, and spiritually? absolutely.

—

You were reasonably pretty nervous.

It wasn’t ever really a secret that you and Price had some sort of father-child-like relationship, what with the amount of hair ruffles, head pats, shoulder pats, etc. that you’d received from him and the swatting at his hand with your own that you had given back. But none of that took away the nervousness you had when you gave Price a father’s day card for the first time.

It’s not that you thought that he would be weirded out by it, you just had a small habit of overthinking things, and this happened to be one of those things. The card didn’t say too much inside of it, a simple ‘happy father’s day!’ and a sentence you wrote that mentioned that you were grateful to know him. That’s it. That’s all it was. And yet, your hand shook as you held it, the other hand knocking on the door of Price’s office.

He nodded in greeting and opened it, and stepped out of the way to let you walk in and sit in front of his desk. He sat at his usual seat after shutting the door, and you set the card in your lap, not wanting him to see it just yet.

“Is there any particular reason why you wanted to come into my office?” Price asked, breaking the silence. You took a deep breath and nodded before you quickly handed over the card, slipping it onto his side of the desk. He took a good look at it for a moment, reading the ‘happy father’s day!’ on the front and looking over the cheesy illustration on the cover. You anxiously waited for him to say something as he simply stared at it, before he picked it up and opened it, reading the short few words that were written on the inside.

You watched as his expression melted into a softer one, and he stared at the card for another moment before wordlessly getting up. Before you could say anything, or question anything, he knelt down to the level of the chair you were sitting in and hugged you. You were frozen with surprise before you hugged him back, loosely wrapping your arms over his shoulders, a little confused by the hug but appreciating the embrace nonetheless. He rubbed your back for a quick moment before standing back up straight and patting your shoulder.

”Thank you,” He said, smiling down at you. “I really appreciated that, kiddo.”

Oh, wow. I don’t know why, but I think I might start crying. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” You’d replied, quickly getting up and giving Price a quick hug before swiftly walking to the door, “I’ll just, uh, I’ll be in my room. Or, actually, no, I’m gonna go—I’m gonna go bother Soap in his office, so if you need me I’ll be in there okaybyeCaptainI’llseeyoulater!” You rushed out, not looking back as you closed the door behind you.

Price had blinked at the door for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and sitting back down in his chair, looking at the card you’d given him one last time before sighing and letting himself tear up a bit. Eventually, after just sitting there and staring at the card, he unlocked one of the few locked drawers at the bottom of his desk and put the card there, for safekeeping.

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he’s so excited when he reads that card.

➥ he’s so flattered?? and is so happy?? and oh my god he might pass out?? from all the positive emotions he feels??

➥ be careful with what you say because you might break him beyond repair.

➥ it’s like you’ve given a puppy it’s first treat, honestly.

➥ won’t cry but is very close to!!

➥ will definitely show off the card to everyone.

➥ when i say everyone i mean EVERYONE.

➥ he will talk everyone’s ear off about it, no matter who they are or what they’re doing, hell, the man could be pissing with his dick out at the urinals and everything and he’ll still be ranting to the poor soul in the bathroom about what a sweetheart you are and how you gave him a father’s day card.

➥ he starts calling you ‘lamb’ and ‘duckie’ after the whole ordeal.

➥ no i didn’t ask chatgpt for terms of endearment scottish parents use for their children haha!!

➥ he buys a corkboard just to pin the card to in his office.

➥ like it’s literally just in the middle, nothing else on the corkboard, just that singular father’s day card.

➥ the whole thing is just reserved for father’s day cards tbh. he hopes to fill it up with as many cards as you’ll give him, and if you only give him the one, then damn it, the corkboard’s only gonna have one thing on it and whoever questions it can mind their damn business.

—

You didn’t really know what to expect with Soap when you gave him the card.

You felt pretty confident giving it to him, knowing the guy could probably receive a rock with googly eyes on it from you and still cry tears of joy knowing you gave it to him of all people, so giving this card to him was no big deal, right?

You found him in the recreational center, lounging on the couch, reading a book—shocking, I know—and quietly reading the words out loud to himself. The moment you had entered the center, though, he looked up from his book and nodded in greeting at you with a smile on his face and watched as you walked over to him.

Before he could say anything, you quickly put the card in his lap and watched as he looked up at you, a surprised and amused expression on his face.

“What’s this?” He asked, not looking down at the card just yet.

“Read it,” You’d insisted, gesturing towards the card in his lap. He blinked at you for a moment before muttering, “Alright, then,” under his breath and looking down at the card. He picked it up and read the three short words on the front and looked over the illustration on the cover, and the moment the words registered in his brain, his face broke out into a grin and he looked up at you.

“Aww, this is sae sweet,” Soap gushed, “Thank ye!”

He got up before you could talk and hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground a bit, cooing, “Ye're jist the sweetest, ma God, when did ye get the card?”

“I got it a while ago,” You had admitted, “Decided to give it to you now.”

Soap set you down and put both of his hands on your shoulders, gently rubbing circles into them with his thumb, looking down at you with an elated grin, "I'm gonnae hang this up in ma office—I'll get a corkboard an' everything, jist for this."

You looked up at him with a confused, but amused look on your face, asking, “And you’re just gonna hang that card on there?”

He nodded in confirmation and responded, “Aye, it'll be deid center, naething else on there."

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ oh my goodness.

➥ the moment you hand him the card, it’s like he already knows what it is without reading it.

➥ probably thinks it’s a joke at first.

➥ when he realizes that you’re serious he straight up tears up.

➥ like in front of you and everything he’ll tear up.

➥ “... Are you crying?” ghost, tearing up and literally about to start sobbing, "No.”

➥ he treasures that thing and would literally cease to exist if he ever lost it or if it got destroyed.

➥ won’t flaunt it at all, instead he keeps it in the pocket of a jacket he never wears anymore.

➥ if you ever give him more cards, he’ll consider getting a box to keep them in.

➥ he’s always called you ‘kid’ but after this he starts calling you ‘kiddo’.

➥ THERE’S A DIFFERENCE. I CANNOT TELL YOU WHAT IT IS BUT THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.

➥ listen kiddo is more affectionate and its softer and its not as playful as kid its more personal and and and [explodes]

➥ the others notice the small change in behavior he has towards you (being more lighthearted with his teasing, generally being less cold with you, etc.) and will tease him endlessly about it.

➥ by others i mean soap and gaz. those two team up and tease him to death.

➥ he could care less though!! he tells himself that they’re idiots anyway and that his behavior hasn’t changed that much.

➥ he’s in denial and i think that him and me are the same fr.

—

You had practically searched every corner, crevice, nook, and cranny of the base searching for Ghost. When you finally found him, he was in the armory and weapons room cleaning the barrel of his rifle, hyperfocused on wiping away the gunk on the gun. You stopped by the door, hesitating in giving him the card. It really shouldn’t be that hard, You thought, What’s the worst that could happen?

You were aware that there were many things that could happen, most of which were bad, but you ignored them for the sake of building up your confidence to give him the card. You stood there for a while, just sort of staring at him, before he—not even looking up from his gun—called out to you with a simple yet firm, “Do you need something?”

You probably could’ve died right there, his firm voice almost completely shattering your confidence for reasons you couldn’t specify, but you instead cleared your throat and walked out of the doorway and completely into the room. You walked over to him and before he could ask any further questions you held the card out to him, your hand having a small tremble to it, an uncomfortably visible display of your nervousness.

He stared at the card for a moment before setting down the cloth he was using to clean his gun and grabbing it, reading the front for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and looking up at you to tease you for it. He was going to tell you what a ‘funny’ joke it was, to tell you to just go do whatever work you’re probably skipping out on when he sees the look on your face that tells him that you’re pretty serious about the card.

He looked back down at the card and read it again, the words ‘happy father’s day’ echoing through his mind as he opened it. He read the few short words on the inside of the card and the shitty drawing of a ghost right next to one that was scribbled out—because of course you had to use pen and weren’t satisfied with the first ghost you drew even though Ghost could make out through the scribbles that they practically looked the same.

You were pretty nervous the longer the silence stretched out, and you were about to take back the card and go jump off a cliff to avoid ever looking at Ghost again when suddenly you hear a sniffle.

“Are you… are you crying?” You’d asked, more confused than nervous now, watching as Ghost shook his head negatively and continued to stare at the inside of the card.

“No,” He answered, sniffling again.

“... You sure?” You’d asked again, far less nervous now, your tone becoming more teasing.

“Positive.” Ghost said firmly, though his voice had wavered a bit. He looked up at you and reached his hand up to give you a pat on the shoulder, muttering, “Thank you for that, kiddo.”

"Yeah, no problem," You had said back, smiling down at Ghost before taking a step back, "I'll leave you to keep cleaning your gun, or whatever."

Ghost had simply nodded and looked back at the table where your card and his gun laid, and you didn't stay long enough to watch him tear up all over again at the sight of the letter.

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justtwofriendsinmyhondacivic · 12 days ago

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IT tech reader x poly 141

Chapter four (Unedited)

a/n: hey yallllllll, so i'm going to be going through and editing the chapters that I have put out. There will hopefully be a few more, and then I'll post moments from this story that you can request.

18+ MDNI!!

Cw: afab reader, inaccurate military descriptions, female anatomy and pronouns, dry humping, talk of shooting and weapon handling, minor angst, mentions of teammate death

…

The weeks after your first training session with task force 141 was nothing short of exhausting.

The almost daily training sessions were hard on your body, between your morning exercise and you being thrown around during sparring the soreness was bone deep. The nightly work on the servers and helping John with paperwork, sleep was also something you don't see very often.

The nightmares of your last deployment made sure of that.

But what was truly exhausting was the thick heavy blanket of sexual tension that won't let up, no matter how many times you've tried to find some relief.

The heated hands on your sweaty body during sparring, the eyes you can feel creep up your neck, the thought of them being together just down the hall.

You've tried to keep it down, as your relationship with Soap and Gaz has grown to being friends, and you didn't want to mess that up. You and Soap started lifting together having a competitive edge which left you guys sore for days to come.

You bonded to Kyle quick as you both shared interest in coding and video games. On nights there was nothing to be done you found yourself in the common room yelling at each other while playing COD.

Ghost took time sparring you personally, he told you that you need to be able to fend off anyone bigger than you if you were ever alone.

John is someone you look up to, helping you with settling into your new role.

You tried to keep your mind in check reminding you that these men were in a relationship together, but fuck that was hard.

Sighing, you locked your computer and began the now familiar walk to John's office. Rapping your knuckles on the door before hearing him beckon you inside.

Peeking through the door before smiling at him, “Hi, Captain.” Striding over and taking a seat on the dark leather couch on the wall of his office. Making yourself comfortable in your usual spot on the couch.

“Told you, love, call me John.” He said turning his chair to look at you, giving you access to the welcome sight of him leaning back with a cigar hanging from his lip.

The handsome lazy look in his eye, smoke billowing around his head with the lamp light behind him took your breath away. He looked heavenly. The spread of his thick thighs looked like the perfect seat.

Clearing your throat and hoping he didnt catch on your shameless eye fucking of him, “M’sorry Ca- John, hows paperwork?” You asked, fixing your mistake, pulling your legs up and hugging them to your chest.

He always noticed no matter how comfortable you were getting with him and his team you had a habit of making yourself as small as possible, almost trying to be hidden, a hand wrapped around your scarred shoulder. It was a tell that John hadn't been able to stop thinking about, which was worse after he read your file and got information about how you obtained the scar.

“Taxing as always, got more coming soon-” He said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, after putting the cigar out on the dirty ashtray that lived on his desk.

“We're heading out for an operation in two days, gotta go help get some intel. I want you on the op.” Feeling excitement and anxiousness, you sat forward hanging on every word.

“Are you alright with that?” He asked, tilting his head, showing concern for how you were feeling in the group.

“Of course, John, anything the team needs.” You nodded.

He felt his chest warm at your eagerness to prove yourself to him and his boys.

“I've read your file, I know how your last operation went before you moved to IT.” He watched as some of the light left your eyes, seeming to stare right through him, “Are you still with me, love?”

The tone of his voice brought you out of your staring, running a shaky hand through your hair, then to rest on the scar around your shoulder, the reminder of what happened always seemed to set the skin on fire.

All you could think about was the bright smile of your teammate, Cowboy, you lost three years ago, on an infiltrate operation.

The compound was supposed to be lightly guarded that night, but once you breached it was guns blazing. You guys almost made it to getting evac, but once entering the office that you needed to pull apart for information, four men with machetes surprised you.

Shooting two before one dug his machete over your shoulder and back, the other stabbing Cowboy through the chest. Back up arriving before the men could finish you off, your partner wasn't so lucky.

All of that due to a mishap with intel, something that you vowed not to let happen again, transferring to the IT department as soon as you were back to work.

You felt the couch dip next to you as John's warm thigh pressed against your hip.

Warm tears clung to your lash line, begging to fall over.

��Hey-” he grabbed your chin between his rough fingers bringing your gaze up to meet his, “S’alright, I just needed to know if you need more time or not, I don't want to rush into it, you can sleep on it. The briefing is at 0600 tomorrow.”

You felt the warmth of his breath on your face, the addicting smell of the cigar and his woody oak smell wrapping its warm embrace around you.

Your eyes met his light blue eyes, a tear broke through running down your cheek.

John's hand met your cheek, rubbing his thumb over the fresh trail that the tear left, his eyebrows furrowing. The warmth of his palm sunk into you, instinctually leaning your face into the feeling of his skin.

“I'm okay, it's not something I like to think about.” You sniffled out, trying to contain the wobble of your bottom lip.

“I know, if you want to sit out you can, Gaz knows enough to get the intel. Might not be as smart as you are with the computers, but we can manage.” He said, his hand unmoving, keeping your eyes on him.

Not that you wanted to or could look away, you were too entranced in how warm his presence is.

“I can do it.” You said, noting the unsure look on his face.

“I promise I'm okay to do it-” you said, leaning forward, feeling determined.

As you leaned toward John he could feel his resolve slip, the way the light warmed your skin, highlighting the rosy tint to your cheeks. He couldn't deny his attraction to you, the easy going and quiet nature was something he admired.

He knew his partners felt the same way. Soap couldn't have hid it if he tried, everytime he came back from your now joined lifting session, he pounced on anyone in his path.

Gaz sported a sweet smile on his face when he was in bed talking to his captain about how you beat him in an intense match, giggling as he swore you cheated.

Ghost would never say it out loud but John knew the look he was giving you as you got better in sparring. The quiet man was hard to please, but you were trying your best. And he could tell.

His eyes fell looking at your plush lips, then back up to your eyes. The hesitation was slipping away after your smell filled his nose and the smooth feel of your skin.

Your wet eyelashes parted wider as John closed the gap in between you and enveloped your lips in a soft kiss. The pretty gasp you let out went straight down to his half hard cock.

Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, unintentionally pulling him closer.

After a moment, John pulled away gazing into your wide eyes, feeling your warm breath on his face. He trailed a burning hand from your cheek to your shoulder prepared to push away and apologize for his actions.

That was before your lust clouded mind convinced you to pounce.

He felt your hand push him back to lean on the arm of the couch. He watched as you perched yourself on his wide lap like you were made to be there, feeling the heat of your core flowing over his lap he groaned.

The deep sound from his chest vibrated through your bones as you dove back in eagerly, biting at his lower lip. Opening his mouth allowing both of your tongues to explore each other. His rough hands trailed down your sides before they found a home on your plush hips.

The rough pads dug into your skin, anchoring your willing body to his. A hand running up to tangle its way into your hair, he yanked back exposing the skin of your throat. He ran his tongue up from the peak of your shoulder up to your jaw.

Your hands found their way to rest on his shoulders, digging in until your nails left crescent indents in his skin.

He pulled you down to provide friction you both so desperately needed.

The sweet hiccuping moan you let out was mirrored by John as you felt the thick cock underneath you. John's beard was scratching against your wet mouth so deliciously.

As the kiss heated up, John's hand slipped underneath your shirt feeling the skin of your tummy and running up to cup your breast. Running his thumb over the pierced skin of your nipple, groaning as he pinched it between his fingers making your body jolt.. He bit at your ear, letting you hear his heavy breath.

As you ran a hand through his hair, you started to rock on his lap, the fog in your brain finding it hard to stop. Wanting nothing more than to let all of them have their way.

“Just like that, take what you need.” His words sink in as you move faster, becoming more erratic as your body heats up.

“Good girl.” he chuckled deep and dark, pulling you down to meet his lips again.

A sharp loud knock startled you as you jumped off of John, heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

The sobering sound knocked some sense into you, as you realized what was happening.

“Fuck, im so sorry Captain.” You said rushing towards the door.

“Love dont-” He tried to catch you before you ripped the door open, almost running into a surprised Ghost. Pushing passed him, John sighed as he watched you scurry toward the barracks.

Ghost watched you run away before looking back confused at his lover. Taking in the kiss swollen lips, and crumpled clothes he put two and two together quickly.

“Think ya scared ‘er” The deep voice of Ghost filled the now silent room, pushing the door closed as he entered. John sat back down on the couch where your warmth and smell still lingered.

His head hung low as he rubbed the skin of his neck.

Ghost came and stood in front of him.

“I feel like a goddamn teenager, Si.” He said, finally looking up at him.

“Maybe bringing another person onboard was a mistake-” John shook his head, chuckling dryly, knowing that Ghost was blowing smoke. He had the same feelings around you as he did.

“Don't start. You forget that I know you well, love.” he shook his head, Ghost rolled his eyes before dropping himself next to the older man.

He started picking at the stitching on one of the pillows on the couch, suddenly finding it more interesting than the conversation on hand.

“She’s under your skin now too, under all of our skin.” John spoke, telling Simon what he already knows. He ran a hand over Ghost's knee pulling his attention back to him.

“I know. Soap won't shut up about ‘er” He smirked.

“Nor Kyle, filthy mutts the lot of us.” John sighed.

“We're taking her on an assignment with us, we leave in two days.” John rubbed his forehead leaning back, “The briefing is at 0600, hopefully I didnt fuck anything up too bad,”

Ghost nodded before leaning back to snuggle onto John's shoulder, looking up with a suggestive glint in his eye, “We should head to bed then.”

John nodded.

…

Sleep again was not something that was easy for you to obtain that night. All you could think about was the kiss you shared with the Captain. Shame settling deep in your mind. How are you even supposed to look at him in the morning? You felt like you've ruined everything.

How would the other guys react?

You think they'd be mad, or maybe they would ask for your immediate resignation from the team.

All you could do is wallow in the heavy feelings while staring up at the gray ceiling until your alarm goes off.

Dragging yourself to get ready, deciding to avoid everyone as much as you could, you got ready for a run instead of the joint lifting session you had with Soap.

Shoving your headphones in you walked towards the outside entrance to the training courses. Showing your badge to the man at the door, the sky was still dark and gloomy as it has been the past few days.

You turned up the volume before you started the run, deciding to go out past the track and towards the wide forest that surrounded the perimeter. Hoping the run would distract you from the turmoil in your head.

It didn't. Before you knew it, you were already deep in the woods out of breath against a tree. Looking down at your watch you cursed, you've lost track of time. You only had fifteen minutes to get back before the meeting started, you'd have to run straight there without getting ready.

You took off, your feet hitting the pavement hard as you raced time to get there in time. Out of breath you gave your badge back to the man at the door before sprinting down the halls until you made it outside of the meeting room.

Busting through the doors before bending down with your hands on your knees trying to calm your breathing.

Looking up you find the eyes of the team looking at you concerned and confused, “Was someone chasing you?” Gaz asked, his handsome face furrowed at you. All eyes were on you. John was wondering the same thing as you were the first one at the meeting getting the presentation started.

Panting, “No- just lost track of time during my run, my apologies, Captain.” You said avoiding the concerned look in his eyes, you wiped off some sweat from your forehead and headed to the empty seat by Soap.

“No worries, love.” He said, eyeing the purple bags under your eyes.

As you sit down, Soap leans over, “Skipping lifting for cardio?” He grins.

You gave a half smile that did not reach your eyes, and nodded before looking up at John. Leaving Soap even more confused as you would have just asked him to join you for the run.

“The mission is an infiltrate and obtain mission.” John began pointing at the screen as a picture of a man popped up on screen, “This is Antonio Gutierez, he is said to have intel about nuclear assets.”

Everyone took note of how the muscular dark skinned man looked.

“This is a joint op with Los Vaqueros”

“He's having a party coming up, which we will be sending you in, you'll have a member of their team with you,” The boys didn't like this idea, you've finally started to get used to them and they wanted to be there in case something happens.

Soap stood up looking upset but before he got a word in, John cut him off, “We will be right outside of the compound if they need backup support.” The look on his face told Soap that he also didn't feel comfortable with this but Laswell was the superior officer that made the plan.

“So what is my cover?” You asked, the look of determination clear.

“You're Jenny Amana, wife of Rafael Amana.” He said handing over a manilla folder, you opened it and found your identification and passport.

“Were wheels up tonight at 1800, the party is tomorrow at 2000.” The team nodded as John continued to brief the team on the specs of the job.

Coming to an end he dismissed everyone as they exited, Soap sent a long look in your direction when Price asked you to stay behind. When everyone filed out of the door, John took a seat next to you.

“Are you sure you're comfortable with the job?” He asked, his thick brows knitting themselves together.

You leaned back to give him more space so as to not cross any boundaries, remembering last night. He frowned

“Yes, Captain. I have off duty clothes that will work for this.” You said, fiddling with your fingers so you could avoid eye contact.

John shook his head, “Kate has a kit in Mexico for you, the dress code is quite extravagant.”

You nodded before feeling the air of the room turn heavy with the uncomfortable silence.

“I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.” He said. Simple words were enough to knock the wind out of you. Finally looking up to see him gazing at you.

“I should be the one apologizing, I should have never done that. You're my captain and you're in relationship’s, I don't want to come between that.” You said, shaking your head as the shame tugs at you, “I understand if you want me to step down from my position.”

Sighing out, he ran a hand down his face and through his beard.

“I don't want you to leave, didn't want you to leave last night.” He said, placing a hand on yours to stop you from picking at your nails.

“You're not upset?” You asked, confusion clearly pulling at your face.

“Far from it, doll.” The sweet small smile he gave you warmed his war worn face, running a finger over the apple of your cheek. Reminding you of the night before. His praises and dominating actions still had your skin buzzing.

“How-” He cut you off before you could go any farther with a small kiss to your forehead.

“We’ll talk after the operation, go pack up and have some down time.” The tone of his voice left no room for argument. Starring deep in eachothers eyes you gave a slow nod as you pushed up from the chair.

You gave him a glance before pulling the door open and heading to your barracks.

…

Packing and trying to have down time was hard when your mind was racing. All of the thoughts about the men on the other side of the hall.

You tried to occupy your mind before the plane ride, making sure you had everything you needed.

You walked to the bathroom to grab toiletries, when the light illuminated the sterile bathroom you looked at the picture you stuck to the mirror. Two sets of happy gleaming eyes look back at you.

It was a younger you, hair not quite as long, eyes that shone so bright even as mud caked your body with the arm of your teammate around your shoulders. It was a picture that was taken of you and Andre a couple weeks before his death. His dark skin was dirty from the particularly muddy obstacle course you both had just run.

You smiled sadly at it, caressing it as the memories of him flew in your mind.

How he took you in when assigned to his unit, helping you find your feet in the hard reality of the marines, never letting you fall deep into the pits of PTSD and depression.

You giggled remembering the story of how he earned the call sign Cowboy. While on a mission in the USA he was found staying up all night watching old reruns of westerns, speaking the lingo he picked up from them over comms.

You remembered him introducing you to his wife, Ella, over a video call, the warm smile of the woman over the screen made you feel comfortable instantly.

She had invited you to come and stay with them during the long breaks, the breaks that you had nowhere to go, no family to go home to. They turned into home, staying up with Ella as she braided her hair as you both listened to music together.

She had just broken the news about their pregnancy before we went back into deployment. As soon as he found out he put in papers to be discharged, refusing to be away from his family during the growth of his baby.

He didn't make it to meet his baby.

The survivors' guilt wouldnt allow you to look Ella in the eyes, knowing that it should have been her husband that made it back. Not you.

You felt your legs shake before sinking to the cold tile floor clutching the photo securely to your chest. Your vision blurred as the tears flowed freely down your skin.

Join the marines they said, it'll be fun they said.

…

As 1800 quickly approached you loaded the gear into the military airplane along with the boys, you could feel their eyes on your puffy eyes and flushed skin.

The plane was quiet as the team started buckling in, the hum of the engines beginning to get louder before the door closed. Looking across the plane seeing Price, Soap, and Gaz getting comfortable in preparation for the long flight. Soap wrapped his arm behind the two men on either side of him, smiling at something Gaz said to him.

Ghost sat to your right, choosing to buckle in right next to you even with the open space next to him, you were too tired to care. You felt eyes on the side of your face, looking over to meet his, you gave a silent nod.

Before you knew it the plane was on the runway gearing up to take flight, the bounce in your leg grew faster as the feelings of being exhausted and anxious battled against each other. As the plane started to gain speed, a cool hand reached over and gripped your thigh, seeming to dwarf the muscle, quieting the tapping of your foot.

Looking back up gazing at the sharp hooded eyes. He looked down where his gloves hand was connected to the taught muscle of your thigh, the fat of your thigh slightly pillowing over his large fingers.

Your breath quickened as the plane took air, his hand unmoving until the plane was settled in the sky. He looked away reading the file that was on his other side. Clearly ignoring the bulge of your eyes and the gape of your mouth.

You composed yourself, feeling your eyes dry and droop as the nights of no sleep caught up with you.

…

About six hours into the flight, most of them were asleep including you. Ghost and John awake, making sure every detail of the plan was correct and accurate.

Simon swore his hand still warmed from where it touched your thigh. Making it hard to focus. He laid his head back, turning it to the left, running grey eyes over the soft skin of your throat. The veins in your neck were out due to the odd posture. Eyes dilating at the small movements of your pulse.

Grinding his teeth together at the idea of biting the sensitive flesh.

When your head tilts and a small whimper makes its way to his ears he sits forward slowly. The furrow of your brow was enough to tell him that the dream you were having wasn't pleasant. He didn't want to startle you out of your sleep, deciding it was better to grab your hand. Applying enough pressure so your nervous system could focus on something else.

It was enough to stop the whimpering as you leaned slightly towards his warm body. John chuckled at him.

…

“C’mon birdie, we're here.” Gaz’s voice pulled you from the less than comfortable feeling in your body. You realize your head was slightly leaning on the lieutenant's shoulder.

You pulled away muttering a small apology to him. The plane was still in air but slowly coming closer to the ground as details on the ground were much easier to see. You hang your head to rub at the stiff muscles in your neck, groaning as you feel some relief.

The plane hit the pavement of the runway, the bustling army base was in full action. Recruits were running around the strip on the dusty ground. Pilots were checking their air crafts and filling their fuels. The plane stopped. Slowly lowering the hanger door as you unbuckled. The boys stood in front of you, walking down to the ground.

“Alejandro!” Soap yelled, as he and a tall man joined each other in a brotherly hug. The handsome man's face cracked into a wide grin, greeting the familiar team.

The sun had just come up, lighting the whole airstrip in a pretty orange color.

“Amigos! S’good to have you back in the city of souls.” He said before seeing you tucked in the back behind the taller men, he moved through them to present you with a welcoming hand. The beard on his face was clean and neatly trimmed, same with the cut of his hair.

“So youre the new soldier, I'm Alejandro, I'm the leader of los vaqueros.” Your hand embraced him as you smiled at him, introducing yourself, “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Just Alejandro is fine, amiga-” He said before turning back to the group, “Follow me, we got you set up in a hangar over here.”

Walking into the aircraft free hangar, taking in the small kitchen to your left and the makeshift common room to your right. They were worn in leather couches surrounding a TV, you saw five cots set up behind the TV, tucked together too close for comfort.

They already had food prepared and waiting for your arrival. The scent of meat filled the air, your stomach growled excited to eat something different.

Everyone went and threw their gear on the cots already grabbing the end beds, leaving you on the one between Ghost and Gaz, silently cursing yourself for not getting there sooner.

Soap was already running over to the food and loading up a plate full of meat and veggies, shoving a full fork in his mouth and chewing loud while Alejandro starts speaking.

“Jesus Soap, the food’s not gonna run away.” He laughs, watching Soap shrug his shoulders and shovel another full fork full of food into his already puffed up cheeks. Ghost rolled his eyes and smacked the back of his head.

Soap sputtered trying to regain his breath as you guys laughed at him.

Everyone sat on the couches, besides a female officer who stood at the entrance of the hangar, a few members of Los Vaqueros filed in to take seats leaving no seats for you. As Gaz started to stand to offer you a spot, you started to sink to the floor in front of him and Soap. Before you could be fully seated two strong arms hauled you off of the floor, bringing you to sit in between Soap and Gaz.

The guys were talking amongst themselves so they couldn't see the flustered look on your face, because of the lack of space on the couch you were practically sitting on both Gaz and Soap’s laps. Gaz had an arm over the back of the couch running a hand over Soaps shoulder, the rubbing of his hand caused his warm hand to run over the top of your shoulder.

Soaps arm locked around your waist, the warmth of his hairy arms sinking in your shirt and to your skin. The plate is on his other leg, he was looking to his Captain and Alejandro continued to shovel food in his mouth, acting as if sitting you on his lap was completely normal.

Wiggling against the hold on your waist, Kyle moved his hand around your shoulder to keep you in place. In the midst of you squirming your ass rubbed against his crotch, if he was able to make it through this briefing he needed you to be still.

Accepting your fate you leaned against Kyle's chest, too tired to argue, your legs curled into Soap's thigh as the meeting began.

It was mainly just covering all of the details you already knew.

“There is a hill on the west of the compound, that's where we will set up in case of a hot extraction.” Alejandro said,pointing to the map that was on the TV, “I will be going under Rafael Amana, with my ‘wife’ Jenny Amana.” He gestured at you, nodding at him.

The arm around your waist tightened as Soap stopped shoving food down his throat, the look in his eye was dark. It was a new look to you, compared to the happy expression he almost always has on his face.

“You're going to go with Officer Saldana to get ready, you need to be wired up, and you'll be running through your cover with her.” You nodded, looking at the pretty officer waiting for you to come with her. Greeting her with a small nod.

You sat up pushing out of Soaps hold, feeling his finger tips linger on your hip as long as he could. All eyes of your team watched you go with dark gazes, feeling possessive after having you all to themselves. You rounded the corner of the building giving them a quick backwards glance before you were out of their sight.

…

Time passed by as you and Officer Saldana started to get to work, she and another female officer hovered around you helping with your hair and make up while quizzing you on the cover.

“Who are you?” She asked, her face merely inches from yours as she was fiddling with your eyeshadow.

“Im Jenny Amana, my husband and I, Jorge, are investors from Jalisco. We've been married for three years, celebrating our fourth anniversary in two months.” She nodded, sitting back to admire her work as the other officer, Linda, brushed through your hair.

“You need to claim the room, women from these lifestyles are proud. Treat Alejandro like he is yours, hang off of him. Even when you think no one is looking.” You nodded, thinking it'd be easy with the amount of sexual tension you had in you..

“You speak spanish, correct?” You nodded once more, her hand coming up to blend at your smokey shadow.

“Only speak to men when spoken too, introduce yourself to the women. Try to overhear any gossip, the wives have loose lips.” Linda said behind you, her fingers running through your hair made your scalp tingle.

“Got it.”

“So, which one are you dating?” Saldana asks, smirking at your bulging eyes, “None of them.” you insisted.

“Dont lie, they all looked like they would kill for a bite of you. Plus you were practically lying over top of two of them.” Linda gasps at the piece of gossip, coming around to face you.

“Are more than one of them yours?” You felt the heat over your neck as they prodded, they giggled as they watched your reaction. You smiled at them shaking your head.

You missed the feminine energy of having lady teammates, they go through the same things as you, it's easier to connect.

“Okay, okay you don't have to tell-” She chuckled with Linda, “The dress is in the bathroom.” You got up and headed into the small military bathroom that you suddenly felt out of place in.

Looking in the mirror at the great job these women have done. You almost didn't recognize yourself.

Your hair was pinned into a low bun, soft waves framing your face. Smokey makeup makes your eyes look lusty and sharp.

It's been a while since you've felt this pretty.

Looking over to the dress bag that was hanging off of the towel rack, unzipping it your jaw fell open. You probably couldn't have afforded something like this even with your life savings.

The silk black fabric was soft like butter under your rough hands, as you picked it up. Reeling as you noticed it had no back.

You opened the door, seeing the girls looking back at you expectantly.

“How do you even put this on?”

They looked back at each other laughing, Saldana got up and entered the bathroom.

She helped you dress, admiring her work.

“Are you sure this is appropriate?” Suddenly feeling shy, the dress was fully open all the way past your lower back.

“Yes, wear it with pride. Like the dress was made for you.” She said, grabbing your shoulders.

“Now let's get you wired up.”

…

The team began to place their gear on, Alejandro joined them already in his perfectly tailored suit. The gold metal pieces decorating his sleeves and wrist, complimenting his bronze skin.

Outside the hangar two black SUVs waited, under the pink glaze of the sunset.

“Don’ like this, cap.” Johnny said, he felt trigger happy just with the thought of you going into the compound, surrounded by bad men.

“None of us do. This is an order sent down by Laswell.” He sighed adjusting his hat, “Can't be helped.”

They loaded the gear into the back of one of the cars, now just waiting for you to get moving to the target. They talked amongst themselves, Ghost triple checking the ammo and gear, coping with the same discomfort of sending you in.

“There she is.” Alejandro said, looking over towards the building doors.

All heads snapped to you, unable to speak. Unable to move as the breath was knocked out of the room.

They watched the way you walked as if this was your second nature.

Your dress hugged every curve seamlessly, the material slinking around you grabbing at your waist sinfully. The dress came up over your scarred shoulder, hiding it from prying eyes. Hair pulled up exposing the glowing skin of your collarbone and shoulder.

Your tits sat naturally on your chest, no bra constricting your chest as they bounced against the weight of your steps. Your pierced nipples budding against the fabric, with the slight breeze.

They were entranced.

Heat seared through them as you gave them a small shy smile, before turning to talk to the men who were connecting to the feed of your coms and tracker that were hidden in your earrings and the small pendant that dangled above your breasts.

Ghost wanted to dump a fresh mag into the men as they fussed with the pendant, hands finding their way too close to your tits.

You took a seat at the table typing away on the computer, all of them couldn't take their gaze away from the glowing dewy skin of your back. Gaz almost lost his mind that you were going into a compound looking like that.

“Gaz, c’mere.” You said, looking over your shoulder, he dropped what he was doing and walked over to you. He would never deny a pretty woman, especially you in that dress.

They tried to memorize the way your spine bent before it met your hips, the pretty dimples in your lower back, and the way your skin looked as the light highlighted all the alluring curves.

Gaz stood over your shoulder entrance by how soft your skin looked, “So I got into the compound's camera system, you'll have eyes everywhere-” He nodded watching as your freshly painted hands type.

“Alright comms are up, you're good to go.” The tech called to Alejandro, he nodded before walking over to you. He grabbed your hand pulling you to stand in front of him, and slid a boastful and loud ring on your ring finger. He looked up and nodded, “You ready, wife?”

Hearing a deep noise from Ghost's chest as he appeared over your shoulder, announcing his displeasure at the nickname. Looking over your shoulder, linking a pinky with his gloved one, trying to assure the large man. Alejandro chuckled, knowing he was setting them on edge.

He looked down, eyes dilated from the rich smell coming from you, calming slightly.

You pulled away as Alejandro entered the back of the sleek SUV, he extended a hand helping you up into the vehicle. Ghost raked his eyes over the sight of your back as you bent over, clenching his fists to fight the urge to grab the back of your neck and pull you back to him.

“Be safe.” you said before pulling the door shut, meeting the longing eyes of your team.

…

The team settled into their position on the hill, Ghost setting up his sniper rifle and peering through it. The rest of the team piled around Gaz as he pulled up the live feed from your camera.

“They're ‘ere.” Ghost called out, training his weapon on the SUV as he watched Alejandro step out before offering a hand to you.

He watched the way you switched into a different person, the confident smile and siren like eyes you gave Alejandro as you clutched his arm. He couldn't fight the scowl that was carved into his skin.

“Making contact.” Alejandro leaned in and whispered into the comm in your ear, a deceitful giggle fell from you.

As you made your way, you swayed up the stairs as your ‘husband’ held your hand, helping you. You gave a confident smile to the juiced up guard, standing tall as he began to pat you both down.

As he moved down to feel your legs Alejandro growled, “Watch your hands.” The deep sound in his voice as he spoke in Spanish hurried the man along. As the guard finished with him, he came over and layed a arm low over the skin of your hips.

He pulled you close playing the part of a possessive husband.

Ghost watched, his sniper trained on the back of Alejandro's head trying to keep his finger off of the trigger.

“Fuck this mission.”

…

#john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #poly 141

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