#who are you if you desire for nothing? can you live?

[nanamiscocksleeve]

Natural Breeding Clinic: Patient 1

warnings: MDNI, breeding kinks, use of pet names, piv sex, medical kink, clitoral fingering, nipple play, slight oral (male receiving)

a/n: Here it is. Enjoy ya filthy sluts (said with love). Join the taglist here! Edit: Thank you tumblr for flagging this even though there was nothing wrong with it! guys let me know if there's an issue or you can't read it.

Prologue - Patient 1 - Patient 2

You’re seated awkwardly on the edge of the examination table, trying not to fidget with your hair. Your insides feel like they’ve been tied into knots and your blood won’t stop growing hot in your veins, rushing through your ears so loudly that you feel like you might’ve been at the ocean. After years of trying and failing to find the perfect man, you’d finally given up, content to live as a single woman. But there was one unfulfilled desire you harbored that unfortunately required a member of the opposite sex; a child. After numerous inquiries and health examinations, you finally stumbled across the Jujutsu Fertility Clinic and decided that you might as well experience the entire process of a natural pregnancy.

Your heart is already beating faster than normal, something that Shoko, the kind nurse who had done your vitals, took note of before giving your hand a reassuring pat. “It’s very typical to have a slightly elevated heart rate. It’s all the anticipation. But if you feel like you’re having a panic attack, please don’t hesitate to push your call button. Your doctor will be in soon to start your session.” 

Shoko had cheerfully left the room and now you couldn’t help but feel like a horndog, imagining all the different scenarios that might play out today. You were certain you had picked the right doctor. He came off as well-spoken and kind as he’d shared details about himself while also listening to your side of things, taking note of the intimate snippets you told him as though you were discussing the weather that day.

Breathtakingly handsome and highly educated, you knew you wanted him to be the one who would father your child. Each tele-visit had left your panties drenched and you and your Hitachi wand had become better friends recently, locking yourself in your bedroom once the visit was over to run the rounded head of the toy against your needy clit, imagining the day your breeding session would be booked and you’d feel your doctor in the flesh, fantasizing what his cock would look like and how it would fill your cunt as he put a baby into you. 

Now the day was finally here. Shoko’s instructions had said to wear whatever made you feel attractive, so here you were, dressed in a demure wine-colored dress that accentuated your boobs, with little bits of cream-colored lace lingerie underneath. You were starting to question your choice of undergarments now, knowing that you were probably already wet, a telltale patch of moisture surely present on the crotch of your panties. What would your doctor think? Or perhaps he was used to this? After all, you couldn’t have been his only patient who got turned on at the prospect of sleeping with him. 

Just when the pulsations between your legs start becoming unbearable there’s a knock at the door and your heart skips a beat as you hear your name being called before your doctor enters the room. Tall, with perfect teeth, snowy locks, and aquamarine eyes, he looks at you and gives you a casual smile. The pictures paled in comparison to how personable he looked in real life. He extends a large hand with beautifully long, masculine fingers towards you, and you place your palm on it, feeling the warmth seep into your slightly clammy hands. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand before speaking.

“I’m Dr. Satoru Gojo. It’s very nice to meet you at last. Now, I know that most patients are anxious to start the insemination process right away, however, there are a few more verbal formalities we need to get out of the way before we can actually begin. This portion does need to be recorded, as I’m sure Shoko would have mentioned to you when she set up the camera.” He points towards a small camera and you nod, remembering what the dark brunette nurse had told you. 

“I can also promise you that your insemination process will not be recorded in any way. We won’t even be in the examination room as it happens. There have been a few rare instances where the patient wanted to be recorded but it was part of their sexual profile.”

He grabs the clipboard on the desk and gives you a reassuring smile. You, on the other hand, are trying not to salivate all over the floor like a rabid animal, your appetite even more whetted after his appearance in the room. 

“To confirm once more, you, F/n L/n, are giving me, Dr. Satoru Gojo, permission to breed you, and were not manipulated or coerced in any manner into making this decision, correct?”

Practicing restraint, you look at the camera. “Yes.”

“You have undergone all the necessary testing as well as physicals needed to assess your body’s condition to carry a baby and were given all the information before you chose to move forward and meet with me correct?”

“Yes.”

“You and I extensively discussed turn-ons, turn-offs, use of toys, and preferences for positions, as well as spoke about kinks in an effort to better understand how your breeding needs can be met. After these discussions were done, we mutually agreed to move forward and set up this insemination, correct?”

You lick your lips and try not to appear too eager. “Yes.”

“Perfect.” Satoru moves over to turn off the camera. “Let’s move to a more comfortable spot shall we?” He offers his hand again and you take it before hopping off the table, letting him lead you out of the room and down the hallway where he stops in front of a different door and starts punching in a code. It swings open and he gestures for you to enter. Your eyes widen as you step inside. It has the look of a posh hotel room, with a large king-sized bed set in the middle. Low-lit lamps made for romantic lighting were scattered across the room as Satoru follows you and the door locks closed behind you with a click.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel him right behind you, then wraps his arms around you, drawing you against his well-toned chest. “You’re so tense sweetheart. Don’t worry.” He presses a kiss on top of your head. “Just focus on enjoying the process. We’re going to repeat it after all, until your womb quickens with my seed, growing the thing you want the most.” His voice is a deep, sensual purr in your ear, said so gently yet carrying such a dirty undertone that it sent a jolt of pleasure straight into your clit. 

“You said you like cuddling prior to your sexual escapades. Shall we?” He glances over at the large bed and you swallow, nodding. 

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Please. We’re going to get quite intimately acquainted now. Call me Satoru. Trust me it helps.” Licking your lips, you take his lead and he guides you to the bed, laying you down gently on the pillows before settling behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his long legs brushing against yours, causing every nerve in your body to be on high alert. 

Though you had said you enjoyed cuddling which led to foreplay, your body was already sensitized from the knowledge that a sexual encounter was going to happen and you weren’t quite in the mood for cuddling. Still, you allowed yourself to be wrapped up in his arms, inhaling his scent, a kind of fresh, watery musk, and feeling his breath on your ear. His hands entwined with yours, gently flexing your fingers with his in the spaces in between, nuzzling the crook of your neck, making you feel like you were about to spontaneously combust. One of his hands leaves yours and begins to wander down your collarbone, delicately stroking, before dipping lower, tracing the neckline of your dress down to the swell of your breasts, letting his fingertips drag teasingly over an already hard nipple before resting on your belly, playing with the soft squish of it, feeling the way your body reacted to his touch. 

Rushes of heat keep darting under your skin, and far too soon, your rounded ass starts to arch back, grinding shamelessly into his thighs, stifling a wanton noise when you feel hardness pressing back against you. A low chuckle, punctuated by a soft nibble on your ear. Unsure, you pause, wondering if you’d somehow done something funny.

“It’s perfectly normal to feel like you need to bring some movement in response to being touched.” Satoru’s hand comes back to stroke your breast over your dress, the light petting sending little erotic skitters along your skin.  “Don’t fight it,” he says reassuringly, then slides his hand onto your hip and pulls you against him, subtly thrusting into your plump rear. “Just do whatever you’d normally do.”

A sigh of longing leaves your throat and you start to rousingly roll your hips against Satoru’s erection, feeling a spike in your confidence as he lets out a soft groan. “There you go, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

Fuelled by his encouragement, you roll over to lay face to face, seeing those hypnotic eyes watch you intently, and trace a finger across his jawline, shyly tipping your face up to his for a kiss. He obliges, dipping his head down and capturing your lips, and you revel in the way his mouth feels. You’d been dreaming about it for what felt like ages, and now to finally experience it was a heady rush. Your mouth opens to accept his probing tongue, the wet slip gliding over yours, sampling his taste, feeling the softness of his lips. His hands play with your hair, running enticingly down your back, cupping your ample bottom and pushing, drawing you closer to his heat and growing erection. 

Your kisses grow impatient as he continues to tease you, squeezing and tickling your trapped flesh over your dress, hands slipping just low enough to flirt with the hem but not quite low enough to actually get under it. You whine, pulling away from Satoru’s mouth, and notice he’s observing you, eyes concentrated on your face.

“What is it?” He pushes your hair away from your face, softly brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Are you feeling ok?”

You nod, trying not to let your frustration show, but your clit clenches almost angrily now, the intense need to be splayed open and touched taking over all your rational thinking. Satoru presses little kisses onto your forehead, the tip of your nose, and your now closed eyelids, the soft gestures doing little to cool your aching desire. He drags his tongue along the column of your throat and places open-mouthed kisses as he goes. 

The sigh that leaves your throat is full of lust, your hands getting impatient as you finally find the nerve to grasp the fancy knot in his tie and loosen it. A low hum leaves him as he comes back to your face. “There you go. I’m yours for now. Do whatever you want with me.” He draws circles into the skin of your upper thighs, exposed from your wriggling, the skirt of the dress hiked up provocatively. His voice drops to a sultry purr. “After all, we’re here to make sure you’re satisfied. I’m here to ensure you get the maximum pleasure your body needs in order to welcome my seed  into your body.”

Gaining courage, you slip the tie off Satoru’s neck, then turn your attention to his buttons, fingers trembling from anticipation as you begin to undo them, revealing more and more of his pale skin, and his toned chest and abs. Of course he is in perfect shape, and your eyes drink in the vision that he is, watching the way his skin ripples as he draws in a breath. Could you have picked a more handsome doctor? It seems impossible. You reach out to stroke his skin and he sucks in a breath before drawing you against the expanse of his body. 

Satoru’s mouth drops to the crook of your neck, giving it a gentle nip that sends a hot shiver down your spine. “I think you’d make a great mother.” He kisses along the length of your collarbone before hooking a finger into the neckline of your dress and dragging it down your arm to expose more of your shoulder. “I bet you’d look so cute, with a little round baby bump, your breasts becoming fuller each day, your hips growing wider.” A breathy sigh escapes your lips and he kisses the heated skin, sucking on it hard enough to leave a little red mark. 

“Heh. That was a cute sound. You’re so responsive.” He takes advantage of the exposed skin and kisses just at the top of the swell of your breasts and you let your impatience get the best of you, looking up at him pleadingly to take off your dress. 

He obliges, finally grabbing the rumpled fabric bunched at your hips and pulling the silky material off your body. When it’s gone, he gazes down at you in your pretty lingerie. “You dressed up for me? That’s so sweet.” He licks at the valley between your breasts pushed up by the tiny strips of lace. Air hits you at various places, and you can feel an unmistakable stripe of wetness seeping from your cunt onto the lace thong you’re wearing. The tiny piece of clothing had soaked through, making the already revealing thong practically see-through. Satoru sweeps a long finger against it, feeling moisture against his digits. “You’ve been wanting to be bred for a while now huh?” He pops open your bra, feasting on the display of flesh. He cups your tender breasts and gives soft squeezes, perking up your nipples even more, gently tweaking and pulling at them. 

“Waiting so patiently for someone to finally fuck you the way you deserve. To fill your sweet cunt with enough cum to finally get your body in the mood to grow it. Disappointed by so many cocks.” His crude words accompanied by the erotic stimulation of his hands make you moan. The thought of being filled with this man’s baby, to carry it inside you till it grows was pulling at your primal mating instincts. “Till you met me. Don’t worry. Your body will do everything it can to make sure you grow what I give you. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll push it in real deep, ensure it all goes into your womb.”

Chuckling at the way your expression contorts from his fingers, he admires how hard your nipples are, the way they respond to his touch. He palms the creamy flesh of your breasts, and you feel rushes of heat skittering through your body. “Oh, baby these are gonna get so round and full once I fuck you properly. Bet that milk would taste divine.”

Satoru lowers his mouth and draws an aching nipple into his mouth, drawing a strangled cry from you. The texture of his tongue over the stiffened peaks immediately heightens all your senses, feeling pleasure radiate from the center of your breast, feeling it mirrored between your legs where your clit pulsed and throbbed irritably from the madness of needing to be touched. His free hand rests at the top of your other nipple and pushes it in circles, building up your arousal to a fever pitch.

Your blood is hot and running like whiskey through your veins, throwing a punch of heat into your gut, a dizzy spiral of want floating from your throat down into the wet and awaiting folds of your cunt. Satoru takes his time with you, acutely aware of the way your body is already tingling with the desire of wanting to be taken like a bitch in heat. He sees the need of wanting to be filled, to have those soaked walls stroked with his fingers and cock. This is what he was hoping to see. 

Changing nipples, he teasingly bites the other one while his free hand snakes down towards your navel, your muscles tensing under the tickling sensation of his wandering fingers, stroking your belly before finally dipping lower to cup your mound under the flimsy fabric of your panties. With a smooth movement, Satoru hooks his finger into the waistband and drags it off, tossing it away. All your senses become alert, waiting in tortured agony as you feel him part your slick flesh, and his fingers probe the very outer edges of your dripping folds.

A keening moan of want leaves your mouth. His lips leave your moist nipple with a plop as his long middle finger slips to the apex of your pussy, finally giving your needy clit the attention it had been craving. He touches the engorged bud, applying light circles onto it that drive you wild, your sweet noises filling the room. Your legs part so willingly, planting your feet into the mattress, toes curling into the bedspread as he pets your clit tenderly. “Harder,” you manage to choke out, feeling the nub contract. “Please.” The word comes out as a whine as he continues those patient strokes. 

“Good. It’s better when you’re so desperate like this. Your body will be more receptive to me breeding you this way. How much harder, sweetheart?” Satoru’s other hand takes over, holding the swollen folds of your sex apart, giving him better access to tease and toy with your delicate bundle of nerves. He increases the pressure of the stroke a fraction, making you squirm but also groan in frustration. 

“More. It needs to be harder.”

Heeding your request, Satoru adjusts his hand, slipping his ring finger inside your dribbling hole, watching how it gets sucked in with no resistance, and replaces his thumb on your clit. Pushing down firmly onto the center he resumes the circling motions and brings a jolt of pleasure to your system. “Ooh Satoru…” You croon his name as he gets the pressure just right, each motion now bringing delicious friction into your core. Another finger joins the first, curling up to find that sweet patch inside your gummy walls, alternating with scissoring movements as he prepares you for what’s about to come. 

Your body is tense, a bow drawn taut, waiting for the arrow to be let loose. Your hips move on their own accord to match his rhythm, nails sinking into the silky sheets, as though worried you might lose your orgasm if you dared let go. When your body finally gives you release, that pleasurable sequence of delightful spasms, your breath tears from your throat, each wave hitting you more intensely than the last, your core and clit clenching and relaxing as you ride out every last drop of pleasure. 

His mouth covers yours as you orgasm, his kiss intense as he feels your spasms calm down on his fingers, pulling them out and inhaling before sucking them clean. “Delicious…” he murmurs before placing his fingers near your lips, which you accept, sucking the lingering taste of your pussy and his skin, watching the way his eyes darken as you do so. 

“Perfect. You’re ready to be bred now.” Satoru’s hands go to his belt buckle and undo it, and you hear the whine of the zipper as he pulls off his slacks. You can see the bulge of his erection masked behind his underwear and your mouth waters at the size. The pants are discarded into a corner and he begins to slip out of his final piece of clothing, freeing his aching cock from its confines. The lovely engorged tissue was warm, his mushroom head leaking precum from the hole, impressively long with the veins popping from arousal along the sides. You can’t help yourself as you lean over, giving a teasing lick and hearing his breath strangle in his chest. He indulges you for a moment, letting you taste him, your lips catching the milky beads that form, but when you wrap your lips around his head and bob down, he quickly yanks you off him. 

He’s panting, a sheen of sweat covering those chiseled abs, and shakes his head, his white locks dancing on his face before flashing you a grin. “You’re such a tease. But I can’t risk the insemination by letting you have your way, no matter how good it feels.” He lays back on the bed, beckoning you to lay over him, and you feel clumsy as you crawl over to him, resting a knee on either side of his hips. His arms wrap around you and encourage you to rest on top of him, the feeling of heated skin pressing together adding to your delicate state. He strokes your back and kisses you again, his tongue sloppy as it explores your mouth. When he pulls away, he adjusts his hands on your hips, ensuring you were comfortable laying on him. 

“Take a breath.”

You follow his instruction and the exhale turns into a drawn out moan as he guides his cock into your aching wetness. The tip spreads you open followed by his incredible length, your body helplessly sinking onto him, impaled on the column of heated velvet. A long “oh” escapes your lips, his cock seated so intimately inside you, feeling him just shy of your cervix. He’s patient about it, letting you adjust and wriggle, your hands splaying out on his abdomen as you take a few breaths to clear your mind. He felt so good, so hard and manly, his veins pulsing inside you, adding a delicious layer of additional friction as he teasingly drew out. An animalistic growl leaves your throat at his retreat, his tip threatening to slip out of your lubricated core before he thrusts back up into you, the stroke filling the wet channel so satisfyingly.

Lost in the sensations, you allow him to cradle you on his chest, taking his sweet time fucking you, timing his thrusts to your breathing, which becomes shallow as your pleasure builds. Your cunt is dribbling from the heat, the scent of fecundity filling the room, his cock stroking your inner walls desirably. Your pussy clenches, sucking him further into you, pulling him closer to your womb where you needed him. With a moan, you raise up off his chest, using him as support, and start to ride him, his veiny erection slickened from your arousal. 

“Oh that’s it my girl. Take it.” Satoru pushes your hair away from your face as you rise and crash down on him, your hips bucking like your life depended on it. His warm hands cup your bouncing breasts, watching your face contort as you use him for your own need. 

“Fuck yourself on my cock. You like it huh? Need it in you…want it to shoot all that cum into your womb…” He purrs the words as those magnificent eyes look straight into yours. 

The sound of slapping skin fills the room, both your moans mingling in the air. You did need to bred. You had waited long enough. Your mind is a haze of sexual disarray, nothing more important than getting what you need from him. To be bred like the good girl you were, to finally have your most deepest desire fulfilled. Your thigh muscles are tiring, you can feel them quiver in protest but primal instinct is driving you to keep moving, to bounce on his cock until he cums and fills you with his creamy seed…

You gasp in surprise as Satoru’s large hands squeeze around your waist, steadying you, and slowing you down before reversing your positions. He looms over you and has not slipped out with the transition. “Let me do it. You shouldn’t have to work so hard for this.” Angling his hips, he does a few experimental thrusts until he feels his head brush into the spongy knot of nerves inside your body, making you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut, fingernails sinking into the sinew of his perfect ass. 

He surges forward, taking care to brush against it each time, his forearms and biceps rippling as he thrusts. Your legs wrap around his waist, wanton noise leaving your lips as you cling to him, feeling ecstatic rushes of delight humming through your veins. He murmurs frivolities into your ears as he sets up a comfortable rhythm, gspot first, followed by a soft kiss of his tip against your cervix. “Pretty mama. Gonna make you so round and full. You’ll be going home with a part of me inside you. I’ll give you enough today to last until your next round. Don’t worry if it drips. It’s just a sign of how well you’ve been bred.”

Your walls clamp down on him, feeling so full of him, imagining the vivid image he’d described, of becoming plump and glowy, growing life inside your body. “I want that so much,” you confess, glancing up at him and he makes a grunt of approval. 

“Get ready then.”

His movements become faster, his balls slapping against you as he picks up his pace, panting, sweat forming on both your bodies. His abs are tight as he chases his orgasm, feeling his balls starting to draw up in anticipation. Your mouth is open, lewd noises falling from your lips as you wait for him to give you what you need, then feel the familiar spasms gripping your pussy and lose yourself as your body is rewarded with a second orgasm. Satoru lets out a moan as he finally falls off the edge, satisfied with your climax, and sheathes himself completely into your heat, pushing himself as far in as he can go, letting spurts of his hot cum dribble into you, shooting into your fertile womb. He stills, catching his breath, and to ensure that gravity doesn’t work against you, plugging you effectively until he’s sure enough time has passed before he can safely pull out. Satoru’s cock is semi-limp, as he frees himself with a soft squelching noise.

He draws you against him again, reassuringly stroking your back and smoothing your hair. “You did so well sweetheart. Take some rest now. A nap will give your body a little break and do what it needs to do. Just imagine your next insemination session as you rest.” 

His words are a soothing purr in your ear and your eyes did feel heavy and you decide a nap wasn’t a bad idea at the moment. Cozying up to your warm doctor, you sigh against his skin and let yourself fall asleep. You wake up an hour later still snug in his arms. Satoru confirms your next appointment before helping you back into your clothes, and walking you to the reception. 

“I hope this journey will give you everything you want,” he says courteously to you before stepping back into the clinic. You follow up with your remaining four insemination sessions, each more satisfying than the last.

Waiting was the hardest part. But finally, you take the pregnancy test, feeling your heart flutter when the double lines show up in the little window. 

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[salemlunaa]

SHIFTING ISNT MAGIC, ITS NOT SPECIAL ꨄ

you need to understand that if you ever want to leave this place….

i feel like me and so many bloggers have stated this but for the millionth time, here we go!!

you cannot fail to shift, nope. sorry. idc what you think, it genuinely isn’t possible, manifesting is shifting, wether you have manifested actual things you wanted or you’ve manifested that awful mindset where you are so sure you can’t shift and tap in to the void, you still shifted to a reality where that was true by manifesting it.

Stop thinking shifting is impossible, it isnt, like at all. The reason you fail is because you think this is impossible and that you're using some magic method to live a new life but you’re not, there are infinite realities and the idea that you have your dream life is the a fact in many realities, so for those who wanted the logical side to thinks there you go, it has been proven that we live in a multiverse, so shift your consciousness to a reality where you have all you have dreamt of. the void isn't some magical place it is in you, it IS you, you need to remember that

I saw this absolutely perfect analogy on @rainshifts page: think of the universe as a chocolate chip cookie and the different realities as the chocolate chips. When we shift consciousness, we aren't jumping from chocolate chip to chocolate chip, we are the batter the ingredients we ARE all those chips, not jumping to and from them. We are not new characters in our desired realities we ARE those realities

The reality in which you want to be in isn’t some faraway place where you are new character, that reality is in you, it is you, all you are seeing now IS you. You are the fabric, nothing less

Shifting consciousness isn’t special, if you have a brain you are more than capable of shifting consciousness, again, we were born for this, it’s not some special, magical talent, it’s something that is as simple as breathing, something that has been owed to us since the beginning. Stop asking bloggers the same questions, if you have the intent it can be instant, you need to remember shifting isn't some form of magic, it's a basic human ability that only requires the brain. you're just shifting consciousness, you're just shifting your awareness to a specific reality, it's not magic or some cool discovery you can do it instantly if you believe that you're god of your reality

believe that you are the operant power and it’s done, look to imagination, you have shifted because it’s as easy as breathing the void is a lifeless space that only gains power when YOU, PURE CONSCIOUSNESS step into the equation.

The reality you’re in now only has life to it because you’re consciousness has been placed here, shift it with ease simply because you can.

STOP MOPING ABOUT HOW HARD THIS IS, ITS REALLY NOTHING SPECIAL 🐆💋

[paperclip-skz]

First Play

fem*Reader x Bang Chan

*WARNING*

contains: kissing, secondhand embarrassment, "first time" in a sense, fingering, oral (fem receiving), not proofread; I'm sure I missed something; let me know in the comments.

WC: 1.8k

*****

You sit patiently in the waiting room. Your nails dig into your thighs as anxiety spikes through your spine. 

“ Ms. L/N, the doctor will see you now,” the pretty secretary sparkles at you. 

This is it—your first-ever scene. Your friend signed you up for this because she knows you’ve been wanting to do this forever. She’s listened to you rant about this for years! Finally, she put in a good word for you with the intimacy company she works with. 

You knew what she did for a living, and it never bothered you. Actually, you thought she was cooler because of it. She helped people achieve their utmost hidden desires safely, securely, and thoroughly. 

The blinding bright walls illuminate your way to the farthest door to the right. “Right through there, and the doctor will be with you shortly.” The lady opens the door for you. You walk in, but not before turning back and seeing the lady give you a wink before closing the door. You could hear the subtle click of her heels walking away from the door. 

Your throat closes in both fear and excitement. You take in your surroundings, noticing the “set” replicates a stereotypical doctor's room. It has a big foamy bed right in the middle, a counter with small gadgets and gloves organized right next to the sink, and a bright light right above the bed. The two things that stand out to you are the bright meddle poles with places for feet connected to the sides of the bed and the giant mirror plastered on the wall right in front of the bed. 

No one is in the room, so you assume the “doctor” is on his way. You told your friend you didn’t want to know who your instructor was; the last thing you wanted was someone you knew to see your most intimate sides of you. You slowly make your way to the bed, sitting down and crinkling the foam. You awkwardly fiddle with your hands as you wait patiently; you stare at yourself in the mirror, fiddling with your hair and how the top you chose to wear rests on your body. 

“Okay, so Ms. L/N, it says here. " Your head whips around to meet the eyes of your “doctor,” but you're surprised to find coffee-stained eyes parried with steel-rimmed glasses. His dimpled smile reaches his eyes, and his big hands grasp the clipboard. 

You feel a sudden drop in your heart as you see him. He's incredibly handsome, and his size is impressive. His broad shoulders and imposing frame make you feel tiny in comparison. Suddenly, you feel intimidated and nervous; the tingles of anxiety claw at your skin.

Chan’s eyes widen, seeing your discomfort. He’s quick to close the door behind him and turn his body to you. “Are you okay?” his voice is even sexier than he is. His intoxicatingly thick Australian accent captivates you as the dark strands of hair effortlessly fall against his handsome face.

You almost forget to answer him until he reaches out to touch your arm. “Yes…yes... yes, I’m okay. I'm just nervous,” you say weakly, still shaky with nerves. 

“There's nothing to be nervous about. You can stop this whenever you like, and you control how fast I go and every other aspect of this. All you need to do is trust me.” for whatever reason, you do. You do trust him; you trust him and his deep eyes that you could get lost in. 

You nod your head, not forgetting to answer him with a quiet “okay.” You read in the contract that verbal confirmation from both parties was a must. And with that, Chan snaps back into character. 

“Alright then, Ms. L/N. You're here because you had some complications with your canal?” Chan stretches the room around to reach a rolling stool. He grabs it to his at the end of the bed, right in front of you. 

“Y-yes. I tried masturbating, and I noticed the stretch stung,” you answer with as much confidence as you can. 

He nods his head in acknowledgment. “Well, my name is Doctor Chan, or you can call me Chris. Whichever you like works for me.” He flashes that wide smile at you one more time. “Shall we begin?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow. 

“Of course, doctor,” you whisper. You begin to lift your legs as Chan fixes the medal bars. 

“Oh, Ms. L/N., you’ll need to remove your pants.” Chan is trying to hold back his smirk, but you can still see his lips twitch. 

“Oh, right!” you giggle to yourself. You unbutton your jeans and start to shimmy your way out until two large hands stop you from lifting your hips. 

“May I help?” 

You swallow and slowly lay your back down. Chan makes a dramatic show of feeling out the fabric of your jeans, raking his hands up and down the sides of your thighs. Finally, he reaches the button and zipper of your jeans, irritatingly slow. His hands cascade the fabric down your legs, with the help of you lifting your hips, leaving you in just your innocent white panties. 

Chan bites his lower lip, seeing the little wet spot on your panties. His body rumbles with the idea that he created that little spot, that he’s the reason you're so wet right now. “I’m going to have to remove these as well.” You crane your head up, watching him stare at your covered sex. 

“Please do, doctor.” You rest your head back on the comforts of the bed. You can feel his fingers dance on the edge of the thin fabric. Eventually, Chan hooks his finger to pull your panties down your legs, leaving you bare for him. 

“You are stunning,” he says in a breath. It makes your skin heat and your core thump with need. 

“Doctor, I think we’ve gotten to a point where you can just call me Y/N.” 

“Very well. Y/N, will you kindly place your legs here?” Chan directs your attention to the perfectly placed feet rests on either side of your feet. You do as you are told, creating a perfect, open view for Chan. 

Chan sucks in a break at seeing your already-soaked cunt, perfectly on display for him. He can feel his cock twitch in his boxers. Every sheer nerve inside him wills not to lose control in front of you right now; he wills himself not to devour your leaking arousal or to take you here and now, raw and with no end in sight. 

“Chan?” 

Your soft voice shakes him out of his head, and back to the scene in front of him, with your lust-filled eyes and your dripping pussy staring at him. Chan clears his throat and easily slips on his “mask.” 

“I’ll start by warming you up and seeing if anything makes you uncomfortable. You will tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable.” He says this like a demand rather than a question, and the mix of authority and admiration in his tone fills your body with an unfamiliar feeling… a good feeling. 

You can feel his fingers explore the outskirts of your folds, teasing you before actually touching you. It makes you squirm slightly.  

"From your consultation, you've said that you notice your canal being too tight for masturbation, right?" he asked, sitting on the stool between your legs. You nodded, "Yes, I tried inserting two fingers like I normally do, but the stretch stung,"

“Alright… tell me if this is too much.” he rubs his fingers across your slik folds, coating his digits. Slowly he inserts his two fingers into your warm cunt. He can feel you clench at the stretch, which makes his jaw clench. 

“Does this hurt?” Chan looks up from between your legs only for his breath to get caught in his throat; your eyes are closed, and your lip is biting into your lip; your face is the definition of pleasure, and he’s not sure how long he can hold back.  

“No,” you respond with a whimper. 

“Okay then, I’ll begin to move.” with that, his finger starts to slide in and out of your walls. Your pussy is gushing with your arousal. As you breathe, your chest rises and falls in sync with Chan's fingers.

Your body squirms for more, and Chan is quick to pick up exactly what you want. He curls his finger every so slightly to reach that gummy spot inside you. Once he hears the low moan, you admit he continues to rub against that particular spot. 

Your moans blend with your whimpers and they become the only sound in the room. Chan’s fingers have picked up a slight rhythm, enough to make your arousal drip over his fingers and down the curve of your ass. Your body searches for more friction; your orgasm is so close you can feel it on the tips of your fingers. 

Chan can’t take it anymore, with how much you are gushing around his, how your moans sing around the room, and how much your body is craving to be touched. He shouldn’t; he knows he shouldn’t. You're here to get fucked into oblivion. You are not here for his pleasure…..but he needs to taste you. 

Your orgasm is hanging on the cliff, and your repeated “yes’s” are a sign of it until his fingers are gone. Your whine is cut off by an unfamiliar wet muscles pressing onto your clit. Your head snaps to look at the man eating you out like you are his last meal between your thighs. Your hand reaches out to tangle into his hair, and your hips lose all control, grinding against his tongue. 

Your moans are louder than you care to admit, but you couldn’t keep them quiet even if you wanted to, not with how Chan’s lips suck around your clit and how his tongue darts out to enter your wet walls. It's not long until you're screaming his name and coating his chin with your juices. 

Chan looks up at you, leaving gentle kisses along your thighs and gently on your folds. He can see your pussy clench at the overstimulation and his cock throbs in his pants. He has to hold himself back. He can’t overstimulate with his tongue….not yet, at least.

Looked fucked out already, your head leaned back on the chair, your bare chest heaving with every breath you take, your thighs slightly shaking. “Did that hurt at all?” 

You look down at Chan. His shining eyes sparkle with a newfound hunger. Slowly, you shake your head, unable to gather your scattered thoughts fully. Your met with a wide evil grin, “good,” he took a moment to step away from your thighs, only to tower over your small frame. “Then I guess we can continue”....

a/n: I have a long one ready to post next week; I just need to touch it up a little. The thing is, it's also Bang Chan. I'm debating whether to wait to post it since I'm posting this one or if I should just post it anyway. Please, please, please let me know in the comments if you all care if I post two Chan fics in a row or not. Love y'all.

[lexirosewrites]

Slick Sundaaaaaaay!

I see a lot of ABO steddie fics featuring Omega Steve who is self conscious for one reason or another because he doesn't have a typical Omega physic and/or behaviors (which is super tasty yum yum) but I live the idea of Eddie being the more swlf conscious one.

Like, Eddie who is not deceptively strong for his size (he has a little bit of natural muscle tone as an Alpha but he never puts it to good use), and who is a little weasel who like to agrivate people but runs away from any kind of real conflict and doesn't have a strong manly scent or any desire for a high powered job to take care of an Omega unless you count is half fleshed out dreams of being a rock star.

Dealers choice of how it happens but Steve basically asks Eddie if he would be interested in couting the Omega and Eddie isn't blind, stupid, or heartless so he jumps on the chance to be with the Omega of his dreams but very quickly finds himself self agonizing about how to be the "right kind" of Alpha for Steve.

So decides he needs to start working out so he can keep his Omega safe even if he knows Steve is more than capable of taking care of himself in that department but his first workout sends him into an asthma attack for the ages so he decides it's more important for Steve to have a living Alpha than a fit one.

There's nothing much he can do about his wet concrete and grass scent which on paper sounds super manly but mostly just smells like a suburban morning so he goes down the employment seeking rabbit hole. He applies for what feels like every Alpha-y job in the Hawkins area but his reputation proceeds him and he never makes it past the first interview. Eventually he gets a call back from a place he applied for after reading the word "painter" and wrote down the number in his notebook with no notes (he didn't say he had a good system) but it turns out to be someone two towns over looking for someone to freelance the painting of dnd and other such figures to sell in a games shop two towns over. It's an ideal job for Eddie but it's deeply entrenched in his need shit and not the kind of thing he was looking for to impress Steve and show him he can provide for him and their future pups. He still takes it because even if it doesn't pay a tone, whatever he DOES make can go toward pampering his Omega and saving up.

It all comes to a head when they go out and Eddie is feeling pretty down on himself after so many failed attempts to "improve" for his Love. Some guy is hitting in Steve while Eddie is RIGHT THERE even though Steve has said no many times and has told him he's there with his Alpha. The guy just keeps leaving and coming back and on his fourth return to their spot Eddie just launches is fist no warning into the guy's face.

That was NOT what he meant to do, he was just getting so fed up and territorial and he was gonna really tell the guy to piss off but the little goblin inside him made him throw a pretty pathetic punch that results in a busted knuckle for him and a slightly bruised and irate beta in front of them.

Steve drags him out and takes him back to the trailer, grumbling the whole time about "stupid Alphas and their stupid instincts" and finally snaps and asks Eddie what the hell has been up with him lately. Eddie just blinks his big dumb eyes at Steve as he points out the job search and the asthma hospital visit and the more expensive gifts and finally asks why he's been acting like such a knot head.

So they talk it out and Steve makes Eddie hold him in his lap so he can tell him all the ways, the ways that matter to Steve, that Eddie takes care of him. Tells him how he doesn't need an Alpha to fight for him but he's never had an Alpha offer him sanctuary like Eddie does. Eddie who never makes him feel stupid for his questions and reads his assigned books to him even though the Alpha is behind on his own school work and let's him build a nest in his bed.

Tells him that he appreciates Eddie trying to make money for their future family, loves that even, but what use does he have for fancy jewlery or a full bouquet of roses? Like, he doesn't even like jewlery that much and he gets much better use of the brand new wool socks Eddie thrifted for him last month in an Indiana winter and the wild flowers he brought him for their first date are much easier to press than huge roses.

Just a series of misinformed adventures for looser Alpha Eddie that end in comical disaster and his Omega who is utterly charmed his his earnest attempts to be a good Alpha but who really just wants a loving mate and partner.

oh i love this😭😭😭 Eddie just wants to be the perfect mate and alpha for his omega, meanwhile Steve can’t figure out what’s going on with the love of his life who is already perfect to him!!!!

[whereforarthur]

So Much Restraint

Request: george (dom) smut where we have been on a group holiday and stopping ourselves from having sex cos of the other ppl (staying in the same villa/b&b) but once we get home its like practically clawing at each others clothes

Pairing: George Clarkey x Gf!Reader

Category: Smut

Word Count: 3.2k

*****

Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained. - William Blake

George leaned against the railing of the villa balcony, his gaze following the boundary between the sea, which was as blue as the ocean, and the sky above. After daybreak, the warm hue of the blazing sun engulfed the clouds, displacing the surging sea below that had looked so blue at the break of dawn. The warm wind blew through a coconut palm, and one could detect the smell of the sea and tropical cream. He sighed and glanced at the heavens, taking in the final moments of solitude before the party commenced.

The past week was a rollercoaster of enjoyment and annoyance. He and his girlfriend, y/n, had to restrain themselves from giving in to each other so as not to disturb their mates on vacation, just nodding and winking at each other as they walked around the living spaces with their friends—Chris, Arthur Hill, and Arthur TV. The villa was very nice, but with people constantly around them, there was no way of giving in to the passion that had been threatening to ignite ever since they set foot in the villa.

As the sun set that evening, George was weak, wanting to give in to his desires. It was a standoff, a power struggle that had been going on all week, one that was palpable yet wordless. As he got up, he saw Y/N standing at the door as she looked straight at him, suggesting that she was fighting the same battle as him. She wore a light summer dress that hugged her curves perfectly.

“It's time for dinner,” Y/N whispered, her words resonating melodiously. ”They are waiting for us downstairs.”

George nodded, yet neither of them looked away from the other. “I know,” he said quietly, the roughness in his tone giving her goosebumps. "I can only imagine what we are going to get up to once we get home."

Silence filled the space between them when he moved closer, and despite the heat in the villa, he only wanted her closer. As if in response, Y/N’s hand slowly extended, touching his chest lightly and causing his spine to tingle.

George saw her looking back at him, and for what felt like hours but could only be a few seconds, an incredible sensation engulfed his entire body and mind. He pulled her closer, the touch of his lips on hers hard and passionate. This was the kiss of love, of desire, the kiss that had been waiting to happen and which was ready to unleash after being pent up for this long.

But as soon as they started, they stopped. Hearing the boy's laughter from the pool below pulled them back into reality. They separated hesitantly, both attempting to calm themselves down. “We can’t,” Y/N whispered, her cheeks burning red.

“I know,” he said, calming her down as he took her hand. “When we get home, I will show you exactly how much I’ve missed you.” It was in his voice that she found the assurance she needed, and with that, she pulled him closer, her arms around his neck as they kissed.

They disappeared from each other for a while; the sound of their pulse echoed with the thump of the sea waves. They were able to keep it to themselves, and the anticipation of the arrangement made it seem like a couple’s promise.

At dinner, they had to wade through desire, circle it like a choreographed dance, sit across from each other at the table with friends, laugh, and chat about the delicious meal and wonderful company. But every time George cast his gaze at Y/N, he could see the same desire in her eyes.

After the meal, they made their excuses, claiming jet lag and the need for an early night. The boys raised their eyebrows in amusement but said nothing.

In their room, George and Y/N took turns in the shower, the sound of water a tantalizing backdrop to their stolen kisses and gentle touches.

Once Y/N emerged, her skin dewy and smelling faintly of coconut, George found his resolve slipping once more. They were both sitting on the edge of the bed; their legs were entangled; they felt the insatiable desire to strip each other. “We can do this,” George whispered, his fingers rubbing through her wet hair. "We can wait; we’ve made it this far."

Y/N breathed in deeply and exhaled, nodding her head slightly. “We have to,” she repeated, her voice a little weary as desperation began to creep in. "If we start now, I don't know if we would ever be able to stop."

They stretched out on the bed, their naked bodies rigid with the agitation of unsatisfied desire. The villa was silent apart from the faint sound of the sea in the distance and laughter from the party in the streets. They could feel the adrenaline pumping through their veins and could virtually hear the sound of their hearts beating.

George’s fingers lightly touched Y/N’s inner thigh, lazing dangerously close to the line of her shorts. "The boys are already complaining about the noises we make at home," he said, though he couldn’t fully hide his amusement. “What would they say if they only knew we have been holding ourselves back?”

Y/N blushed at the thought, gripping the sheets beneath her tightly. “We’ve got to be so much louder at home,” she said, though there was obvious affront in her words. "It will make them think that we have gone mad.”

They smiled at each other, and the tension reduced for a while. But the underlying current persisted; it was an active, waiting-to-detonate-at-any-moment kind of omnipresent tension. George looked down at her and then placed his hand softly over her thighs, delicately tracing lines on her skin. He immediately stopped his movements and faced her as he whispered, “It doesn’t matter what they say.” He smirks at her, “As long as you’re screaming my name.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she couldn’t help but gasp at what he said. It was a familiar move, a classic sign of affection, but she went further to touch his face, specifically the line of his jaw, a touch that seemed to power through him like volts of electricity. ‘And what about when we get home?’ she whispered. For many, a dangerous question is the provocative “What do you want to do to me?”

George squeezed her thigh gently and looked at her with lustful eyes. “Everything,” he said, his voice turning into a growl. ”I wish to devour every part of you, have you quiver in my embrace, and hear you scream out my name until your throat gets sore.”

Y/N felt her heart racing just at the thought of it, her pulse rate rising through the roof as high as it could go. "Won't the boys still be home?” she asked, her fingers tracing over his hand.

George chuckled darkly. “Oh, they will hear us alright,” he responded, his eyes alternating between naughtiness and amusement. “But it’s ‘our’ house and ‘our’ rules.” The words slither through the air like a sultry whisper before he continues: “And if I remember correctly, you enjoyed 'screaming’ my name without a care in the world before.”

The atmosphere in the room became oppressively heavy, and the tension was palpable. Y/N moved her hand up his chest; she ran her nails along the surface and felt him shiver under her touch. ‘I have missed you, she murmured lustfully.

But just when George was about to surrender to this desire to strip her naked and finally feel her, a sound from the next room brought them to a halt. It was the Arthurs' unmistakable, slurred laughter as the duo clumsily barged into the room.

“Maybe we should try to get some sleep,” Y/N said quietly, waking up with concern in her eyes. ‘I don't know what I would do if they ever walked in on us.’

George let out a long-suffering sigh, his limbs trembling in protestation for not giving in. “Alright,” he agreed, even though he felt an overpowering urge to demand more. They kissed one more time and then lay gently beside each other, their limbs touching in the darkness of the bed where they slept.

The night was full of insomnious, restless whispers and secrets of lips pretending not to ache for each other. They found themselves lying side by side, and the distance that separated them seemed enormous.

Each time George moved in the bed, it made a squeaky sound, and this made them realize the importance of keeping quiet. They would go to bed and only wake up in the wee hours of the morning with the air between them pregnant with desire.

The next day, like all the previous days, the vacation by the tropical sun had arrived with no special warning, different from the fact that it was the last of the vacation, and the day felt weighty with the expectation of what was to come.

They packed their bags, the mundane task feeling almost erotic as their eyes kept darting toward each other, silently acknowledging the unspoken tension.

On their way to the airport, George’s hand lightly touched Y/N’s thigh in the back of the taxi, which sent a spark between them. She gripped his hand tightly, her knuckles white, and he knew she felt the same desperation. The flight home was torture; each minute seated in the plane was a silent plea for satisfaction.

The feeling only grew more intense once they got to their flat in London that they shared with Chris and Arthur Hill.

As soon as they both stepped inside and the door shut, George pushed Y/N against the wall and went in for it, kissing her fiercely as he had been wanting to for the past two days. She moaned, overly aroused, the suppressed passion of their vacation reacting.

”I need you,” George repeated softly in her ear, his teeth lightly touching her tender skin.

Y/N immediately grabbed his chest and shoved him backward with such force that it made him stumble. “No, not here!” she replied with a passion that radiated throughout her body.

George stared at her, his expression feral and filled with desire. “Let them hear,” he whispered, the possessiveness clear in his voice. “Make sure they understand that they belong to me.”

Y/N’s breath caught at the blatant demand in his voice. She realized he was correct; they had to give in now; they couldn't wait anymore. They fumbled down the hall, their clothes torn off in a frenzy as they moved. The door to their room banged shut, making the flat resound with the sound.

Their kisses became more passionate as they collapsed onto the bed, desperate to make contact and to take possession of each other. George’s hands traveled all over her, familiarizing themselves with every bump and hollow, every plane and line. It walked its long fingers up her dress, past her hips, his eyes locked with her the whole time.

In his mind, George was already preparing a symphony of sensation for them to get erotically lost in. He wanted to feel her completely, hear the moans of passion, as he thrusts in her. The idea of giving into their desires, giving in to their perverse passion was like a drug to his mind; he became dizzy with all the feelings that stirred his inner conscience.

Y/N’s legs tightened around his waist as he placed her on the bed; the springs of the mattress squeaked gently. He did not mind if the whole house heard them; what mattered to him the most was the present, the touch of her body. Their lips met once more; this time he reached down near her hips and touched the softness of her thighs through the delicate material of her underwear.

“You are stunning, so, so beautiful,” he murmured huskily, running his eyes over the curves of her figure. " I dreamt about this every night."

Too excited to breathe properly, Y/N stared at him, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. "I wanna know what you’ve been dreaming about." She whispered seductively into his ear.

George tried to hide the darkness in his eyes as he whispered against her ear, leaning closer to her. ”I’ve dreamt of you open and spread for me, begging me to take you,” he said as his hand traveled higher up her thigh. “I have dreamt of your sweet cries echoing in the room as I continue to fuck you until you cum all over my cock.“

Y/N’s core tightened at the sound of his voice, a thrill of desire pulsating through her. She reached out her fingers around his hard erection, the warmth of it pulsating with his carnal need. “And what do you want now?” she whispered, her lips quivering with lust.

Obsession blazed in George’s gaze, his eyes fixed fiercely on hers as if he desired nothing else in this world. “Now,” he growled, the desire saturating his voice, “it is time to turn these dreams into reality.” Placing himself at her pussy, the head of his cock lightly pressing against her moist lips. “Are you ready for me?”

Again, Y/N’s eyes rolled back, and she let out a small moan. “Oh, much more than ready,” she exclaimed, burying her fingers into his muscles as he thrust deep into her. The feel of him inside of her was something she was yearning for. She moaned as she felt the fullness in her stomach.

The room was filled with their lovemaking: the sound of skin against skin, the creak of the mattress, the ragged panting. It was sweet music that only the two of them heard—an opera that unfolded within the confines of the room they both occupied. The zeal of their love deepened with every touch, with every kiss and every murmured endearment they exchanged.

”Scream for me,” George encouraged, his words heavy with passion as he thrust into her. His large palms were covetous, grasping her, possessing her, as if he had to stake out his claim on her.

Y/N closed her eyes, surrendering to his dominance effortlessly. She threw back her head, her nipples rubbing against his bare skin, and cried out as he hit the spot within her that seemed to make her shudder with delight. It was a sound that rang through the silence of the flat, a proclamation of happiness that appeared to shiver the pillars of their existence.

At the sound of her moans George began to rotate his hips even more exaggerated. He could sense it constricting around him, her thighs clamping around his middle as she clung to him. The pressure was intense, the tension that had accumulated on their trip was finally being set free, and George felt that he was close. He stretched one hand towards her, and his fingers quickly located her clit, pressing on it firmly but lightly.

"You are so wet," he whispered with a throaty growl that revealed how much he desired me. "So fucking wet for me."

Y/N blinked slowly, and her eyes were wide with desire as she gazed up at him. “More,” she pleaded, sulky and breathy, her tone sending a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock. "Tell me what you want to do to me, George."

Panting heavily, George followed the demand to release, his voice turning into a deep and monstrous growl. “I want to fuck you until you cannot walk straight,” he whispered, his hips thrusting into her with renewed vigor as the bed frame creaked. “I want to tear you apart and hear you scream my name as if it is the most important thing in the whole wide world.”

Y/N’s eyes rolled back in her head, her body reacting to his every word. "Harder," she begged, digging her nails into his back. "I want it all, George. Every inch of you."

George felt his stroke become more strained, his words dirty to the rhythm of their bodies. "You take it all in," he told her, his voice a whisper. "Every fucking inch." She felt him stiffen against her, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You'll come so hard, you'll see fucking stars."

Y/N’s moans grew louder, filling the room with the sweet sound of her pleasure. "I'm so close," she admitted, her voice shaky and hoarse. "I'm going to cum all over your cock."

George's eyes darkened with desire at her words. "Do it," he demanded, his voice a rough command. "Cum for me, baby. Show me how much you need it."

Y/N’s body reacted to his command, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. She screamed his name, her walls clamped together, her nails driving into his back. The feeling was too much, too perfect, and he knew this was just the beginning of their reunion.

"Yeah," George sighed, letting his release run out. "That's it, baby. Take it all." He leaned over and captured her lips in a crushing kiss, drowning out her screams as their bodies moved in perfect unison. The words that left his lips were a mixture of love and lust, a promise of all the dirty things he wanted to do to her.

"I'm going to fill you up," he whispered, his teeth brushing against her earlobe. “I want to hear you beg for more. Tell me to never stop fucking you.”

Y/N gasped, the words sending shivers down her spine. “Yes,” she gasped. Her voice was barely audible over the sound of their bodies clashing. “I need you, George.”

He moaned, and his voice echoed in her chest. “You are so fuckable,” he muttered, his hips thrusting deeper into her with every thrust. “I love how you feel this way, so wet, so hot, so perfect.”

Y/N's eyes rolled back into her head as she felt the pressure increase again. With her core tightening around him, "Come on, darling," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their bodies slapping together. “I want to feel you fill me completely.”

Those words were like a catalyst for George. His body responded to the primal urge to fill her up. To mark her as his own, he thrusted one last time. His cock throbbed as he released his seed deep inside her. The feeling was almost overwhelming. A sense of ownership that sent shock waves through his body.

Y/N felt it too. Her body trembled with pleasure as he poured into her. It was a time of pure connection. Moments that seem to last forever.

"Fuck," George said to himself, planting his head on her shoulder. "That was…"

"Perfect," Y/N told him precisely. Her body was still trembling with the shivers of pleasure. Together, they lolled there for a moment, their hearts beating as one, their breathing the only sound in the room.

The following days raced by in a haze of lust and gratification; every opportunity they got, George and Y/N would find a remote spot to give in to their insatiable lust for each other. It could be a quickie in the kitchen or a marathon in their locked-door bedroom listening to music. Whatever it was, they made the most out of it.

*****

Taglist~

@gvf23 @xxkatxgracexx @kneelforloki

[maleyanderecafe]

Is it wrong wanting to have someone to love you the same way a yandere would? Or is it just insecurity? Idk

If you want the short silly answer, no, not really. You can imagine anything you want without repercussion. I can imagine a giant cat dog creature as a pet if I wanted to to make me happy. Sky is the limit. Also this is a yandere blog, so I imagine most if not all of the people here have wanted that in some way or another.

If you want the more long winded analysis answer. Also no. I've heard somewhere that yanderes fulfill the Maslow Hierarchy of needs (though this could have been a meme, who really knows). Which are from bottom to top- physiological needs (so basic needs like food, shelter, clothes etc), safety and security (health, stability, safety), love and belonging (trust, intimacy, friendship), self-esteem (worth, dignity, independence) and self actualization (personal desires, goals, etc). Yanderes can pretty much fulfill most of these needs, so basic needs like food and clothes, security (they can kill for you), love and belonging (because they love you no matter what), and self-esteem (yanderes are very good at encouragement). The last two are more iffy since they kind of focus more on the person's internal fulfillment, but they do match up with a lot of the needs on this pyramid that they would theoretically provide for.

For a lot of people too, the idea of being loved unconditionally is something that they do not have in life (due to possibly abusive/neglectful parents, socially not being accepted, feelings of isolation) which I'm sure most of the people reading this have some sort of issue like that. It can also be a sort of kink thing since a lot of people who do like yanderes tend to like a more protective, gentle figure and more possessive lover. It also can be a form of escapism from the current world we have now, as it can be very difficult with everything going on. It could very likely be some sort of insecurity, but it can also be something else as well. It's hard to say because I can't read people's minds or know everything about their lives.

But no, I think it is actually pretty common for people to want to have a yandere to take care of all the issues they may have in their life and there's nothing wrong with that.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 18

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: As an update, I am eyeing another chapter after this followed by an epilogue. A nice, even 20 parts. Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, comments, shares, and otherwise supports this fic. I love you all so much. Now for some healing!

---

December 11 Nassau Bay, TX

A house is nothing but four walls and a roof, a place to live, a place to sleep. It doesn’t have to be anything special. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

A home, on the other hand, tells a story. Its walls are infused with the memories of a life lived, for better or worse, within their bounds. It’s made what it is not because of its structure, but because of the people who make it their own, all the little moments etched in time.

Growing up, Gale thought a lot about the difference between a house and a home, never quite sure which one he had. The little house he grew up in was nothing special. He doesn’t remember it fondly. He doesn’t have a particular desire to remember it at all. And yet, when he thinks about the off-white walls of that old living room, he can see himself playing on the carpet in front of the worn sofa, flying a toy F/A-18 Hornet through the make-believe sky. It had been a birthday gift from his dad, who was arguably proud of his son, if absolutely nothing else, because of his interest in aircraft. 

Gale can see his father leaning against the wall by the door, watching him. Little Gale looks up at him with an excited grin as he makes whirring little engine noises, and his father gives a barely-there half smile back – Gale had to get that facial expression from somewhere, after all.

He can also remember the day he didn’t hear his dad calling his name because he was lost in the clouds, dreaming about flying a real jet someday. He remembers the way his dad stormed into that same living room, ripped the toy jet from his tiny hand. The way he sneered at the pale, vulnerable look on his child son’s face, scolded him for daydreaming when he should have been doing his chores. Maybe it was taking out the trash. Or doing the dishes. Or sweeping the porch.

Or maybe he did nothing wrong and his dad was just drunk again. 

Either way, Gale remembers the way his dad threw that F/A-18 at the wall, the way the wing snapped right off. He remembers the way his dad shoved him when he cried, called him pathetic, said he needed to start acting like a man.

Later on, his dad repaired the wing with some super glue, but it never looked quite right again.

Gale has a lot of memories like that. A little good mixed with a lot of bad. The walls of that house told a story alright. He just doesn’t think it’s a story that ever earned it the title of home.

When he remembers the kitchen – light yellow walls, gray cabinets, a gas stove – he thinks about early days of his childhood, clinging to his mom’s bright, flowery skirt as she baked cookies that tasted like heaven. He remembers her light, comforting voice saying his name. He thinks about how she let him lick the spoon, asked him what sprinkles he wanted to use, let him help put the dough on the baking sheet with small, innocent hands. 

But then he also thinks about setting the kitchen table for dinner, his dad burning his arm with a cigarette for breaking a glass. Or maybe it was a plate. He thinks about fingers wrapped tight around his teenage throat when he came back home too late one night. He can practically feel the bruises, hear the impact of being shoved unceremoniously against the door. Next time he was late, his dad threatened, he’d spend the night in the yard with the dog. 

Other than the fact that it was nearing December and night time temperatures were below freezing, Gale couldn’t decide if that would be so bad. He got smacked for that, too. 

When he thinks of the small master bedroom, he thinks of his mother. One day there, the next day gone. He remembers the smell of her perfume filling the room. Little Gale, still too young to understand why she wasn’t coming home. Why that scent would fade away, becoming nothing but a memory, something to pop up randomly here and there in his adult life and fill him with some sense of longing. He thinks about his father cleaning out all of her clothes, chastising Gale for not wanting to get rid of any of it, for trying to sneak out a shirt or a scarf that smelled like her. 

Then there were two. Hardly a family, and far from a home.

The house on Nassau Bay couldn’t be more opposite.

He stands in the middle of the living room, looking around at the life he’s built. Warm, light beige walls decorated with artwork, prints of aircraft and spacecraft, photographs of his de facto family. Framed pictures of him and John are scattered around. In the middle of the room, across from their TV, is a coffee table, two armchairs, and a well-worn gray couch, semi-permanently occupied by Pepper and sometimes Meatball. Morning sunlight fills the room, leaving patches of light on the hardwood floor.

Gale has spent the last hour adjusting the furniture layout – spreading out the coffee table and chairs to make space, shifting the couch back so it’s under the window, putting away stray dog toys and shoes, cleaning up the blankets and pillows he’d been using to sleep out here – just to make it easier for Bucky to move around in a wheelchair or on crutches. He even rolled up the rug to keep the floor even.

He’s been obsessively doing anything and everything he can to make their home a comfortable space while Bucky heals. He bought a shower chair for the master bath and a plastic cover to put over Bucky’s cast to protect it from water. He bought an assortment of loose sweatpants, flannel pants, and shorts so Bucky has more options for what to wear over his cast. The kitchen has been stocked with his favorites of late. Soup, chicken and rice, or eggs for when he’s not feeling well. Or richer things like pastas and casseroles. There’s orange juice and smoothies and jell-o. And Marge – who rested a hand on either of Gale’s shoulders and told him to take a rest – is making chocolate chip cookies. 

As Gale stands back and studies his work in the living room, trying to decide if it looks alright, his chest feels tight in a way he can’t quite explain.

As a young adult, he never bothered with buying a house, choosing instead to rent something out wherever he was stationed with the Air Force. When he and John both got selected to the astronaut training program based in Houston, they intrinsically knew that it was the right time to take that step. A sort of settling down, even though they were preparing to quite literally launch themselves off the face of the planet. Admittedly, they didn’t spend too long looking for a house, seeing maybe two or three local listings which were all perfectly fine. Then one day, Benny, who had been accepted into the program the year before, mentioned that a house down the street from him was for sale.

Gale fell in love with it the moment he saw it. And John loved it because Gale did.

It’s a one story, ranch-style house on a quiet street just a 5 or 10 minute walk from the water. A beautiful white brick and stone exterior with a sweet little front garden that they try to plant flowers in every year – an endeavor that often includes Gale trying to find plants that match the climate and sun exposure of their yard, while Bucky insists on “experimenting.” There’s also a backyard with a large patio for entertaining and enough grass space for the dogs to run around. 

Gale remembers the day they moved in, sweating from the July heat but grinning from ear to ear with the excitement of a young couple on the verge of their future. Before they even started unloading the U-Haul, he stood in the middle of the empty, echoing house, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the windows. He couldn’t believe it was theirs. A place they could really make a life together. A place that he could call home, maybe for the first time in his entire life. Bucky found him standing, wide-eyed, in the living room. He wrapped his arms around Gale from behind, kissed him on the cheek, ducked down to rest his chin on his shoulder. 

“Welcome home, angel.”

Gale remembers dragging the couch through the door, collapsing down on it that first day. They sat, leaning against one another, surrounded by shoddily labeled, mixed up cardboard boxes full of their belongings. Exhausted, Gale said something noncommittal about getting to work unpacking. But John pulled him to his feet, kissed him silly, lead him to the bedroom where their new mattress lay on the floor, bed frame yet to be constructed. 

They lived off cereal and takeout for several days in a row, but they sure did break in every piece of furniture, every surface.

He remembers hot, desperate reunions when they each returned from their respective ISS expeditions, touching each other for the first time in six months. Their hands roamed over one another’s bodies with an insatiable desire to relearn every inch of each other. Bucky would grip his waist so hard he thought it might bruise, pressing him against the wall or the bed. Gale would twist his fingers into Bucky’s hair, kiss every place he could touch. He remembers it being rough and kind, a sense of desperation driving them to claim one another all over again as if the last time they were together was a lifetime ago.

He remembers late nights with their friends, Curt crashing on the couch, Benny or Marge in the guest room, sometimes Rosie or Alex on the floor. Midnights spent drinking and laughing, dumb jokes and good people. He remembers this house being filled with more people than it was meant to hold, buzzing with life.

He remembers the day they brought Pepper home, almost a year ago now. She was nothing more than a tiny, 10 week old ball of fluff with one ear still flopped over. He remembers the way they sat on the rug in the living room with her that evening, completely enamored with their new addition. “We’re a little family now,” Bucky said, smiling at Gale as he held the puppy up to his face. Gale scrunched his nose and closed his eyes, laughing as Pepper licked his cheek. Next thing he knew, Bucky’s lips were on his, and he felt himself melt a little inside.

Family. Home. Family. Home. 

They’re not words Gale takes lightly. They’re words that he will protect. Even though they’ve only been here a handful of years, this house tells their story, memories built on memories that he holds close to his heart in a way he never knew he was allowed to before. 

When he thinks of their kitchen, he thinks about making pancakes on Christmas morning, flour everywhere, chocolate chips and blueberries and chopped bananas spilling across the counter. Bucky singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio. He’d pull Gale close, plucking the spatula from his hand, and convince him to dance with him around the island until they were both giggling like children and the pancakes were starting to burn.  

When he looks at the front door, he thinks about all the times Bucky flung it open, yelling “honey I’m home!” as he walked inside. Sometimes he’d bring flowers for the vase in the window or pastries from Gale’s favorite bakery. He thinks about stumbling through on their wedding night, eager and drunk on nothing but love for each other. 

When he thinks about their yard, still drenched in sun and warmth in the middle of December, he thinks about the day he and Bucky stood in the middle of it, holding tight to each other's hands as they held the keys to their new home. He thinks about washing their cars in the summer, chasing each other with the hose. He thinks about Pepper and Meatball running outside to greet him. He thinks about standing in the driveway and watching Bucky teach some of the neighborhood kids how to ride a bike up and down the quiet road. 

Of course, the house holds bad memories, too. Fights they’ve had, times they’ve lost their temper, raised their voices, slammed a door or walked away. Times Gale cried alone because John was in space for months on end and he missed the closeness, the warmth, the weight of John’s head resting on his chest, the soothing sound of his heartbeat. Times John got drunk for the same reason, wanting nothing more than to hold Gale tight and kiss him in the dark. Still too fresh in Gale’s mind is the memory of collapsing to the floor, Marge rocking him in her arms because he didn’t know if his husband would come home alive. 

The walls will hold onto that memory. They won’t let him forget that the life he built here with John Egan very nearly became nothing but a flash in his mind, moments to look back on fondly, with a watery smile and a choked sob, a whispered I miss you. 

That almost might never leave. It’ll be months before Gale can wake up in the morning secure in the knowledge that his husband is here with him. It’ll be months before he stops jolting awake with tears in his eyes and a scream in his throat. It’ll be months of hard work and pain and frustration to make Bucky feel whole again. 

But it’s time to start pushing forward. 

Gale has never been a particularly religious man, but he will gladly thank whatever Gods may be listening, because his prayers were answered. Starting today, two weeks after splashdown, there will be memories of John coming home to add to all the rest.  

“Buck?”

Gale looks over to see Rosie standing in the entryway to the living room. 

“Ready to go?”

Taking one last look around, Gale starts to nod, then stops short. “The mirror.”

He didn’t replace the damn mirror in the master bath. Benny was the one to clean the bathroom, dispose of the glass fragments and scrub the tile until it was free of Gale’s blood. Gale’s barely even stepped foot in there in weeks, choosing instead to use the guest bath. 

Marge appears from the kitchen. “Benny’s on his way with a new one,” she assures him. “We’ll get it set up before you’re back.”

Gale doesn’t know what to say, so he nods dumbly as he twists his wedding ring around his finger, trying to quiet the storm of worries and hopes and needs and fears buzzing around in his head. Marge steps towards him and pulls him into a hug. “Take a breath, hon. He’s coming home.”

—

It’s raining, just the littlest bit. It’ll be done by the time they walk through the hospital doors, but dark clouds gather in the sky, casting shadows over the ground and darkening the hospital room. It makes Gale’s heart constrict with an unease, a sense of foreboding. He tries to shake it off, because he’s not in his bedroom on a stormy night. He’s not being jostled awake by Benny. His world isn’t crashing down with the water falling from the sky.

He leans against the doorframe of Bucky’s hospital room, hands shoved in his pockets, and he watches his husband for a moment. Bucky is looking out the window, watching the rain fall, the cars go by. He’s dressed in the same shorts and Air Force Thunderbirds t-shirt as he was the day before. A half finished plate of scrambled eggs, potatoes, and fruit sits on the tray beside him from breakfast, seemingly pushed aside and forgotten. Gale wonders if he didn’t finish because he felt sick or because he’s protesting hospital food. 

He looks healthy, despite the whole being in a hospital thing. That damn cold lingers, making him stuffy, his face sore from the pressure. His lungs protest when he breathes too deeply, or sometimes even when he doesn’t, and the cough won’t go away. Not to mention the broken leg. But he has color back in his cheeks. His eyes are clear, his face unworried. His heart beats steadily, and he’s able to breathe well enough without the cannula.

“Hey, darlin’,” Gale says at last.

Bucky turns his head, and he stares at Gale for a good second or two, uncomprehendingly. But then a grin spreads over his face. “Hey, angel.”

Gale feels his heart swell, and he takes a deep breath before stepping into the room. As he sits on the edge of the bed, Bucky grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. 

“How ya feelin’ today?”

Bucky shrugs, looking down at their intertwined hands. He coughs once, holding his breath for a second to prevent it from getting worse. “I ain’t dead.” He squints, cocking his head like something is bugging him, but then he looks up and meets Gale’s worried gaze. “Almost went down in history for the wrong reasons, huh?”

John Egan. First astronaut to die on the moon. What a headline that would be.

Gale chuckles even though the acknowledgement of that damn almost makes him feel physically ill. “Think you’re goin’ down in history?” He forces back the flashing mental image of a tri-folded flag, a three volley salute, a missing man formation. 

Bucky’s eyes have that mischievous glint back, that look of invincibility, like he’s daring the universe to take another stab at him. “Oh yeah. The world will remember John fuckin’ Egan.”

And the thing is, Gale knows they will. 

By 1pm, Major John Egan is being discharged from the hospital. Paperwork complete, Gale carefully packs up every single get-well card, along with Bucky’s clothes and medications. Beary Egan gets carefully tucked into the top of the duffel. 

Over the past few days, Nurse Clara has kindly worked with them, teaching Gale how to help Bucky with daily tasks: things like changing clothes, safely getting in and out of the wheelchair, covering the cast with plastic to take a shower, and anything else that may be hindered by his lack of mobility. She patiently answers every question Gale has, and he has a lot. 

With the IV removed, Clara and Rosie stand by as Gale, all by himself, helps Bucky slowly get to his feet. With a few curse words, one panicked moment where Bucky nearly topples over, and a lot of strained encouragement – “we’re alright, we can do this, look at me, sweetheart” – Gale manages to help Bucky change into fresh clothes. The whole ordeal – while far more pleasant than the process of getting Bucky suited up on Starship and Orion – has Bucky swearing as he grips Gale’s hand or shoulder so hard his knuckles turn white, leaving accidental bruises on Gale’s pale skin. 

It’s a bit cold out, so the outfit of the day is black and gray plaid flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt with an astronaut on the front. Above and below the astronaut are the words “Houston, I am the problem.”

A gift from Curt and Alex.

Finally, Gale helps Bucky shrug on a black zip-up hoodie and get settled into the wheelchair. Bucky forces a smile as he sits down, even leaning forward to kiss Gale on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispers.

They leave the hospital with a detailed rehabilitation, check-in, and physical and occupational therapy schedule. They also leave with a hefty hospital bill that Harding won’t let Gale so much as see, stating that NASA will take care of it.

Bucky doesn’t speak at all on the way home, not seeming to notice when Gale tries to ask him things like “how are you feeling?” or “excited to see Pepper?” He just stares out the window and watches the dark clouds roam across the sky, his brain too tired to do anything else. Gale has found himself wondering, in the last week, if there’s a reason why the brain fog is better on some days and worse on others. Other than night vs. day, he can’t find a rhyme or reason as to why Bucky gets confused sometimes, why he seems to fade away here and there. The doctors assure him it’s normal with the injury he had. Just like the shaking hands and fine motor control, it’ll take time. Gale hopes they’re right, but he still feels a painful worry twisting in his chest when he notices it. 

When they pull into their driveway, the word “home” pops out of Bucky’s mouth, and Gale reaches over to squeeze his hand.

It’s only when they pull to a complete stop, really taking in the sight of their house, that they notice the Christmas lights newly strung up along the roof, a strand of brightly colored bulbs joined by sparkling white icicle lights. Gale certainly didn’t have time to hang them, and it’s the middle of the day, but they’re lit up anyways, welcoming Bucky back with some holiday cheer. In the back seat, Rosie says “would you look at that,” and he reaches forward to rest a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky focuses on those lights for a moment, and Gale watches the way they seem to ground him, waking up his brain a bit more as the blues and reds and greens reflect in his eyes. He squeezes Gale’s hand back. 

When his offer to help is declined, Rosie hauls the wheelchair out of the car, leaves it in the driveway, and heads inside to give the newlyweds some space. As Gale helps Bucky to step out of the car and sit down in the chair, though, he sees that not everyone got the message. He catches a glimpse of curly red hair on the porch of the house across from them, and he can’t help but smile. “Incoming,” he whispers to Bucky.

Bucky looks up as he settles into the chair, blinking away the fatigue, and his face brightens when he sees Maggie. Jane rushes out the door after her, grabbing her shoulder. “It’s alright,” Bucky says quietly, and Gale relays this information, shouting across the road.

Maggie immediately breaks away from her mom’s hold, barrels down the steps, checks both ways before crossing their quiet street, and she stops just short of colliding with Gale. Always so expressive around them, the little girl suddenly turns shy. Unsure what to do, she half hides behind Gale as she takes in the sight of Bucky in a wheelchair for the first time, his cast visible at the bottom of the pant leg.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t leave his face, though, and he tilts his head to peer around Gale’s legs until he’s looking Maggie in the eye. “There’s my favorite little astronaut.”

With a gentle hand on her shoulder, Gale nudges her forward. “Go on,” he insists. With a hesitant little stutter step, she moves out from behind him, looking up at him as she does so. 

“I told you he’d come home,” she says. Matter of fact. Like there was never a single doubt that John would survive.

Gale wishes he could have been that certain. He envies the way children view things like life and death, through a lens of naivete where the people they care for are invincible. He’s grateful, though, that Maggie was spared the worst. That she never knew the full story. 

She doesn’t notice the way he bites his lower lip to choke back a sharp, startled inhale, but Bucky does. He glances at Gale, eyebrow raised with a myriad of questions that he can’t ask, but then he looks back to Maggie. He grabs her small hand in his even though his fingers shake, and she grips back so he doesn’t have to focus on holding on.

“Sounds like you were very brave while I was gone,” he says to her. 

Maggie nods. She has this determined set to her eyes, a seriousness all over her face as she stands in front of him. Yet her voice is small and innocent, and Bucky hopes she’ll always stay this strong and kind. “I knew you wouldn’t leave us forever,” she tells him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to bite back tears, because, even though he knows, on some level, that it wasn’t really up to him, she’s right. He hides the thickness of his voice and the tightness of his throat with a cough that’s been tickling at his chest anyway. He directs it into his arm away from the little girl, then rubs a hand over his face. After he blinks a few times, willing away the wave of emotion that he’s sure will only get higher and higher throughout the day, he looks at Maggie again. 

“Learn to ride that bike yet?”

Maggie shakes her head. “I waited for you.” 

Gale remembers her words clearly, ringing in his ears. That awful day feels like years ago and like yesterday at the same time. The day he felt like his soul might disintegrate into the stars if he had to take one more breath without knowing if Bucky would survive. “He’ll come home. He has to. He promised he’d teach me how to ride a bike.”

“Might have to wait a bit longer. Until I get this thing off my leg.” Bucky pulls up his pant leg to better show the cast extending from knee to foot.

Maggie stares at it for a moment, unsure what to make of it, before she crouches down and runs a finger over the rough texture with a frown. She inspects the names written all over it – Curt and Rosie and Alex and Gale and more she doesn’t recognize. “Can I sign it?” 

Bucky tells her of course she can, and Gale digs around in the duffle until he finds a few colorful sharpies to offer. Maggie chooses the purple one. 

“Where’s a good spot?” Bucky asks her, leaning over to analyze the cast with her even though it hurts every single part of his body to do so. Maggie squints her eyes, analyzing her options, before she points to a spot above his ankle, right under Gale’s name. She looks at both of them for approval before uncapping the marker. 

She signs her name in big, slightly wobbly letters: MAGGIE with a carefully drawn heart at the end. 

“Perfect,” Bucky says, grinning at her as Gale takes the marker back. Then he adds, “by the way, that drawing of us? Museum quality.” He’s referring to the one that Jane brought to the hospital, of Maggie and Bucky on the moon together. Maggie rolls her eyes at his dramatics but looks pleased anyway. “You sure you wanna be an astronaut, not an artist?

The girl nods vigorously, her curly red hair bobbing against her shoulders. “I wanna be just like you,” she tells them, once again like she doesn’t have a single doubt in her mind. “I’m gonna go to space someday.”

Gale feels emotionally drained at this point, unsure how much more he can take even though everything about today is edged with hope and homecoming. He swallows thickly and puts a hand on Maggie’s shoulder as he glances back towards her house, where Jane is sitting on the porch. She waves to him. He looks back down at the girl, a little in awe at how he and Bucky have somehow managed to mean so much to her. How she has managed to mean so much to them.

“Well,” Bucky says. “If you’re so sure about that, I have something for you.” Gale takes his cue and rifles through the contents of the duffle bag until he finds Bucky’s PPK. Safely tucked into the bottom of it is a small, clear plastic envelope, which he lays in the palm of Bucky’s hand, face up so Maggie can see. 

Inside the plastic is a thick, heavy coin about two inches wide, engraved with braided edges and the Artemis III logo in the center, designed by the crew members themselves. A big red “A” with the middle line swooping out to the left, fading from red to blue as it loops around the moon and ends with the Orion capsule docked to Starship in front. Overlapping the right side leg of the A are the roman numerals III in dark gray. Printed around the edges are the names of the astronauts: Egan, Biddick, Rosenthal, Jefferson. 

“Do you know what this is?” Bucky asks Maggie. She shakes her head. “It’s a challenge coin,” he tells her, going on to explain that a challenge coin is carried by members of a special group, signifying their membership. Every big NASA mission gets its own challenge coin, and all of the crew members carry a few of them. 

Bucky kept one for himself and traded one with one of the Navy guys on the USS Portland, so this is the last one he took on board Orion. “This coin is very special,” he tells Maggie, urging her to take it. So carefully, she plucks it from his palm, holding it up close to her face so she can read the names. “I carried it with me on the moon.”

Maggie’s eyes go wide, shooting back to Bucky, who grins at her. He presses his palm to hers, the coin in between.  “Now it’s yours. Something that’s touched the stars. See? You’re on your way to being an astronaut.”

Maggie’s smile broadens, and, as she clutches the coin in her hand, she throws her arms around Bucky’s neck. It’s awkward over the chair as she tries to avoid jostling his leg, but she isn’t deterred, squealing an elated “thank you” as she holds on. Bucky wraps one arm around her in return.

When Maggie pulls back, Gale kneels down beside her, even though the pavement is still wet from the morning rain, and he wraps an arm around her. “Why don’t you flip it over?”

Maggie does so, and she runs a finger over the back of the coin, feeling the texture of the raised image. An astronaut on the moon, the Earthrise and the stars in the sky behind him. “Is that you?” She asks Bucky. 

He laughs. “Could be.” 

Gale points to the lettering along the bottom of the backside. “See that?”

“What does it say?” Maggie asks, rubbing her thumb over the italicized words. 

Bucky recites them to her, but his eyes are locked on Gale the entire time. He watches Gale silently mouth the phrase along with him, not only the mission motto, but a promise to one another. “Ad lunam. Ad astra. To the moon. To the stars.”

—

With Maggie safely back across the street, Gale wheels Bucky up the walk to the front door. As he turns the knob and pushes it open, Rosie appears on the other side, holding it for them. 

“Welcome home, darlin’,” Gale says as they enter the foyer.

Bucky smiles tiredly as he takes a deep breath that rattles his chest and nearly causes him to cough again, but it’s worth it to smell the scent of home. He tilts his head. “Cookies?”

Gale chuckles, but doesn’t answer, wheeling Bucky past the foyer and into the living room. The moment they’re within view, he’s met by a chorus of “Welcome home!” and the sight of his closest friends sitting around the slightly rearranged living room. 

“Astrofag!” Curt calls out from his seat in the middle of the couch. On one side of him is Marge, Benny on the other, while Alex sits in one of the armchairs. Rosie trails in behind Gale. A banner with hand-lettered words is strung across the back wall: “We’re glad you’re alive!” More space balloons float around it, and in the time that Gale and Bucky were outside, Rosie has already displayed all of the get well cards from the hospital on the side tables and tv stand.

“Did you miss me?” Bucky grins, holding his hands out to the side like a risen savior as Gale eases him to a stop in front of the coffee table, close to the empty armchair.

“Had enough of you for a lifetime,” Benny jokes, calling back to what Bucky said to him in the hospital nearly two weeks ago. He gets to his feet, though, and walks over to Bucky, leaning down to give him a side hug.

“I almost died, you have to be nice to me,” Bucky claims as he returns the hug.

“And how long does that last?”

“Until Gale quits gettin’ all nervous every time I cough or somethin’.” Every time he coughs. Every time he zones out. Every time he feels nauseous or complains about his head hurting. Every time his fingers shake and he can’t hold his own fork or move his own wheelchair.

Everyone looks at Gale, who, in the presence of his best friends, doesn’t even try to hide his blush. He secures the brake on Bucky’s wheelchair before sitting in the armchair beside him, and Benny returns to his seat while Rosie sits on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

Bucky nods to a tray of cookies in the middle of the table. “Who made those?”

“Marge,” Alex says.

Bucky just about groans. “Thank god. They’ll be good then.”

“Hey,” Gale shoots back, offended, as Marge laughs.

Bucky waves him off. “I know you didn’t make ‘em, doll. Got my head on straight enough to know you’ve been with me all day.”

Marge gets to her feet to grab a cookie and hand one to him across the table. “I made them how you like them.”

Milk and semi-sweet chocolate chips, but not too much of either so that there’s parts of the cookie with no chocolate at all. It’s called balance, he told her once during a late night trauma-dumping/baking session.

Bucky takes the cookie, biting into it as he closes his eyes. Silently, he’s so fucking grateful that he hasn’t felt any nausea today. “Real food,” he mutters.

Gale scoffs, even though this ‘perfect cookie’ was his own recipe to begin with. “Not sure a cookie counts as real food.”

Bucky flips him off, his middle finger still not quite able to get all the way up without the others, and he takes another bite. It’s been too damn long since he had some quality snacks. It’s better than wheat chex, that’s for sure. And he’d take the wheat chex any day over the bland desserts they tried to give him in the hospital.

The guys – and Marge – stay for a bit, talking and taking comfort in being all together again, all of them alive, home, on the road to healthy. When Bucky starts to drift, going quiet as it becomes more and more difficult to focus on the conversation, everyone makes their excuses to head out, leaving the Buckies alone to rest. 

Benny returns ten minutes later with an overenthusiastic husky straining at her leash – the antithesis of rest – and he passes her off to Gale through the front door before leaving them again. The dog knows immediately, her paws tippy-tapping on the hardwood as her tail wags so hard Gale doesn’t know how it doesn’t hurt. “You’re gonna have to stay calm, baby girl,” he tells her.

“Come on, Buck,” Bucky calls from the living room. “I’ll be fine.”

When Gale finally walks Pepper into the living room, Bucky has managed to get himself turned around to face them. Gale keeps her on a tight leash as they walk forward, holding her back from flat out charging at Bucky. Her entire body is wiggling as she tries to pull away. “Easy, babe,” Gale tells her.

When they finally reach Bucky, he loosens the leash, and Pepper immediately presses her nose to Bucky’s knees, his thighs, his cast, his hands, any part of him she can as she wags her tail and pants. She looks like she’s smiling, completely overwhelmed with the excitement of her other person finally being back where he’s supposed to be. Bucky laughs and scratches behind her ears and under her chin, letting her lick and sniff and press her head against him. He grimaces when she nearly jumps on the chair, bumping his bad leg, before Gale catches her and tells her firmly to stay down. Bucky hardly cares, though, his fingers clutching weakly at her soft fur, unwilling to let go.

“Hey, Pep,” he says, his voice strained with emotion. He tilts his head as he strokes her ears, his eyes fluttering closed so that Gale can see stubborn tears clinging to his eyelashes. Bucky takes a deep, rattling breath, and he stares at the dog as she sits loyally beside his chair, watching him with the same love in her eyes. She rests her head on the armrest and licks his hand gently.

Bucky gives her a wobbly smile. “Thought I’d never see you again.” 

Gale sets a comforting hand on his shoulder, and time seems to freeze for just a moment. One perfect moment. A snapshot of their little family.

That afternoon, Pepper wolfs down all of her food, totally unprompted, for the first time in days. 

—

For the first time since the morning of November 19, Gale sleeps in their bed.

He’s hardly stepped foot in this room except for this morning, when he took a deep breath, told himself it was time to get his shit together, and set about changing the sheets, getting everything ready for John to come home. Sharing this bed feels so familiar, and yet so different. He finds himself holding his breath, like if he disturbs the moment, breathes too loudly, blinks too hard, then it’ll simply evaporate, and he’ll be stuck in the same Purgatory that he was nearly a month ago. He tries to ground himself in Bucky’s warmth, the familiar shape of his body, his scent – different than usual due to being in the hospital, but somehow still him. Smoky and sweet. 

It’s December. Even in Nassau Bay, Texas, the current night time temperature is near 40 degrees, and yet Bucky insists on sleeping shirtless while Gale tucks himself into an old NASA sweatshirt. At first, Gale worried about Bucky getting too cold, what with the pneumonia and the head cold and the TBI. But Bucky wouldn't hear it. “You’re gonna make me overheat,” he said. 

Now, Gale doesn’t mind so much that he can feel Bucky’s skin beneath his hands. Warm, not cold. Alive, not dying.

They don’t sleep at first. They lay awake in the dark, Gale curled up with his head on Bucky’s chest. His cheek and ear nestle against Bucky’s bare skin, and he listens to the beating of his heart. Their hands cling to one another, and Bucky plays mindlessly with Gale’s fingers. That same old habit that he’s had since they were in college.

Gale wonders when such little things will stop making his chest constrict in anxiety and relief.

“I know you broke the mirror,” Bucky says eventually, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Mmm.” Gale doesn’t deny it. 

“I ain’t dumb. It doesn’t even have the same frame.”

“Benny replaced it this morning,” Gale says passively, even though he’s staring dead ahead in the darkness, ublinking. 

“You punch it or what?” Bucky knows his husband. He knows how stoic everyone thinks he is, how calm and collected Major Buck Cleven tries to be. But he also knows that Buck – Gale – can snap.

“Mmm. The morning I found out.”

“Straight to the dramatics.”

“Benny woke me up,” Gale drawls, his voice steady, measured, even though Bucky doesn’t miss the nervous undertone in the way it shifts. “I thought you’d be dead by the time I got to JSC.” He says this matter-of-factly. He doesn’t tell Bucky that he imagined his entire funeral, word for word, breath for breath. “It was touch and go for a while there.”

“I was the one dying.”

“You were passed out those first few days.”

They’re quiet for a while. Slowly, slowly they’ll learn what the other went through. Someday, they’ll fall apart late one night or early one morning, and it’ll all spill out in a tidal wave that threatens to crush them under the weight of this aftermath. They’ll hold each other tight and try to hold back the sobs and remind each other to keep breathing, remind each other that they’re still breathing. 

But it’s not time. Not yet. It hurts too much, and they don’t have the words. Right now, they’re not sure that they’ll ever have the words. Right now, all they can do is hold on tight.

There was never anything that could break them, Marge said at their wedding. They may have come damn close, but here they are, unbroken.

So they sit in silence. Gale counts Bucky’s heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…

When he hits thirty-two, Bucky says, out of nowhere, “It was like I could hear you.” As if he’s been thinking over something troubling for some time now. 

Gale tenses. “Mmm?”

“W-When I was, um…” Bucky takes a deep breath. He coughs once, weakly, and it jostles Gale. But he rests his free hand on the back of Gale’s head, holding him there, not wanting to lose that reassuring weight. “I guess I was unconscious. Those first days after I… after…”

Why is it that, in the dark, it feels easier to talk about the hard things, and yet it’s harder to find the right words?

“You were in a coma,” Gale says. “Completely non reactive.” That’s what Dr. Huston told him. What Curt told him. 

“I know,” Bucky agrees. He makes a breathy, frustrated sort of sound, and Gale can imagine him squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his jaw as he tries to figure out how to say what he needs to say. Gale waits patiently.

“Everything hurt so bad,” Bucky finally explains. “I could feel it. I could hear Curt sometimes, too. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fuckin’ think. I-I was just… I couldn’t… Fuck.” It was like he was floating, not part of the world, not part of his body, but in so much goddamn pain he wanted to scream. He doesn’t know how to tell his husband that, though. 

Instead, he pushes forward to what he needs to tell Gale now. “But it was like you were in my head. I heard your voice. It made me… it made me keep breathing, y’know?”

Gale goes completely still, eyes wide, unblinking, not breathing. Bucky’s fingers try to grip his hair, but can’t seem to close around the strands. Gale grips Bucky’s hand. He bites hard at his lower lip.

Bucky’s voice gets thick and tight, and Gale can hear his chest rattling as he breathes, threatening another coughing fit. “I-I knew I had to… I had to…” Another painful pause. “I had to get back to you.”

Gale holds back the wet little gasp that wants to tear through his gritted teeth. A tear drips off of his nose and onto Bucky’s bare chest, and he wonders if Bucky feels it. He tucks his face against the warm skin, needing to be as close as possible as he curls around Bucky’s body in a way that makes it unclear if he’s trying to hide against it or protect it from the world, make sure it can’t break any more than it already has. 

“I couldn’t leave you,” Bucky chokes out. Gale can’t see his face, but his husband’s voice alone is enough to cave his chest in with a crippling kind of sorrow. “I couldn’t do th-that to you. I had to… I needed…”

Gale can hear the tears building up in Bucky’s voice now, and he wants to make them go away. Yet he knows they both need this. They both need to feel this pain, let it drown them, just for a little bit, as they grip so tightly to each other that their fingerprints become embedded into each others’ souls. They need to face it, or they’ll never be able to move forward. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

“I-I think I…” Bucky takes a careful, controlled breath. He thinks about the stars he could see through Starship’s window, flickering in the darkness. He thinks about the pain burning like fire through his body and his brain. He thinks about wanting to die, near begging a god he didn’t believe in to carry him away from that damned place because death must be better than whatever he was going through. 

But in the darkness, a star shines on. A heart beats. A mind dreams. The Earth turns. And even when he couldn’t wake up, when he was consumed in agony from the inside out, Bucky thought of his husband. He heard his voice, saw his face, wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and hang on forever. And even when he wanted to give up, he fought to stay.

Bucky’s breath shudders, and he feels tears dripping down his cheeks. He closes his eyes. “You’re what kept me alive, Gale.” 

You’re the reason I had to stay alive. The reason I had to come home. 

You are my home. 

Gale is quiet for a long time, listening to Bucky’s heartbeat. He presses his lips against Bucky’s chest. “Don’t tell Curt that,” he whispers.

Bucky laughs wetly. He can feel Gale’s tears against his chest, and he strokes his husband’s hair. “I know,” he says, “But. It was you, angel. It was always you.”

—

It’s 1am when Bucky asks Gale if he’s still awake.

Gale, still tucked against Bucky’s side, nods sleepily. His eyes drift open, taking their sweet time adjusting to the darkness of the room. He shifts just slightly, making Pepper huff in annoyance where she lay curled up right at his feet.

He presses his lips to Bucky’s shoulder. “You okay?”

He waits so long for an answer that he wonders if Bucky actually said anything at all. But eventually it comes: “Hurts.”

“What does?”

A pause. “Everything?”

Gale nods again in understanding. Leg, head, chest, ribs. In that order. Possibly his back as well.

“I’ll get you some pain killers,” Gale says. He reluctantly pushes himself away from Bucky and crawls out of bed, his foot getting caught on the blanket as he goes. His mind flashes back to the way he scrambled out of bed on November 19th, sheets tangled around his feet as the room tilted, Benny approaching him like a wild animal.

His heart beats faster, faster, faster.

“Thanks, hon.”

Gale takes a breath. He walks to the kitchen, flicks on the lights, reaches for the little orange bottle of prescription pills sitting on the windowsill. He stares at the tiny print, remembering the doctor’s instructions. One pill every 6 hours as needed. He does some mental math, concludes that it’s been well over 6 hours since the last dose, dumps a tablet into his hand, and fills a glass with water,

When he returns to their bedroom, he finds Bucky sitting up with a pillow behind his back, looking at a too-bright phone screen – Gale’s too-bright phone screen. Gale turns on the lamp on Bucky’s bedside table. “What’re you looking at?”

Bucky sets the phone on his thigh so he can take the pill and glass of water, swallowing both down. Gale glances down at the phone, and he finds that the saved email from their wedding photographer is pulled up, the cover photo of the digital album displayed on the screen.

Bucky sets the glass down on the table, the bottom of it rattling as his hand shakes. He looks up at Gale, who is still hovering over him. “Thought we could look at them. Together.”

Gale can’t quite bring himself to smile, his brow scrunching into something pained but full of love. “Yeah,” he whispers. He walks back around to the other side of the bed, stopping to scratch Pepper on the head, and he sits back against the headboard. Tucking his legs beneath the covers, he presses himself against Bucky’s side.

Bucky offers him the phone, too tired to focus on making his fingers work right, and Gale opens the album once again.

It’s strange, really. These are the exact same photos that Gale looked at before. Some of them – especially those of John in the groom’s suite – he’s stared at and stared at, unable to look away and unable to move forward. These photos carved a hole into his chest even as he fell in love with every image, at one time thinking that if he never got to see his husband again, at least he would be left with such perfect, life-filled photographs. 

They made him sob and they made him panic. They made him chuck his phone away because they filled him with too much everything and he was overloaded with the weight of it. They made him grieve.

But here they are. The same exact pictures, and they look completely different somehow. When the gallery opens, Bucky sinks down so his head rests on Gale’s shoulder, and Gale wraps his arm around him. He balances the phone on Bucky’s chest and turns to press his nose into his hair. 

Bucky’s lips curve into the most genuine little smile the moment he sets eyes on the photographs of Gale in the bridal suite, and it hits Gale in the weirdest of ways that, even though he’s seen these specific pictures a handful of times now, Bucky hasn’t. This is the first Bucky has seen of Gale’s pre-ceremony experience. “You’re…” Bucky huffs out a disbelieving breath. “God, Gale, look at you.”

While Gale holds the phone, Bucky uses a finger to swipe from photo to photo, pointing something out here and there – how he didn’t realize Gale was so nervous, too, or how lovely Marge looks or how much he loved that white suit – or sometimes just staring with his hand poised over the screen like he’s eager to get to the next one but reluctant to move away from the one he’s on. He stops for a long time on a candid of Gale standing in front of the mirror, looking down with a nervous smile on his face as he adjusts his cufflinks. The light coming through the windows hits just right, making his suit seem brighter and his boutonniere pop. It highlights the freckles on his cheeks that Bucky sometimes likes to kiss or poke at. 

Gale thinks he hears Bucky whisper the word “wow.”

“Sorry I ain’t that pretty all the time,” Gale jokes self-deprecatingly.

Bucky turns his head, glances up at him. “You get more and more beautiful every day, love.” He reaches a hand up to grab Gale’s chin, satisfied at the way it makes him blush. Gale feels the metal of the wedding band rub against his jaw, and he motions for Bucky to keep going through the album. 

“Ah, look at that handsome man,” Bucky says when he gets to the pictures of the groom’s suite. “Whoever gets to marry him sure is lucky.”

Gale scoffs, hiding his face in Bucky’s hair. He squeezes Bucky’s hip with the hand wrapped around him and whispers, “I am.” 

“Holy shit I was nervous,” Bucky admits as they scroll through. Gale stops him every once in a while, wanting to look at certain photos for just a little longer even though he’s drilled them into his mind already. Bucky biting his lip anxiously as Rosie fixes his cufflinks, Bucky kneeling down to pet the dog, Bucky with his head thrown back in a full body laugh, looking beautiful, carefree, happy.

They reminisce over their first look, feeling like they’re there all over again, seeing each other for the first time, reaching out to touch, at a loss for words.

And then it’s on to uncharted territory, the photos that Gale never managed to get to. He takes a deep breath, and he decides right then and there that it’s okay. After everything, right now, they get to look at their wedding photos together. Just like any love-struck young couple.

One small step on the road to normal. 

“Someday I’ll thank her for holdin’ you up while I was gone,” Bucky says when they get to a picture of Marge walking them down the aisle. Gale can only nod, because nothing he could ever do could ever repay her for, well, everything.

“Were you crying?” Gale asks as he zooms in on a picture of them at the altar, holding tight to each other’s hands. Bucky is biting gently at his lower lip as he looks at Gale, and his eyes are glistening in the light. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky laughs now. “I was so focused on gettin’ my vows right. I don’t even know.”

“Wait,” Gale smirks and leans his head down, trying to get a good look at Bucky’s face. “Are you crying now?”

Bucky shakes his head, but he also scrubs at his eyes with his hand. He presses himself even closer to Gale, if that’s possible. “I have a head injury,” he says meekly.

“Yeah, sure,” Gale drawls, kissing the top of his head.

There’s a few pictures of the ring exchange, and Gale remembers how badly Bucky’s hand was shaking that day. The irony of it claws at his throat, but neither of them say a word. He remembers how fast his own heart was racing. He remembers the feeling of that cool silver band sliding over his finger. He remembers the look in Bucky’s eyes.

They spend a long time looking at the series of photos from during and after their kiss, remembering how the entire world disappeared in that moment, just them, their own universe, the greatest love story ever told. Naturally, they’ve barely kissed since Bucky returned. 

“Tomorrow I’m gonna kiss you like that,” Bucky promises.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Cause the meds are kickin’ in and I’m too comfy to move.”

That would make Gale smile, but he finds he already is. He’s barely stopped this whole time, even when the pictures bring tears to his eyes and shove a lump into his throat. He holds Bucky tighter.

After the ceremony photos – Bucky jokingly declares that the best one is the one of Meatball and Pepper crashing their kiss – there’s plenty of staged photos of the wedding party and even more of John and Gale. And then there’s the reception.

Speeches. Curt and Marge standing on a chair. The newlyweds holding hands at their table, whispering into each others’ ears, kissing sweetly like no one was watching even though everyone was watching. People dancing and laughing. Gale dancing with Bucky, with Marge, with Chick. John having a dance off with Curt and Alex. Cutting the cake – Bucky smashing a piece into Gale’s mouth. Kissing through the icing, staining their lips blue. John and Gale on the mezzanine, John kissing him on the cheek. Gale tossing the bouquet over his shoulder. All of their Air Force friends, Benny included, scrambling over each other to catch it like it was a football and they were trying to win the Superbowl. Meatball grabbing it in the chaos and running full speed through the reception hall.

Gale laughs as he sees those photos for the first time. “I didn’t even know that happened.” When he doesn’t get a response, he looks down at Bucky. “You still with me darlin’?” 

“Mhm,” comes the reply. And Gale realizes that Bucky is struggling to keep his eyes open. But he blinks and glances up at Gale. “That was the best day of my life, you know.”

Gale’s lips part, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He wants it to have been the best day of his life, too. But after everything… 

Gale doesn’t believe in miracles. But as far as he can tell, the day Bucky splashed down in the Pacific was as close to one as he’ll ever get. So after everything, is it strange that he thinks the best day of his life isn’t the day that marked the rest of his forever, but the day that kept that forever intact? The day John came home to him. 

He can’t bear to say all that, though. So he nods as he turns the phone off, and he wraps his arms more fully around his husband, feeling the warmth of his bare skin and the reassuring weight of his upper body. He finds himself feeling comfortable, safe, secure, not afraid. He almost feels like he could just nod off right here. “It was a damn good day,” he agrees. 

Within moments, Bucky is drifting off in his arms, relaxing into his embrace. Carefully, slowly, Gale eases them both down, so they’re laying more comfortably on the mattress, but he doesn’t let go. And for the first time since early October, together, in their own bed in their own home, they sleep.

—

December 12 Nassau Bay, TX

It’s raining.

For real this time. At least, John really hopes it’s real.

He sits on the couch and stares out the window, listens carefully. The house is filled with that eerie but comforting light of an afternoon rain storm, gray and blue and green with a daylight sort of darkness that settles over everything with hardly a shadow. 

Drops of water drip down the windowpane, and Bucky watches them. He presses his finger to the glass and traces their path as they roll down. He listens to the steady beating of raindrops on their roof. He pretends he can smell the fresh earthy scent of a storm mixing with the salty air of their home on the bay. He pretends he can feel the cool water sliding over his bare skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. 

The rain has been falling for over half an hour now, and his heart reaches out to it. He has to wonder if it’s real, or if it’s only a dream. He often wonders that – was all of it a dream? Is it all a dream? Will he wake up one day, still on Starship, and find out his trip home, his successful failure, wasn’t real? Maybe the accident never happened. Or maybe it did and he never actually woke up.

Or will he wake up one day in this very house, learn that he never went to the moon at all? Will he be shipped off to quarantine to do it all again?

But his leg throbs with his heartbeat, and sometimes his head still spins. Every cough reminds him he’s alive. He holds onto Beary Egan as he sits on the couch, Pepper at his side, and while many things are blurry or missing, there’s so much that he can recall in such detail. If he closes his eyes, he can see the surface of the moon stretched out before him. Nowhere and everywhere. But he was there.

“John?”

Bucky’s brain takes far too long to understand that someone is saying his name. When he finally tunes in, for a second he thinks it must be Curt or Rosie. Checking on him, trying to get him to eat something, telling him it’s time to do this or that thing that is going to cause him pain but is necessary anyways. 

But the voice says his name again, followed by a gentle “darling?” and a smile slips over Bucky’s face. 

He turns his head to see his husband, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. His hair is unstyled, soft and messy. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater. Bucky is once again wearing his own Yankees sweatshirt – if for no other reason than to make it smell like him again. For now, it smells like Gale, and it makes him feel safe. 

“You okay?” Gale asks. He raises an eyebrow in concern. He looks at Bucky like that a lot now – concerned.

The truth is, everything hurts. Everything feels icky. Everything about Bucky’s body feels wrong and out of control. But he nods. Because right now, he is actually okay. 

He woke up in his husband’s arms, his dog at his feet. Gale made him pancakes, and when he couldn’t quite stomach those, he cut up a bunch of fruit and let Bucky drink as much orange juice as he wanted. Gale told JSC he wouldn’t be in today, and they spent their morning watching a movie on the couch while Bucky scrolled through their wedding photos again. Lazy and domestic, just trying to heal.

Bucky reaches an arm out towards Gale, making a grabbing motion with his hand. Gale’s face softens and he walks across the room, settling on the couch beside Bucky. He wraps his husband in his arms, and together, they stare out the window at the water falling down onto the Earth.

Gale closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, holding Bucky tight. He presses his nose against the dark curls at the back of Bucky’s head, where that shaved patch is finally growing back. He tries to remind himself that John is here, in his arms, safe, not going anywhere. He tries to block out the rhythm of the rain, wills it to stop.

All he can think about is that night, a storm pouring buckets over their town, when Benny woke him in the darkness. 

One single moment can change the way you see even the most fundamental parts of the world. Something that once was beautiful, now bears nothing but pain. Fear and grief. That’s the song sung by the rain.

Gale listens to its melody, wondering if it’ll ever change its tune.

“You know,” Bucky says. He presses his whole hand against the cool window glass. His eyes flick momentarily to Gale’s, then back to the view of their backyard. “The rain is one of the things I missed the most.”

Gale blinks. “Mmm?”

Bucky nods. “The moon is so… empty,” he says, frowning. “I mean, it’s amazing. It’s beautiful. I wish I could go back. But it’s quiet. Unchanging. Dry. I missed water.”

Bucky seems to drift away again after that. One moment, he looks focused, speaking purposefully. The next, his eyes go a little hazy and the expression just drops from his face. He leans his head against Gale’s shoulder, and he stares out the window. Gale half expects him to fall asleep, but just as he’s about to ask Bucky if he’s still with him, Bucky shifts, tilting his head in thought.

“I remember wanting to feel the rain. I’d pretend I could feel it running over me, soaking my hair. I pretended I could taste it on my tongue. Like when we were kids, y’know? Playin’ in the puddles.”

Gale stares thoughtfully out the window, trying to see it in the same way. His heart beats a little too fast, though, when he can’t shove away the memory of that morning. 

He tries to smile weakly, pressing his lips to the back of Bucky’s head to hide the way he wants to cry at the memory mixed with the visual of John here, in his arms where he belongs. “Come on,” he says.

Bucky looks at him questioningly, but he doesn’t have a chance to resist because Gale is already standing up, crossing the room, retrieving the wheelchair. And then he’s lifting Bucky in his arms and settling him into it.

Bucky shifts in the chair, grimacing as he tries to get his leg positioned right. “What are you doing?” 

Gale puts a finger up and walks away again, leaving Bucky alone in the middle of the living room in a chair that he’s hardly any good at maneuvering on his own. But he returns moments later with the plastic cover for Bucky’s cast.

“We’re gonna go outside.”

Bucky blinks at him, then glances out the window again. “In the rain?”

“Mmm.” Gale kneels in front of Bucky, and Bucky watches as Gale gently lifts his bad leg, slips the cover up over the cast and secures the top of it at his knee. Then he helps Bucky get his leg in a comfortable position again. “Good?”

Bucky nods. Gale pats his good leg gently before getting back to his feet and wandering over to the coat closet. He hands Bucky one of his warmer raincoats so he can pull it on over his sweatshirt. “What?” Bucky asks when he notices Gale watching him do it. “I can get my own jacket on, Buck.”

What he doesn’t realize is that every time he does some menial task on his own, Gale’s heart is working to mend itself back together. Because Bucky doesn’t know the conversations Gale had to have with Dr. Huston and Smokey. He doesn’t know how terrified Gale was that Bucky would never be able to do these things again.

But outwardly, Gale just rolls his eyes, because Bucky doesn’t need to know all that. Not right now. He pulls on his own coat, ruffles Bucky’s curls as he steps behind him, and pushes him towards the front door. Pepper, finally convinced that they’re doing something worthwhile on this tired, rainy day, gets up from the couch to follow behind them.

The last time Gale stood in the rain, he was dressed in nothing but his work clothes. He stood frozen, drenched to the bone, unable to feel anything at all. Sandra had to save him. His mind flashes to that moment as he walks out the door, pushing Bucky out in front of him. He nearly freezes when he feels the cold raindrops hitting his face. He doesn’t bother to put his hood up.

But he notices something: he can feel it now.

As Gale wheels him out to the driveway, Bucky holds out his hands and looks up, closing his eyes as he feels the fat, heavy drops splashing onto his skin, soaking into his hair. Even on the Gulf, the rain is freezing in December, but it makes Bucky feel more alive than he has since he woke up in Starship half dead. 

Gale steps out from behind him and takes his hand. “So you didn’t have this on the moon?”

Bucky laughs. “If we did we’d have colonized it by now!”

Pepper runs in circles around them, darting from one side of the driveway to the other with her face to the sky, her thick fur slowly getting matted down. They both laugh as she gets down and rolls in the grass, staining parts of herself green. Gale knows he’ll have a hell of a time giving her a bath, but it doesn’t matter. 

He watches Bucky take in the vibrant world around them. The fresh smell of the rain and the salt of the bay. The bright colors of the Earth, the sound of the raindrops pounding the ground. Their house, their street, their dog, the trees and the grass and the water streaming down the road. All of it so alive. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally reach Gale again, he stops. He raises an eyebrow, a grin brightening his face even as his hair is soaked to his head and his flannel pajama pants have no hope of ever being dry again. “What?” He asks. 

And Gale realizes he’s been staring. He knows he must look like a wet dog, but Bucky looks at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“I missed you,” Gale says. Like it isn’t obvious. Like those words can possibly encapsulate what he means.

Bucky reaches out his other hand and looks at Gale expectantly. “Help me up.” 

Gale looks skeptical, but he hauls Bucky to his feet – or, foot. He keeps one arm around Bucky’s waist, keeping him steady, and Bucky grabs onto his shoulder for balance. They’re getting better at it. 

“Now what?” Gale laughs. 

Bucky doesn’t say a word. Just ducks his head down and presses his lips to Gale’s. Gale freezes in surprise, but it’s not even a second before he closes his eyes and has to remind himself that he needs to be the strong one, keep himself steady, even as he melts. They grip onto one another, holding on for dear life, and Bucky kisses his husband like it’s their wedding day. 

Gale sighs into it, and he feels Bucky smile. They’re both soaked to the bone, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters other than the two of them together, right here and now. 

Because, finally, they’re home. 

[innerfare]

Mihawk Relationship Headcanons 

Summary: a random collection of Mihawk relationship headcanons

Genre: fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

He never imagined himself in a relationship. He’d had plenty of one night stands and situationships (he's notorious for allowing sexual tension to fester and never doing anything about it), but an actual relationship had always been off the cards. Until, that is, he met you. He didn’t really think too deeply about it, just started pursuing you. On some level, he knew he was putting you in danger, but he couldn’t stay away. 

Was definitely a victim of love at first sight. He fell first, and he fell harder. 

He is very secretive about his relationship with you, at first only visiting you in the dead of night and leaving before day break, appearing on your balcony like some sort of vampire or succubus. Shanks is the only person who knows about you, and he intends to keep it that way. 

Always brings you something- a bouquet of flowers, a bottle of wine, a piece of jewelry, a pastry he wants to share with you, a piece of lace, silk, or tulle he wants to see you in. Will also bring you books he thought you might like, souvenirs from far away lands, and even pieces of him to hold on to, such as his favorite dagger that now lives on your person (he spent an entire night teaching you how to use it and was ecstatic when you held it to his throat, definitely turned NSFW). Being in a relationship with him is basically like having tamed a wild animal that brings you dead mice he caught. TBH wouldn’t hesitate to bring you the severed head of an enemy if you so desired. 

Of course, he plays all of this off, either saying nothing or giving you a small lecture about how you needed that thing. “I happened to find a copy of that book you mentioned.” “I don’t suppose you have any use for this.” “I brought this vintage wine for myself but I suppose you can have some if you really want.” When he brings you flowers, he tells you it’s because your place is rather drab and if you won’t bother to liven it up, he’ll just have to do it for you (the man lives in a gloomy castle but shhh). When he brings you lingerie, he lays it on your bed without a word or says something along the lines of, “those panties you wore the last time were so cheap they chafed my skin. Wear these from now on.” Alludes to finding the jewelry he gives you in some sort of pirate horde he won’t go into detail on it since it’s in violation of his Warlord contract with the World Government, actually just purchases the pieces from various jewelers he meets on his travels; sometimes seeks out famous jewelers far off the beaten path if he thinks you’ll like that jeweler’s work.

Insists your relationship is not a relationship but is rather an affair. The sort of man to lie about cheating- not about not doing it, but about doing it so you don't get the impression he's committed to you. Won’t tell you he wants to be exclusive, but will yearn for it. Not good about communicating in general, very bad about just thinking things and hoping you’re thinking the same. 

For a long time, he didn’t even want you to come to the Muggy Kingdom for fear the Navy was watching him there and would find out about you. He also refused to speak to you over a transponder snail for fear they had tapped his. 

Never really warmed up to the idea of keeping you close but eventually grew so attached that he couldn’t stand to have you far away. Had no appetite if you weren’t at his table, couldn’t sleep if you weren’t in his bed, didn’t even want to take a shower if he couldn’t use your floral shampoo. Eventually, he convinced himself you were safer with him than without him, and that was that. 

Late nights cooking dinner (dinner is never before seven at Mihawk’s place). Afternoons gardening. Mornings spent discussing whatever’s in the newspaper. Evenings spent making out in the wine cellar because you went down to select a bottle for that night and got carried away. You sitting atop some ruins and watching him practice. Very domestic, but he hates that word. 

Won’t really tell you he loves you unless it’s a late night and he’s very drunk and you insist upon hearing it, certainly won’t admit to needing you, but will press a kiss into your hand and assure you he has deep affection for you. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[tyrantisterror]

What's the worst legacy sequel you've ever seen? What, in your opinion, separates a good legacy sequel from a bad legacy sequel and what's the worst thing you think a legacy sequel can do?

The worst that I've seen is probably Rise of Skywalker. It's close competition, though - both Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom and Jurassic World: Dominion have moments that are significantly more stupid than anything in Rise of Sky Walker, but I also think both have a bit more creative effort put into them - Fallen Kingdom has that third act where it basically becomes a Resident Evil adaptation except with a murder-saurus in place of the Tyrant, and Dominion has the whole locust plotline which, while terrible, is at least an unexpected direction for a Jurassic Park sequel to go into that tries to figure out something ELSE you could do with the genetic engineering premise of the franchise beyond just making dinosaurs. Like, all three Jurassic World movies have big problems and they get progressively dumber with each installment, but they're also all ambitious to some degree that I still feel respect for, even if they never really actually reach those lofty aspirations.

Rise of Skywalker, on the other hand, has no ambitions at all. It has nothing it wants to say, no unique twists to pull, no real identity of its own. It's a potroast made of leftovers from better movies, a resuscitated corpse of something much more interesting, patched together like a Frankenstein's monster and abandoned to a cruel world just as callously.

It has no desire to do anything new, merely a checklist of Things You've Seen Before That the Focus Groups Say You'd Probably Like to See Again. Any character that can be slipped into an arc that was done in a previous Star Wars film is slipped into one no matter how little sense it makes for them, and any character who can't is either forced to tread water with nothing to do (hi Finn!) or just quietly shoved off to the side early on and forgotten about (hi Rose!).

Any story beats that weren't in the original films are simply grabbed from a box that reads "time tested cliches to keep your script moving with minimal effort." Make the plot a treasure hunt so we can just race from scene to scene with the flimsiest justification possible and try and trick the audience into thinking something is actually happening! What's that, audience interest is flagging? Quick, throw in a cameo of someone from an older movie! What's that, they're bored again? Pretend to kill one of the old characters, but make sure to reveal they actually lived in no more than two scenes down the line, or else we might piss off the fanboys! Hey, let's look at the Cinema Sins videos for the original movies and see if there's some gripes we can "fix" with this one for added fan cred! Can't disappoint our audience!

It's the story-telling equivalent of smothering something in salt to cover up the funky taste of the close-to-the-expiration-date ingredients.

As for what makes a good vs. a bad legacy sequel... ok, so, let's define legacy sequel first. A legacy sequel is a film or TV show that is a sequel to a popular film or TV series that ended a good many years ago, which brings back some of the old cast of characters (generally played by the same, and thus much older, actors that played them in the past) along with adding a new cast of characters played by younger actors. It tries to replicate the tone of the original series despite being made in a different era and probably by different writers and directors, and generally aims to give you that Ratatouille style moment of nostalgia.

I think most Legacy sequels are kind of doomed to be mediocre at best on the outset because the goal of them from the moment of conception is so mercenary - they're not created to Tell A Good Story, they're created to Keep Consumers Invested in a Lucrative Content Franchise. They have the artistic aspirations of a McDonald's Hamburger - "This tastes exactly like what you had as a kid, and doesn't that make you crave more of it?"

I don't think that art made for mercenary reasons is doomed to be bad, mind you - I mean, almost ALL movies and television were made to make money first and foremost. Even the classic High Art movies I love like Seven Samurai and The Third Man were made for mercenary reasons at the end of the line - it didn't stop the people who were working on them from having artistic goals, but it's a fact nonetheless.

But Legacy Sequels just have an uphill battle in the "artistic aspirations" department, because most people with artistic aspirations don't want to recreate the feeling someone else inspired with their art - they want to put their own stamp on it, their own spin, their own voice. And that will often mean something VERY different will be made, something that might piss of the fans - something that doesn't taste like the McDonald's hamburger you had as a kid, even though it came in the same wrapper.

The worst parts of Legacy Sequels are the only parts that Rise of Skywalker is made of - the parts where the story is clearly only trying to show you things you know, only trying to reheat the leftovers so they taste like your memories, only trying to trick the nostalgia center of your brain that you're four years old again eating at McDonald's. "Here's the thing you know! Here's the running gag you liked, repeated five more times by actors with far less enthusiasm! Here's the same basic premise as the first film, but the stakes have been inflated to make it feel like a progression! Cameos! Catch phrases! Eat your hamburger, you consumer pig!"

The rare good legacy sequels don't really TRY to be legacy sequels. They're just... sequels. Another story in the same world as the first, bringing back the characters who actually have interesting arcs left in them, creating new characters with their own shit going on who have good chemistry with the pre-established characters and setting, expanding on themes from the original and exploring parts of the setting that hadn't been explored yet, and all in all telling their own story that's related to the first one's but still manages to be its own distinct thing.

There are not many good legacy sequels, because a good legacy sequel is different than the McDonald's hamburger you ate when you were four, and might make less money than desired because of it.

[vevobly]

Being Jackie Taylor's Girlfriend Headcanons (Pre-Crash) [Part 1]

A/N: I honestly don't know what to think of Jeff. I mean, he's a completely good guy in my opinion if you take away the fact he cheated on his ex-girlfriend with her own best friend and proceeded to pose as someone else while blackmailing his wife about the trauma she went through as an angsty problematic teen later on as an adult in his life.

Given Jackie's desire to maintain a perfect image and the fact that it's 1996, your relationship with her is undoubtedly kept a secret from most people.

You occasionally ask her if you'll ever make your relationship public, and she always insists that she wants to, but she can't—at least, not now. Both of you know how difficult it would be if your relationship were out in the open.

Jackie makes promises to you about going public, but when you bring it up, she either changes the subject or ignores it entirely. You guys get into arguments because of it sometimes. But nothing you and Jackie would ever dwell on for too long.

With Jackie constantly trying to live up to everyone's expectations about her, you're the only person she can truly let her guard down with. Of course, Shauna is there for her too but it's different. You're her support, the one person (other than Shauna) who sees through behind the whole image she works so hard to maintain.

If it wasn't already obvious, you're Jackie's escape from her life. With you, she can be herself. She doesn't have to be perfect or in control—she can just be Jackie. And I mean, she can be like that too with Shauna, but it's different. It's just different, okay? She doesn't always share everything going on in her life with Shauna, contrary to what everyone else thinks.

She often vents to you about the pressure she's under, the expectations placed on her, and everything else. Sometimes it's more of a rant, but you listen either way. You're always there to comfort her, reminding her that she doesn't have to be perfect. That you, along with Shauna and other people. will always love her for who she really is. You don't care if she's perfect or not, she'll always be your girlfriend no matter what.

You're not a big of sports but when it comes to Jackie and soccer? You are her biggest fan. Whether you're watching her practice, attending her games, or cheering for her on the sidelines; Jackie LOVES having you there. It gives her a huge boost of confidence knowing you're there to support her.

You two even have a little tradition: after her big wins, you two go somewhere private and share these really cute moments together. Sappy stuff, very incredibly sappy stuff.

Despite how she usually is, Jackie can be extremely protective of you. She makes sure to keep it very subtle but she keeps an eye on anyone who gets too close or questions your relationship.

When someone flirts with you? Jackie tries really hard to keep it cool, but her jealousy just gets the better of her sometimes. And since she can't exactly confront the person flirting with you, she resorts to other ways. Usually passive aggressive behavior. And if she's feeling petty, she might even direct some of that passive aggressiveness toward you. But she'll ignore you mainly for a few hours or days.

Balancing her relationship with you and the expectations placed on her only makes things harder for Jackie. You don't always bring it up, but you can sense just how torn she is between wanting to be with you and maintaining her "perfect" image. It makes you question your relationship sometimes, which one does she value more: you or her image?

While you TRY to be understanding, there are times when her desire (if you didn't know any better - obsession) with perfection frustrates you. I mean, it doesn't happen all the time. But when it does? It generally led to the two of you arguing or fighting. You both tend to ignore each other until one of you finally gets tired of it and apologizes.

Despite those rough moments between the two of you, you know Jackie really does care deeply about you—she's just struggling a lot. (Natalie tells you that's no excuse for her to be such a piece of shit towards you sometimes though)

Since your relationship is a secret, you guys both rely heavily on subtle gestures to show your love in public. Jackie will give you lingering touches when no one's looking, place a hand on your arm, brush her shoulder against yours, or sneak glances at you from across the room. Small things, yet they never fail to make your cheeks heat up.

Oh, and she also writes you these sweet little notes from time to time! Either slipping it into your locker or leaving it in your bag. It's nothing big, but it sure does make your heart flutter.

[scribesynnox]

Okay but like, this is horrifying, right?

That was just casually horrifying, right??

What happens to drawing!Laios, is he alive? What will he do now?

[eerna]

I just think that............. *gestures wildly to how Harrow experiences attraction* you know??????

[archduke-enver-gortash]

mmm essay about sally and kid gort in the tags (cw for child abuse, mentions of suicide, animal cruelty and a murder attempt. i always hope i don’t have to say this but just in case: i don’t excuse or condone any of her or gort’s behaviour at all.) this is literally not even touching upon everything i have to say because i hit the fucking tag limit lmao. NOBODY READ IT’S BAD BRAINSTORMING I JUST NEEDED TO GET IT OUT SOMEHOW

[noahtally-famous]

not me popping back on here with a post after months of semi-inactivity (uni is being a bitch) just to reiterate how much i love writing the pahkitew island cast.

aside from sammy and amy (obviously), literally everyone else can be shipped with one another and it'd make sense to some degree, like it takes skill to create a group of people so inherently shippable (platonically and/or romantically) and ofc the writers didn't know it they just shoved a bunch of random ppl together and dusted their hands off on it but fr tho 😭

(yeah im planning out my leonave 'stranger things inspired' au, and the gears are turning, and i forgot just how much i love writing for this dumbass group)

(i swear im working on the next chapter of a guide to surviving the apocalypse too)

[teethbomb]

mob psycho(logical horror) 100

[coyoxxtl]

tumblr centrist liberals stop acting like voting is the most influential and important political activity you can participate in challenge