#Lincoln Goines

[jazzdailyblog]

Mike Stern: A Fusion Guitarist's Journey Through Jazz and Beyond

Introduction: Mike Stern, one of the most celebrated guitarists in contemporary jazz, has carved a unique path with his innovative fusion of bebop, rock, and blues. With a career spanning over four decades, Stern’s playing exudes a rare combination of technical mastery, emotional depth, and stylistic versatility. From his early work with Blood, Sweat & Tears and Miles Davis to his flourishing…

[terriblegam2r]

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira at the NY premiere for ‘The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live’

[nothingunrealistic]

from condola rashad's instagram story, june 27, 2023

[toxicanonymity]

hello, my dearest Toxy🩶

with this ask I challenge you to write a ficlet (or anything bigger if you want) inspired by this screenshot:

may the writing muses be with you,

kissing you on your forehead (if you allow it not then just waving from the distance!)

the gusset

2k, "daddy" Joel x f!reader x uncle tommy

Tyvm for the inspo, Aly! And for all your beautiful gifs🖤 love you *forehead kiss*. 18+ MDNI cumplay, smut, incidental incest via double vag penetration & cum cleanup. ain't your thing? scroll on by. don't overthink it, mild weather, reader can wear Joel's shirt. masterlists: joel & uncle tommy, joel. AO3

“What's wrong, baby?” Joel asks in the rearview mirror as you squirm in your seat.

“Nothing, daddy. I'm just kinda--I'm fine.”

“You’re doin’ great, baby,” he says.

Uncle Tommy sympathizes, “panties take some gettin’ used to if ya’ain’t used to wearin’em, huh cupcake?”

Well, dry panties would be a different story. These are filled. They made sure of it before y’all left the house. One load from Tommy and two from Joel.

Each moment that passes, more of their spend oozes out of you and onto the soaked gusset. It's pouring out of you faster than the cotton gusset could absorb it, even if it weren't already soaked through. The abundance of cum has built up and formed a little pillow along your crotch. A growing pillow, threatening to spill under the elastic edges of the panties.

It's farmer’s market day. That's when Joel hauls some produce from Lincoln to the Boston QZ perimeter to trade. Last night, Tommy volunteered to do the job, and when you dared to ask if you could join, Joel said, let's all go. Joel hated to let you out of his sight and he couldn't bear to do it in public. You almost wonder if he filled you up on purpose so you wouldn't want to get out of the truck.

Now the bed of the truck is loaded with apples and peaches. You’re slouching in the back seat of the extended cab, trying to minimize the pressure on your panties. If the growing bulge of semen were to breach the underwear, it would be an even bigger mess than it already felt like.

It’s been turning you on, feeling their thick, warm seed ooze from your hole and fill up your whole slit, bit by bit. Gush by gush, it's occupied every crevice of your parts, coating the puffy outer lips of your tired pussy, then accumulating between the cotton and you.

While arousal stirs in your belly, your skin is hot with embarrassment knowing you’re going out in public. It feels indecent. Which somehow makes it hotter, at the same time. It’s an awful cycle, and the throbbing of your cunt churning out slick isn’t helping the near-overflow situation.

Joel glances in the rearview twice more, then suggests, “Why don't ya come sit in uncle Tommy's lap?”

“It's okay,” you reply.

Not used to your rejection, Tommy turns around with big, gentle eyes and a furrowed brow. “What's goin’ on, babygirl?”

Joel pulls over and your heart speeds up as the wheels slow on the pavement.

-

With the car in park, Joel unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches to the back seat. His tan forearm flexes with his green flannel rolled up over his elbow as he unbuckles your seatbelt. “Spread your legs, darlin’. an’ hike up that dress for me.”

You pull your dress up and spread your knees slightly.

“Spread’em, sugar. C’mon now, nothin’ to be shy about.”

You spread your legs wide, earning a soft, “Good girl,” from your daddy as his gaze settles between your legs and the bittersweet scent wafts to his nostrils and yours. Wetness trickles from your cunt into the crack of your butt. Joel reaches further and softly pats the soft, inflated crotch of your panties with his thumb. A drop escapes the side and he gives a low whistle.

Tommy looks back, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in the view, then his cheeks fill with air as he exhales.

“I’ll fix ya, baby. Hold on,” Joel exits the truck.

As Joel stands outside the truck and straightens his shirt, Tommy smiles at you and says, “Didn’t ‘spect ya to leak that much. We fucked ya wide open, didn’t we?”

Your upper body heats up and your lower body throbs as you remember how they did it.

~~~~///~~~~~

Tommy was laid back on the bed, reclining against the headboard, with you between his legs, speared on his cock. He had been fucking you excruciatingly slow in small strokes from the bottom, and you were gushing, desperate for more. He cradled your naked breasts and gushed, “She’s such a good girl,” with his cock stiff and throbbing in your cunt. He paused his movements.

“She sure is,” Joel agreed.

Tommy tilted his hips down and asked, “You good, cupcake?”

“Mmm,” you answered, lacking words. “Daddy” you looked at Joel with pleading eyes. You savored the brief burn as Joel squeezed his own tip into your occupied entrance right along with Uncle Tommy's cock. Joel leaned down and gave you a kiss as he let your body catch up. Then he asked, “Ready, baby?”, and you nodded dreamily. Dripping wet and ready.

Joel pushed his hips forward, stretching you with his rock hard manhood, more than doubling the girth inside you. At the same time, Tommy tilted his hips up to spear you deeper.

Your mouth hung open and you grunted with the stretch, then moaned at the push of their stiff cocks against your walls. You were packed full and could swear your sensitive walls felt the heartbeats of both dicks that were crammed inside you. Joel admired your face and when half his mouth broke into a smile, you realized you were drooling. From both mouths.

~~~~///~~~~~

Joel opens your door and gives your thigh a squeeze. “Lay back for me, darlin’.”

You lie flat on your back, and Joel arranges your legs so one foot is on the floor and one is on the seat, with your knee up. He lifts your dress higher and you feel air on your lower abdomen.

He gently thumbs your swollen panties, feeling the pocket of cum move under his touch. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. He slides his thumb gently up and down, watching the bulge move under the cotton, and you flinch in pleasure.

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers and palms himself in the front seat. The tips of Joel’s fingers rest warmly on the skin of your lower abdomen as he gently rubs your crotch with his massive thumb. He rubs with an upward stroke over your entrance, working some of the cum upward. The wetness creeps up your mound as he works to spread it. Each time his thumb passes over your clit, more tension builds in your core.

“Well shit,” Tommy marvels, watching. It must show on your face. “Can’t get enough, can she?”

Your hips begin to lift into Joel’s hand, and he watches your chest rise and fall. He settles into a trance, thumb moving on its own at a slow rhythm as he watches your nipples harden and feels you getting closer. “Daddy,” you whimper, and he pauses his efforts to rub you for pleasure. His thumb speeds up. “Daddy,” you whimper again, and unravel into a moan as you reach your peak.

Your walls spasm and push more cum out of you, creating a warm new bubble beneath the damp cotton Joel had just flattened. A growl escapes Joel’s chest at the sight. He pauses, then grabs you by both thighs to pull you closer to the door. The echo of your orgasm continues to ooze more of their seed out of you.

Tommy shudders, and you hear the squish of his fist around his cock. “Fill’er back up?” He offers.

Joel nods at him in agreement. You sigh in resignation to the utter mess between your legs. “It’s okay baby, I'll clean ya up,” Joel reassures you as Tommy exits the truck.

-

Joel steps out of the way and you look up to see Tommy’s kind eyes glued between your legs as he slowly strokes himself. “Ffuuck,” he mutters, and pulls you almost off the edge of the seat. “Sit up, honey,” he breathes, and you do.

With his thumb, he yanks your panties to the side, and the elastic crackles past its limit. Then you wrap your hands around his neck as he pulls you off the seat. You bury your face in his hair and whimper as he impales you on his cock. You sink onto him with ease, plugging what's left of the earlier cum, pushing it back up into you. He firmly holds your bottom, then begins to erupt, pulling you onto him as his seed throbs into you. His body jerks with a broken moan. He sighs as he finishes.

“Good girl,” he whispers with a squeeze of your butt, then bends his knees and helps you back onto the seat. He slides out of you and helps fix the crotch of your panties to cover you up again. Cum drips onto the leather beneath you. A product of the extra load as well as the loosened elastic on one side.

Tommy stuffs himself back in his jeans and gives Joel a nod.

“fraid it’s just gonna come right out,” Tommy chuckles.

“Savin' mine for the ride home,” Joel says, cupping his balls then squeezing the thick sausage sitting on his thigh before adding, “You're drivin’ home, buddy.”

“You got it,” Tommy agrees as he goes back around the truck.

-

You start to put your dress back down and Joel stops you with a gentle “not yet, darlin’, lemme see.”

He collects the spilled cum from the leather with a swipe of his thumb, then brings it to your lips. He presses his thumb gently into your mouth, against your soft tongue. You suck the digit clean. “good girl,” he says, “Lay down again for me.”

Joel kisses his sticky thumb as you assume the position again.

He uses the same thumb to trace the slightly loosened edge of the panties' crotch, then the other edge. “daddy, wait—If I come again, it’s gonna make a big mess,” you warn him.

“I know, babygirl. Ain’t gotta cum. Just relax.”

You trust him enough to un-tense your muscles and let him clean up.

“Attagirl.”

He dips his head between your legs and starts low, on your inner thigh where it meets your butt. He licks along the edge of the panties, dipping his tongue slightly under the crotch then forcing himself to withdraw it without going further. He goes back to tracing the edge.

When he’s licked up the seed that spilled from the gusset, he blows along the pantyline, then presses a soft kiss against your mound. He inspects the other side and repeats the remedy, although there isn’t as much to clean up. He taps his thumb against the cotton that covers your entrance, feeling only a small amount of cum give way. Far less than the earlier pillow.

He presses a soft kiss on your lower belly, just above your panties, then looks up and studies your face as he puts your dress back down. “Lay like that if ya want, baby. we’re almost there." He gives your thigh a squeeze and winks at you before closing the door.

“She’s somethin' else,” Tommy mutters as Joel gets back in the truck.

-

Before putting the truck in drive, Joel looks back and gently offers, “Don’t gotta get outta the car if ya don’t wanna, okay?” Tommy gives him a look.

You *knew* it! You try not to let it show on your face. He’s so controlling.

Well, Daddy’s not gonna get the satisfaction of you choosing to stay in the truck. Any type of outing is so rare that you have to take advantage to the fullest. You daydream about seeing a stray dog, sniffing around, following the scent of meat.

One time, Joel took you to an abandoned barn to gather some tools, and you met a barn cat. Anything was possible.

“Can we go by the old barn on the way home?” You ask from the back.

“We’ll see, baby,” Joel answers and you roll your eyes, out of his view since you’re lying down. You stew in frustration and by the time y’all park at the QZ perimeter trading tent, you’re trying to force away tears.

Joel gets out and looks in the backseat. “Stayin’ put?” He asks, then registers the look on your face. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He gets out and opens your door. “C’mere, talk to me.” he helps you sit up. You take a deep breath and look away, heat rising to your eyes.

“I do wanna get out,” you tell him.

He takes your jaw gently in his hand and makes you look at him. His brows knit in concern when your eyes meet. “Okay, you’ll get out,” he quietly agrees. “Hey, you’re okay, baby. You're okay.” He cradles the back of your head.

You try to fix your dress and Joel’s face changes from concern to pity. He untucks his flannel and starts unbuttoning it, strong forearms flexing. Your face softens and your eyes brighten, making Joel’s sparkle.

He helps you down from the truck, and his broad body blocks the view as he holds up his shirt for you. You admire the way his biceps and chest stretch his plain white under-tee before you turn around and slip your arms into the flannel. You turn around and while Joel is still facing you, he adjusts himself, then untucks his t-shirt. He takes your hand and says, “Uncle Tommy’s gonna unload. You stick with me.”

________________________________________________

Make sure you check out bonezone44's amazing artwork to see how Joel looks at the end.

thanks for reading!

Your comments delight me and help my confidence which helps me write. Love y'all.

[cobalt-knave]

Transcript:

TTAZZ -

Justin: [crosstalk] I’m gonna try and make mine horseshit, ‘cause there’s no way I’m DMing, ever, [crosstalk] I’m not gonna- I ain’t doin’ that.

Travis: [crosstalk] [Laughs]

Steeplechase -

Justin: Hi everybody, welcome to— Either welcome to or welcome back, depending on where you’re at, to uh The Adventure Zone: Steeplechase. We’re so happy to have you back, thanks for deciding to take a spin on this.

Here we go! Alright! Here I go! [All laugh]

TTAZZ -

Griffin: [crosstalk] No but see that’s- that’s exactly why I want you to. Like I wanna hear what you would turn out. I think we all gotta do it, like we can’t--

Justin: Like, I don’t think you wanna hear what I would do.

Clint: [Laughs]

Griffin: No, I absolutely do. If yours is like, we’re in a fuckin’ clown college, and like- I wanna hear that. I wanna hear- like I think that’s really neat.

Travis: [crosstalk] W- well let me--

Justin: [crosstalk] No it would be me looking around my office like, ‘And um, and then the big Bioshock poster comes over to you and he’s like, ‘What the guitar is goin’ on here?’’

Clint: [Laughs] And the- the picture of Charlie Gale [?] comes to life!

Steeplechase -

Justin: Slipper, one of her guys, was gonna infiltrate the back — Then Matchstick, one of her other guys, -- And then Trashbag, the third guy on her team--

Griffin: Question, can we switch characters and be those three?

Travis: Yeah.

Clint: [laughs]

Griffin: ‘Cause those were cool names.

Travis: I don’t wanna be Trashbag, but other than that, that—

Griffin: I’ll be Tr— I’ll be Trashbag, if you.

Travis: Oh.

Clint: I like Trashbag too!

Travis: I’ll take Matchstick, frankly.

TTAZZ -

Justin: Yeah and then my Abraham Lincoln bust is like, ‘I’ve got monsters in my pocket too.”

Clint: [crosstalk] [Laughs]

Steeplechase -

Barrister: [sings] There will be no arrests, there will be only death. And then Beef and Montrose.

TTAZZ -

Travis: Uh, well lemme say that, if you’re listening to this and you’re like, ‘But I don’t ever want this to end’, you- trust me you do. It would hit a point where we wouldn’t have new ideas for what Magnus and Taako and Merle would get up to and it would get stale. And like--

Griffin: [crosstalk] And like, it’s not gonna be--

Justin: [crosstalk] And it- and if you really, really, really don’t want it to end, I mean if the money’s right…

Steeplechase -

Justin: You see in front of you a wizard, holding an umbrella over his shoulder. And he says:

Taako: Hello, I’m Taako from television. Welcome to Bumbershoots. Are you ready to do battle with the Hunger?

Griffin: Holy fuck’n shit.

Travis: [gasps]

Beef: Hail and well met!

Justin: No, it’s the end of the episode.

Travis: Oh, okay.

Griffin and Clint: [laughs] [Steeplechase theme song plays]

[hi-fidelitea]

ghoulcy prompts

@oraeliaa's prompt: I always always love a quiet campfire moment 🔥 Far out in the desert, they come across an outcrop of rocks. A lonely shack hangs off the side, half-buried by sand.

It's a good place for 'a little R-and-R', as the Ghoul says—that stands for rest and relaxation.

Inside the shack is a dried-out corpse. That doesn't surprise Lucy. What does give her pause is the position of body—curled in the corner, clasped hands pillowed under dusty red hair.

Not dead, just sleeping.

The shack's roof is mostly gone and beyond the rafters, the sky grows dark.

The Ghoul wrenches a board from the wall and uses his heel to break the dry rot apart, then stacks it in the middle of the room like Lincoln Logs. Lucy watches with some curiosity until his attention turns to the body. When the knife comes out, she turns away.

She flicks to the map on the Pip-boy.

Zooms out.

Tries to measure the time between here and New Vegas. Tries not to listen as the Ghoul reduces the body to parts. The sound is hard to ignore—a soft, dry sawing that turns her stomach. This far out, the radio only picks up static, so she hums a little to herself.

But then there's a sharp, stinging smell. Burnt hair.

Lucy looks up. The Ghoul is on one knee, fanning the beginnings of a campfire, using corpse hair as kindling.

"I don't think you should build a fire inside."

"Given the state of this shithole,"—he makes an empty gesture to the dirt floor, and all the holes in the siding—"I'd say the inside's outside."

"Well, okay, but won't the light attract attention? Or the smoke? I made a campfire my first night up here and almost got my face chewed off by a radroach."

The Ghoul gravely says: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for I am the baddest motherfucker in the goddamn valley." "Is that...a quote from something?"

"Don't worry about it," he sighs with a shake of the head. "Listen, Vaultie, there's a couple miles of sand between us and anything worth shooting. The only thing to worry about out here is me."

"Oh. Okie dokie, then."

She drags her bedroll into the circle of warmth. Dogmeat grumbles at the relocation, but is soon back to making small sleeping noises at the foot of the bedding. Lucy sits and hugs her knees to her chest.

Smoke drifts into the night sky. Pop—a burst of sparks shoots upward.

Across the campfire, the Ghoul lies on his side on the bare earth, propped up on his elbows. He takes a swig from a flask and bares his teeth on swallowing. She drops her stare into the bright center of the flames.

Lucy wonders how he'd use her body if she died.

"That looks uncomfortable," she says, making conversation to distract from going down morbid rabbit holes. "Laying on the ground like that."

The Ghoul shrugs. "I got whiskey, jerky, and enough chems to get to where I'm goin'. Can't get any more comfortable than that." Then he looks at her in a sly, angling way. "Why? You got room in there for me?"

And there's just something in the way he says it— When Norm was little, he would wake her up every other night. He was afraid of everything; afraid of the dark, afraid of the HVAC sounds, and afraid of the closet, and the underside of his bed, and he was afraid of having that one dream again, it was so scary, Lucy, can I sleep in bed with you, please? Just this once?

The firelight casts strange, flickering shadows over the skeletal remains of the shack. The Ghoul doesn't need her to check for a monster under the bed, he is the monster. But she's feeling tender and lonely, and a little afraid of everything.

Lucy wiggles into the bedroll and holds the corner open.

Just this once.

"Sure."

The next morning, the cinders of the campfire have long cooled. The Ghoul does not protest as she digs a shallow grave and lays the body to rest.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

The Magnificent Seven | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: recovering from a sexual assault (please heed this warning), angst, canon violence, canon gore,

Word Count: 3382

A/N: SEASON THREEEEEEEEEEEE thank you guys so much for all the support i love you so much i give each of you a little kiss on the face :)))

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Dean hadn’t called you since you left. Honestly, you didn’t expect him to. However, there was a feeling clawing at you that you wanted him to. You wanted him to beg you to come back and tell you he missed you and loved you, too. Although, seventy-eight hours after leaving the Winchesters, you were unsure that phone call would ever come.

Over the previous three days, you’d scoured every library book on demonology you could get your hands on and prodded every community college professor that could possibly know any information helpful to you in breaking Dean’s deal. However, all you came up with were crossed eyes from staring at books for too long and several aging professors looking at you like you had three heads.

To your surprise, the phone on the center console next to you rang, the light from the small screen on the front of the flip phone illuminating a portion of the dark car. Hopeful, you picked it up. 

‘Oh,’ you thought. ‘Just Sam.’

“Hello?” you said into the phone.

“(Y/N), hey, it’s good to hear your voice,” Sam replied.

“Good to hear yours, too,” you said, a little sadness in your tone. “Is— Is Dean around?”

“Nah. He’s, uh…” Sam trailed off, sighing.

“Polling the electorate?” you questioned, hoping Sam would understand your reference. 

“Yeah,” Sam laughed sadly. “I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

You sighed, ready to change the subject. “It’s okay. What’s goin’ on? Why’d you call?”

“What, I couldn’t’ve just wanted to talk to you?”

“You would’ve called before if that was the case,” you replied a little flippantly. 

“Fine, you got me,” Sam chuckled. “Was wondering if you’d found anything.”

“Besides an unreal level of frustration? No.”

“Yeah. Same here.” 

You clicked on your turning signal and sighed. “Honestly, dude? I don’t think we’re gonna find the answer in any book.”

“You’re probably right,” Sam acknowledged. “Doesn’t hurt to look, though.”

“I have looked, Sam. And there’s nothing,” you responded, getting a little snippy with him. “I’m sorry. I’m just—” you quickly apologized.

“I get it. Me, too.”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam replied quietly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You understood the warning in his tone and knew he somehow figured out your next stop would be summoning every crossroads demon you could possibly find and hunting others down for answers. “Can’t make any promises, Sammy. Love you, bye.”

You snapped the phone shut and huffed. As badly as you wanted to continue your pursuit of these sons of bitches, you knew you’d be getting nowhere on the hour and a half of sleep you’d cumulatively been getting over the past five days. 

***

The next morning, only feeling slightly refreshed from the three hours of sleep you’d gotten, you headed out into the early morning sun to find yourself a demon. 

The previous evening, you’d found a bizarre story in the newspaper about a man who’d died under mysterious circumstances after picking up a hooker on the day after those demons were released from Hell in your fight with the yellow-eyed demon. There had also been a cicada swarm around the motel the man had died in; a traditional demonic omen.

The coroner’s report indicated the man had been tied to the bed and found without his genitals, blood soaking every inch of the room. They concluded the man had bled to death. What made the case more disturbing and interesting was the fact that there was a deep bruise around his neck in the shape of two small, delicate hands. 

Curious, you headed to Lincoln, Nebraska to interview the wife of the man who’d passed.

“Hi, I’m with the FBI—” you flashed your fake badge at the woman as you spoke— “and I just have a few questions for you regarding your husband’s death?”

“I don’t understand,” she said, beginning to tear up. “I already answered these questions for the police.”

“Yes, ma’am, I just have to do a follow-up of my own. A cross-examination of sorts.”

She nodded and stepped back from the door, allowing you into her home. She gestured for you to sit on the couch across from the chair she settled into. 

“So, what would you like to know?” she asked. 

“What was your husband like?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Why is that important? I mean, I’m not even sure I really knew him. Married to that cheating bastard for fifteen years, and he does this to me.”

“What do you mean by ‘you’re not sure you knew him’?” you pressed.

“I mean,” she sniffed, “I just never would’ve thought he’d cheat on me. With a whore, no less.”

You cringed at the implication of sex workers being “whores” but kept your mouth shut anyway. 

“I mean, in all the time we were together, I was the only girl he ever looked at,” she explained. “He never drank, never went out— hell, he felt guilty about watching porn! I just… I can’t understand why he’d do this to me.” Her sobs wracked her body, and she put her face in her hands. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grishop. I just have one more question for you.”

She looked back up at you expectantly, still hiccuping from her cries.

“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who may possibly want to hurt him?”

She shook her head. “No. Before… all this… he really was the nicest man I ever knew.”

***

Following leaving the woman’s house, you decided to head out to lunch to gather your thoughts. In the midst of writing them all down in your journal and munching on a fry, a story on the news caught your attention. 

“Second Victim of Possible Serial Killer Found,” read the headline at the bottom of the screen.

“Walter Morrisson, age forty-nine, was found dead in a Super 8 motel just off I-6 around eleven A.M. this morning. Authorities were called to the scene when the housekeeper found the body after assuming the man had already checked out."

‘Oh, fuck,’ you thought. You tuned the rest of the broadcast out as your mind raced; whatever this thing was, it was just getting started.

You left a twenty dollar bill on the table to cover your meal and tip and quickly left the diner. You sped down to the Super 8 to begin investigating. 

Upon entering the lobby, you noticed a scraggly young man sitting behind the desk. The room was completely empty aside from him.

“Hi,” you grinned. “My name’s Christine McVie; I’m with the FBI.” You flashed your badge. “You mind letting me have a look at your security tapes?”

He nodded nervously, eyes flickering from your chest and back up to your face. He allowed you behind the desk to examine the security tapes from the previous night, and you clicked over to the camera just outside of the victim’s motel room. A gorgeous blonde woman escorted the man into the room, and she looked at the camera for just a split second. Had you not been paying close attention, you would’ve missed it completely: her eyes were black.

Immediately, you had the man working the front desk make you a copy of the tape and brought it back to your motel room. You then uploaded it to your laptop and began scanning FBI and police databases you’d hacked into to find the woman’s identity. After about thirty minutes, you found a match.

“Jennifer Lane, 28, Missing from Miami, Florida,” the information on your screen read. 

‘Holy shit,’ you thought. ‘She went missing the same night I killed Yellow Eyes.’ Looking at the picture of Jennifer linked to the article you found confirmed the fact that this was your mystery demon. You felt awful for that poor girl trapped underneath and had no doubt she was going through a world of pain; a slave to her own mind.

“Housekeeping,” a sultry voice suddenly called from outside your door.

Unsettled, you drew your gun and pressed it to the door and looked through the peephole. You were met with the smiling face of the girl you had just been reading about, and the door abruptly slammed open and threw you back into your room. Two men with black eyes came into the room as well and grabbed under each of your arms before you even had a second to adjust. 

You fought them as best you could which quickly proved futile. 

“Don’t worry, angel,” the beautiful blonde cooed, “we’re not gonna hurt you.” She grinned wickedly and pulled your bottom lip down with her thumb. “Yet.”

The men holding you laughed as you continued to struggle, frantically flailing your limbs to shake them off. 

“What’s the rush?” the demon asked you, roughly grabbing the sides of your face. “Y’know, you give a girl all kinds of nasty ideas.” Her lips ghosted over yours, and you suddenly found yourself unable to resist leaning forward slightly to kiss her. She kissed you deeply and furiously, causing you to stop fighting the two demons holding either side of you. You could feel them pulling your arms behind your back and tying them together, as well as your legs, but you could do nothing to fight off the woman before you. 

When you’d been bound, the demons dragged you out to a car and threw you in the trunk of it. Trying not to panic, you tried to keep track of how long they were driving for and how many rights and lefts they’d been taking. However, after the second hour of driving, it was all becoming a bit much to keep track of. 

Suddenly, the car came to a stop. You tried to prepare for whatever was ahead of you mentally and cried out when a demon roughly grabbed your hair. He hauled you out of the trunk and unceremoniously tossed you over his shoulder. You kicked and fought as best as you could, screaming, “Let me go!” You kicked the man’s stomach with all your might. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

“(Y/N)!” you heard an all-too familiar voice yell. Your stomach dropped at the sound of Dean’s voice, unwilling to face him after your confession and having not spoken for a week. 

“Let go of me, you fucking asshole!” You wriggled even harder now and were suddenly aware that the man carrying you stopped moving. He roughly tore you off his shoulder and stood you on your shaky legs in front of the steps up to a house. You came face to face with Dean being held back from crossing the line of salt blocking the doorway by Bobby and Sam. 

Afraid your voice would fail if you spoke, you said nothing but held Dean’s gaze.

“We come with a peace offering,” the gorgeous blonde who’d kidnapped you purred, dragging her nail harshly down your jawline and breaking the skin along it. You hissed in pain and could see Dean fight against Bobby out of the corner of your eye. “You give him back to us, and we’ll give her to you.”

“Nice try,” Sam replied. “How do we even know that’s (Y/N)? How do we know she’s not possessed?”

“You don’t." The woman gripped your chin. “But trust me, you don’t wanna see what happens if you leave me with her for much longer.”

And then, all hell broke loose. Someone— you were pretty sure you knew who— charged the demons holding you hostage and you heard Bobby yell, “Salt’s broken!” as the demon holding you up dropped you to the floor. About ten demons ran past you into the house, and you were left trying to get out of the binds you were held in. You were growing more and more frustrated by the second until someone came up from behind you.

“Need a little help?” a gorgeous blonde asked, smirking down at you. 

“Who the hell are you?” you asked. “Get away from me!”

“Baby, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve already.” The woman pushed you upright into a sitting position and cut through the ropes binding your hands. 

Confused and startled, you watched the woman walk up to the house. “You’re welcome,” she remarked over her shoulder. 

“Thank you,” you replied, still confused. You shook your head to snap yourself alert and stood. You were completely unsure of what to do now; you desperately wanted to help your friends, but you were scared of facing Dean and had no weapons. Alone outside of a house you didn’t recognize deep in the woods, you decided to hotwire the car the demons brought you there in. 

By some miracle, you managed to find the interstate and, eventually, your motel. When you’d showered, changed, and dressed the deep bruises and brush burns on your wrists from the rope the demons had used on you, you wrapped your arms around your stomach and laid on your side in bed.

You didn’t get much sleep that night, though; you were too busy stifling tears while your mind ran wild with possible scenarios that could’ve happened after you abandoned the boys. You felt horribly guilty already.

Your guilt was made even worse when Bobby called you around five in the morning.

“What the hell was that?” he scolded through the phone.

You grimaced. “Bobby—”

“No, (Y/N). You don’t abandon family like that,” he raged.

“I didn’t have any weapons! And since when do I have a family?!”

“Since the day I found you in the woods holding your guts in your goddamn hands!” he roared, and your guilt immediately sank deeper. 

“Bobby, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, kid. It’s Sam and Dean I’d worry about,” he replied, voice softening slightly— or, as much as Bobby’s voice could, anyway.

“What? Why?”

“You left again. Without saying goodbye. Or making sure that they were okay. Dean’s pissed; Sam’s just hurt.”

‘Ouch,’ you thought. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t wanna be in the way, and I didn’t have any weapons, and when I saw that girl going to help you, I figured it was better if I just left—”

“So you saw her, too?” Bobby questioned.

“Of course, I saw her. Why wouldn’t I have seen her?” you replied.

“ ‘Cause Sam said she disappeared. And the knife she had killed three demons,” Bobby explained.

“What?! What the hell kind of knife can kill demons?” you exclaimed.

“Ask me yesterday, and I would’ve said there’s no such thing,” he said. “I thought Sam mighta been losin’ his mind, but since you saw her, too...” Bobby trailed off. “Look, I think you should give ‘em a call. Just let ‘em know you’re all right. And apologize.” The last part of Bobby’s statement sounded more like an order.

“I’ll call Sam,” you replied after a moment.

“No, (Y/N), Dean, too. You two need to sort out whatever the hell’s wrong with you,” Bobby asserted. 

You went quiet for a moment. 

“And call me when you get wherever you’re goin’,” he finished, “so I know you’re okay.”

The line cut out, and you smiled sadly. You felt absolutely horrible for leaving the way that you did, and you knew the right thing to do would be to call Sam and Dean; separately. You knew you had to face up to Dean at some point, but it just didn’t seem like the right time. But, Christ, did you miss him. You wanted him to apologize for not calling, you wanted to apologize for leaving— there were so many things you’d say to him. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up the phone. 

You got up from your bed and crossed in front of the blackened television, jumping at the sight of your reflection. It was your guard uniform once more, scrapes up the left side of your arm and face, hair a complete mess, and buttons on your shirt buttoned haphazardly. You tried to steady yourself and take a breath. 

You hated trying to deal with this alone. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. You felt you couldn’t control the world around you like you used to feel before the prison case. It felt like things would never be okay, and you were never going to feel at home in yourself again. You didn’t like feeling helpless or like you needed anyone, but you truly needed your friends. Your pride fought your rational mind valiantly, telling you that you shouldn’t call because you can handle this alone. You shouldn’t call because you’ve never needed anyone before; why would you now? And yet, there was another part of you saying that you’ve always needed someone, this was just the first time you actually had someone. 

***

The day after leaving Lincoln, Nebraska, you began driving aimlessly again. You almost cried when you turned on the engine and rock music didn’t immediately start blaring from the speakers. The seats of the car felt uncomfortable and made you miss the polished leather of the Impala’s. You loved driving, but it didn’t feel right without Dean and Sam in the front seat ahead of you. 

Sam would often joke that he and his brother were your babysitters due to your designated seating positions in the car, and Dean would often say he wished he had “that sliding window thing—” “partition,” “thank you, Sam,” so he didn’t have to hear you chirping from the backseat. 

 None of the radio stations could rival the comforting background noise that was Dean’s cassette tape collection. You felt cramped without your seat to spread out across. The thing that made you call Sam, though, was the moment you slammed on the brakes and the book Sam read to you about Egypt while you had your concussion flew out of your duffel bag on the seat next to you. Tears swam in your eyes at the sight, and you finally gave in. 

“What, (Y/N)?” Sam annoyedly answered the phone. 

‘Jesus. Harsh,’ you thought. “I, uh. I just wanted to call and say that I’m sorry,” you began. “For leaving. Both times. And… just wanted to tell you that I hope you’re okay.”

You could practically hear the aggravation leaving Sam’s body as you spoke. One of your favorite things about your friend was how forgiving of a person he was. 

“I appreciate that,” Sam replied. He paused for a minute. “Why’d you do it, man?”

“I didn’t have any weapons. I saw the blonde chick go in to help you after she cut me loose, so I figured, I’d be doing more harm than good by staying—”

“No. The first time,” Sam cut you off.

“Dean didn’t tell you?” you asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought you knew this whole time.”

“(Y/N), since when does Dean tell me anything. I mean, it literally took me nearly beating it out of him for him to tell me that if the deal’s broken, I die—”

“What?!” you exclaimed, furious. “Since when? Why the fuck would he make that deal?!” 

“I said the same thing,” Sam replied calmly. 

“He’s so fucking selfish!”

“I completely agree.”

“He doesn’t get to be mad at me for leaving when I literally told him I love him, and he’s gonna fucking leave me in a year because of some stupid demon deal!” you continued to yell, not realizing what you’d admitted to Sam.

He was taken aback. “Whoa, you what?” 

You suddenly processed what you’d said. “Yeah. I did.”

“Jesus,” Sam sighed. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N/N).”

“It’s fine,” you replied, suddenly feeling like you were too vulnerable. “I’m just pissed.”

The younger brother paused for a moment. “Will you at least talk to him? Try to work things out?”

“Not a chance in hell,” you scoffed. “I don’t want things to work out. I don’t wanna watch him die in a year, Sammy.” Your voice quivered.

He paused again. “I get it. I wouldn’t want to either if I were you.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“Me, too,” he replied. “Will you at least call every once in a while?”

Your chest ached at the realization that you may not be hunting with the brothers again for quite some time. “Absolutely.”

You could’ve sworn you heard him sniffle on the other end of the line. “Bye, (Y/N).”

“Till next time, Sammy.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[neonio99]

Some people in the Loud House fandom don't seem to understand that Lincoln is actually way more forgiving than they always make him out to be. Every time I see em goin' off talkin bout "the sisters need to apologize to Lincoln for being mean to him!" I just kinda chuckle at this point because it's way more likely that Lincoln has already forgiven them.

Season 4's Game Off is the perfect example of this, and one of the main reasons I think S4 is so underappreciated. Yes, Lincoln is UPSET that Lana messed up his save file, but he doesn't hold it against her for months on end like those people think he would. He's mature enough to forgive his sisters for their mistakes just like they've always done for him.

[wassupmygays]

HE SOUNDS SO GOOOOOOOD BRO

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our new dally making a pit stop in st Petersburg before goin to tulsa :]

Alex Joseph Grayson as Dimitri for the Anastasia: In Concert at the Lincoln Center

[teddiee]

Nothing But Gravity: Chapter 5

Summary:

"Where ya goin', slugger?" Dugan shouted over the music. "Party's just gettin' good! Barton’s about to do a keg stand that'll either make him a legend or kill him. My money's on both!"

Bucky shook his head, holding up his phone. "Gotta check on somethin'," he called back. "Rain check on Barton’s death by alcohol poisoning."

Dugan squinted at him, momentary confusion giving way to understanding as his gaze flicked to the phone. "Stark?" he asked, surprisingly perceptive for a man who had likely consumed his body weight in beer. When Bucky nodded, Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your boy, Barnes. I'll pour one out for your abandoned hookup."

Words: 10,282

"And this one has a dishwasher," the landlady announced, as if revealing a priceless artifact. Her voice echoed in the barren kitchen, bouncing off laminate countertops that had seen better days—possibly during the Cold War. "Very rare for student housing in this area."

Bucky watched Tony circle the small apartment like a cautious cat in unfamiliar territory. His large eyes tracked every detail, from the scuffed baseboards to the suspicious water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled Abraham Lincoln if you squinted. In the three hours they'd been apartment hunting, Tony's enthusiasm had waned with each new disappointment, his shoulders gradually curving inward, his steps growing heavier.

"The dishwasher's nice," Bucky offered, trying to inject some optimism into the stale air.

Tony nodded absently, tapping his knuckles against the counter in that distracted rhythm Bucky had come to recognize as his analytical mode. "It's... functional," he agreed without conviction.

The landlady beamed as if they'd just proclaimed it the Taj Mahal. "And the bedrooms are very spacious!" She bustled down the narrow hallway, floral skirt swishing around sensible shoes. "Come, come!"

Bucky caught Tony's eye and mouthed "very spacious" with exaggerated air quotes. The corner of Tony's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Bucky counted it as a victory.

"After you, Trouble," Bucky murmured, gesturing for Tony to go ahead.

Tony's footsteps dragged slightly as he followed the landlady, each step more reluctant than the last. Bucky recognized the signs: the stiffening shoulders, the tightening around those expressive eyes. Tony was retreating—not physically, but emotionally, building those invisible walls brick by careful brick.

"As you can see," the landlady continued, swinging open a door to reveal a room that could generously be described as a closet with ambitions, "plenty of space for a bed and desk!"

Tony stepped inside, his slim frame making the room look momentarily more spacious until Bucky joined him. Their shoulders brushed in the confined space, and Tony shifted automatically, creating that careful gap he always maintained. The movement was so subtle anyone else might have missed it, but Bucky had cataloged every one of Tony's unconscious boundaries, memorized the exact measurement of distance Tony needed to feel secure.

"It's..." Tony started, clearly searching for something positive to say.

"Tiny," Bucky finished for him. "Ma'am, I'm pretty sure my left shoe wouldn't fit in here, let alone a desk."

The landlady's smile never faltered. "Cozy," she corrected cheerfully. "Students these days appreciate minimalism."

"There's minimalism and then there's bein' able to high-five your roommate from your bed without gettin' up," Bucky drawled, his Brooklyn accent thickening with his exasperation.

That earned him a genuine snort from Tony, who quickly covered his mouth as if surprised by his own amusement.

"Well," the landlady sniffed, "the rent is very competitive for this neighborhood."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Competitive with what? County jail cells?"

"Buck," Tony murmured, but there was a glint of something like gratitude in his eyes.

Bucky shrugged unapologetically. This was the fourth apartment they'd viewed today, and each had been more depressing than the last—a parade of overpriced shoeboxes with mysterious stains and neighbors who sounded, based on the paper-thin walls, like they were either hosting nightly wrestling matches or extremely enthusiastic furniture rearrangement sessions.

The landlady's smile had turned decidedly frosty. "I have three other students interested in this unit," she said, clutching her clipboard like a shield. "It won't last long."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Bucky asked innocently.

Tony elbowed him, but not before Bucky caught the smile he was fighting to suppress. Bucky grabbed his arm, gave it a quick squeeze, then let go.

"We appreciate your time," Tony said diplomatically, in that carefully modulated voice he used when smoothing over Bucky's bluntness. "We'll, um, discuss it and let you know."

The landlady nodded curtly and led them back through the apartment, pointing out features with significantly less enthusiasm—a light switch that "sometimes works," a closet that "provides extra character," and a bathroom where the shower and toilet had apparently reached some sort of territorial agreement that left no room for actual humans.

Outside on the sidewalk, the spring afternoon greeted them with a gust of wind that ruffled Tony's already disheveled curls. Bucky fought the urge to reach out and smooth them, to bridge that unspoken boundary between them. Instead, he shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and rocked back on his heels.

"Well, that was..."

"Terrible," Tony finished, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. "Absolutely terrible."

"Catastrophic," Bucky agreed, falling into step beside Tony as they headed down the street. "I'm pretty sure I saw somethin' living behind the fridge. And not in a cute Stuart Little kinda way."

Tony's laugh was brief but genuine, a sound that still felt like a rare gift every time Bucky coaxed it out of him.

"You didn't have to be so blunt with her," Tony said, but there was no reproach in his voice—just that mixture of exasperation and fondness that Bucky had come to crave like air.

"Someone had to say it," Bucky shrugged. "That wasn't an apartment; it was a storage closet with delusions of grandeur."

Tony shook his head, but his posture had loosened slightly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "One more to see today, right?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, as if bracing himself for another disappointment.

"Yeah, over on Elm Street." Bucky pulled out his phone to check the address. "Hope it's not as much of a nightmare as the name suggests."

The pun landed, and Tony's eyes crinkled slightly. "That was terrible."

"You're smiling, though."

"I'm grimacing in pain."

"Potato, po-tah-to."

They walked in companionable silence for a block, weaving through the busy sidewalk traffic. Bucky noticed how Tony unconsciously stepped closer to him whenever a stranger passed too near, then resumed that careful distance once the perceived threat was gone. Like a gravitational dance—pull and retreat, draw and withdraw.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky asked finally, keeping his tone deliberately casual. "We can call it a day if you want. Hit the reset button tomorrow."

Tony's fingers were working at the frayed edge of his sleeve, a nervous tell that Bucky had learned to read like a weather vane. "No, I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just... apartment hunting is more exhausting than I expected."

Bucky nodded, not pushing. "Yeah, feels like we're on some kinda twisted reality show. 'How Much Will Desperate College Students Pay for a Glorified Cardboard Box?'"

Tony's mouth quirked upward. "The twist is that they all have mysterious stains."

"And neighbors who either play drums or practice martial arts at 2 AM."

"Sometimes both."

"Simultaneously."

Tony's shoulders relaxed another fraction, his steps aligning more naturally with Bucky's. The gap between them narrowed without either acknowledging it—a subtle shift, like continents drifting imperceptibly closer.

Bucky snuck a sideways glance at Tony's profile, catching the way the afternoon sun illuminated the fine structure of his face—the straight nose, the sweep of dark lashes, the slight furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared. His gaze lingered on the curve of Tony's jaw, the way it angled into the soft hollow of his throat where his pulse fluttered visibly when he was anxious.

God, he was beautiful. Sure, in the conventional, obvious way that could turn heads at parties, but also in a quiet, unassuming manner that revealed itself in layers. Like a complex equation that required patience to solve. The realization hit Bucky with renewed force every time he looked at Tony, a punch to the solar plexus that somehow never lost its impact.

"What is it?" Tony asked suddenly, catching Bucky's stare. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied easily, looking away before Tony could read the truth in his eyes.

"About?"

"How much fun it's gonna be to watch you attempt DIY repairs when somethin' inevitably breaks in whatever death trap we end up rentin'."

Tony snorted. "Me? You're the one who needed a YouTube tutorial to change a light bulb last week."

"I didn't need the tutorial," Bucky protested. "I was just... double-checkin' my technique."

"Right," Tony deadpanned. "That's why you stood on a swivel chair and nearly concussed yourself on the ceiling fan."

"The chair was stable until you walked in and distracted me!"

"By existing? I literally just opened the door."

"Exactly. Very distractin'." Bucky bumped his shoulder playfully against Tony's, and for once, Tony didn't immediately reestablish the gap between them.

They turned onto Elm Street, the conversation shifting to safer topics—finals, Steve's latest disaster in the kitchen (involving pasta and what might have been an attempt at homemade pesto that more closely resembled radioactive sludge), and Tony's latest project for his engineering class. Bucky listened attentively, relishing the animation that crept into Tony's voice whenever he discussed his work, the subtle transformation from guarded to enthusiastic that still felt like a privilege to witness.

As they approached the address for the last apartment viewing, Bucky felt Tony's steps falter again. He glanced over to find Tony chewing at his bottom lip, that familiar furrow deepening between his brows.

"Hey," Bucky said gently, stopping on the sidewalk. "We don't have to do this today. Or at all, if you're changin' your mind about—"

"No," Tony interrupted, too quickly. He swallowed, his fingers working at the sleeve of his jacket. "No, it's not that. I just—" He broke off, struggling visibly with whatever he wanted to say.

Bucky waited patiently, giving Tony the space he needed to find his words, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the tension from his expression.

"Are you sure about this?" Tony finally asked, his voice so quiet Bucky had to lean in slightly to hear him. "About... living together? With me?" The question hung between them, fragile and weighted.

Ah. There it was—the real issue that had been shadowing Tony's steps all day.

"Tony," Bucky began carefully, "If you don't want to—"

"It's not that," Tony cut in, eyes darting away. "It's just... I'm not exactly easy to live with. I keep weird hours. I talk to myself. I don't always sleep well, and... I get nightmares sometimes. I get so caught up in projects I forget to eat or sleep for days." His words tumbled out in a rush, as if he'd been rehearsing this speech. "And I'm... you know..." He gestured vaguely, a hand fluttering near the nape of his neck where his omega marking lay hidden beneath dark curls.

Bucky's chest tightened. "Tony, I don't care about—"

"You should," Tony insisted, finally meeting Bucky's gaze with unexpected intensity. "People will talk. They'll assume things. About us. About you." He swallowed hard. "You have a reputation, Buck. I don't want to mess that up."

The conviction in Tony's voice—the genuine concern—hit Bucky like a physical blow. He could barely process what he was hearing: Tony wasn't worried about himself; he was worried about Bucky's reputation. The absurdity of it would have been funny if it weren't so heartbreaking.

"Tony," Bucky said firmly, taking a step closer, deliberately narrowing the space between them. "First of all, my reputation could use a little messin' up. And second—" He held Tony's gaze steadily. "I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. I want to live with you because you're my friend. Because we get along. Because I like hangin' out with you. It's that simple."

Tony studied him with that penetrating gaze that always made Bucky feel simultaneously seen and exposed. "Is it, though?" he asked softly.

The question hung between them, layered with meanings neither was ready to articulate. Bucky's heart hammered against his ribs, a steady drumbeat of panic and possibility.

"Yeah," he said finally, forcing a casual shrug he didn't feel. "It is. Unless... you've got another reason why it shouldn't be?"

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes, before looking away. "No," he murmured. "No other reason."

The tension eased slightly, though something unspoken still lingered in the air between them—a question partially asked, partially answered, mostly avoided.

"Good," Bucky said, perhaps too brightly. "Then let's go check out this last place before we both die of old age on this sidewalk. Who knows, maybe this one will have actual walls instead of construction tarp."

Tony's lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Walls would be nice," he agreed. "A functional bathroom would be even better."

"Whoa there, Stark," Bucky placed a hand over his heart in mock shock. "Let's not get greedy. Next you'll be askin' for floors that don't slant thirty degrees."

The joke landed, cracking through some of the lingering tension. Tony's shoulders relaxed incrementally as they approached the final apartment building of the day—a modest three-story brownstone that, from the outside at least, appeared to have all its structural components intact.

"This one almost looks... decent," Tony observed cautiously, as if afraid to jinx it.

Bucky nodded, equally skeptical after their day of disappointments. "Don't get your hopes up. Remember that place on Fourth that looked normal from the outside but had that weird shrine to Nicolas Cage in the hall closet?"

"I'm still not convinced that wasn't some elaborate prank you set up."

"I wish I were that creative," Bucky chuckled. "No one dedicates that kinda time to cuttin' out hundreds of magazine photos unless they're genuinely obsessed."

They climbed the steps to the building, Bucky automatically positioning himself slightly ahead of Tony in that protective stance he'd adopted without conscious thought. At the door, they were greeted not by another overly enthusiastic property manager, but by an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that bore the calluses of someone who did his own repairs.

"Barnes and Stark?" he asked briskly, extending a hand. "Everett Ross. I own the building."

They shook hands, and Bucky noticed how Tony's grip was quick and light, minimizing contact, while his own remained firm—the contrast between them outlined in even this small interaction.

"Third floor unit," Ross explained as he led them inside. "No elevator, I'm afraid, but the stairs keep you in shape." He climbed the steps with the easy confidence of someone who made this trek daily, pointing out features as they went. "Building's from the 1940s, but I've updated all the electrical. Plumbing's new as of last year. Heat's reliable, though it can get a bit warm in summer."

The stairwell was clean and well-lit, with none of the mysterious odors that had permeated the other buildings they'd toured. Bucky caught Tony's eye as they climbed, raising his eyebrows slightly in cautious optimism.

When Ross unlocked the door to the apartment, Bucky braced himself for another disappointment, but was met instead with a surprisingly pleasant space flooded with natural light from windows that actually opened. The living room was modest but functional, with worn hardwood floors that creaked welcomingly underfoot.

"Kitchen's through here," Ross continued, leading them through an archway. "Nothing fancy, but everything works. Fridge is newer, stove's older but reliable."

Bucky watched Tony's expression carefully, noting the subtle shift from guarded skepticism to cautious interest. His eyes darted around the space, cataloging details with that keen analytical gaze. He ran a finger along the countertop, tested the kitchen faucet, opened and closed a cabinet door.

"Two bedrooms," Ross continued, gesturing down a short hallway. "Bathroom's between them. Got a decent-sized closet in each room. Windows face east, so you get good morning light."

They toured the bedrooms—actually large enough to fit more than a twin bed—and the bathroom, which featured the miraculous combination of both a functional shower and enough floor space to turn around without contorting like a gymnast.

Throughout the tour, Bucky kept stealing glances at Tony, watching the gradual transformation in his demeanor. With each room that failed to reveal a deal-breaking flaw, his posture opened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing by increments.

When they'd seen the entire apartment, Ross left them alone to discuss, saying he'd be downstairs when they made a decision.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bucky turned to Tony, trying to temper his own enthusiasm. "So... thoughts?"

Tony circled the living room slowly, his fingers trailing along the windowsill. "It's... nice," he admitted, the word carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested. "Really nice, actually."

"The bedrooms are actually big enough for human habitation," Bucky observed. "And I didn't see a single mysterious stain."

"The kitchen has counter space," Tony added, warming to the subject. "And cabinets that close properly."

"Bathroom doesn't look like a crime scene."

"Windows that aren't painted shut."

They circled each other in the empty living room, cataloging positives with growing animation, the caution of the day slowly dissolving into genuine excitement.

"So," Bucky said finally, coming to a stop near the center of the room. "Is this it, then? We found our not-so-terrible apartment?"

Something flickered across Tony's face—hesitation, disbelief, something deeper Bucky couldn't quite name. "You really want to do this?" he asked again, voice soft. "Live together?"

Bucky took a careful step forward, entering that invisible boundary Tony maintained, close enough now that he could see the flecks of amber in Tony's dark eyes. "Yeah, Trouble," he said, his voice steady despite the riot in his chest. "I really do."

Tony held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something—doubt, perhaps, or deception. Finding neither, his expression softened into something so vulnerable and hopeful that Bucky's heart clenched painfully in his chest.

"Okay," Tony said finally, the word barely above a whisper. "Let's do it."

The smile that broke across Bucky's face felt too big for his skin to contain. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tony nodded, his own smile tentative but genuine. "But I get first dibs on bedroom choice."

"What? No way," Bucky protested, relief and joy bubbling up in his chest. "I'm the one who found this place!"

"I'm the one who has to put up with your snoring," Tony countered, his smile growing more confident.

"I don't snore! Steve's a liar."

"I've literally heard you during movie nights. It's like someone chainsawing concrete."

"That's just... contemplative breathing."

Tony's laugh—spontaneous and unguarded—echoed in the empty apartment, filling the space with warmth that felt like promises. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his entire face transforming with genuine joy, and Bucky was struck again by how beautiful he was when he let his guard down, when the careful mask slipped to reveal the person underneath.

In that moment, standing in the dusty sunlight of what would soon be their shared home, Bucky knew with bone-deep certainty that he was in serious trouble. What had started as curiosity, then friendship, had evolved into something he hadn't been looking for—something deeper, more terrifying, more exhilarating than he was prepared to name.

But as Tony moved toward the window, animated now as he described where they could put a couch, how they could arrange the furniture, Bucky knew he wouldn't change a thing. Whatever was growing between them—this delicate, unnamed thing—was worth every risk.

"You're staring again," Tony observed, turning back to catch Bucky's gaze.

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied, the same excuse he always used.

"About?"

Bucky grinned, shoving his complicated feelings back into their box for another day. "About how I'm definitely gettin' the bigger bedroom."

"In your dreams, Barnes," Tony shot back, already heading down the hall with determined strides.

"Hey, no fair!" Bucky called, chasing after him. "Bedroom selection requires a democratic process!"

Their laughter echoed through the apartment—their apartment—bright and hopeful as the spring sunlight streaming through the windows. And if Bucky's heart raced from more than just their playful competition, well, that was a problem for another day.

"I still think the blue one looked better," Steve said, leaning against the doorframe of Bucky's bedroom with his arms crossed.

Bucky glared at him from where he stood in front of his closet mirror, holding two nearly identical flannel shirts. "They're both blue, you fuckin' colorblind disaster."

"The one in your right hand is more... navy," Steve clarified, unhelpfully. "The left one brings out your eyes."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered, tossing both shirts onto his already cluttered bed. "It's just dinner. With a roommate. To celebrate signing a lease. Not the goddamn prom."

Steve's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Uh-huh. That's why you've changed shirts four times in twenty minutes."

Bucky flipped him off, turning back to his closet with a scowl. "Don't you have some puppies to save or old ladies to help cross the street? Your boy scout energy is cramping my style."

"My style is immaculate," Steve replied, unruffled. "And deflection doesn't work on me, Buck. I've known you too long."

Bucky groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, crushing both flannel shirts beneath him. "I hate it when you get all perceptive. What happened to the Steve Rogers who walked into a telephone pole because he was staring at Peggy Carter's legs?"

"He evolved, unfortunately for you," Steve said, pushing off the doorframe to enter the room fully. He picked up the navy flannel. "This one. And stop overthinking it. Tony's seen you in yesterday's clothes after all-night study sessions and that Mets sweatshirt you insist on keeping with all the old ketchup stains. If he's still willing to live with you after that disaster, a mismatched button-down isn't going to make or break tonight."

Bucky sat up, grabbing the offered shirt. "It's not... I just want tonight to be good, y'know? We signed the lease today. It's official. We're actually gonna be roommates."

There was a vulnerability in Bucky's voice that made Steve's expression soften. "I know," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And it will be good. You guys just need to keep doing what you've been doing. Talking. Hanging out. Being... whatever you are."

"Friends," Bucky supplied automatically, though the word felt insufficient, like trying to define a hurricane as 'windy.'

Steve's look was knowing but mercifully, he didn't push. "Right. Friends. Just be yourself, Buck. That's what got him to agree to live with you in the first place, God knows why."

Bucky snorted, punching Steve's shoulder lightly. "Thanks for the pep talk, Coach."

"Anytime," Steve replied, standing. "Now hurry up. You're already late, and I'm not covering for you again."

Bucky glanced at his phone, swearing when he saw the time. He scrambled up, shrugging into the navy flannel and hastily buttoning it. "Shit. Tony's probably already at the restaurant."

"Probably," Steve agreed, unhelpfully. He paused at the door, his expression growing more serious. "Hey, Buck?"

"What?" Bucky asked, distracted as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look artfully tousled rather than just messy.

"I'm happy for you," Steve said simply. "Tony seems good for you. Different, but good."

Something warm unfurled in Bucky's chest. He met Steve's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "Thanks, Stevie."

Steve nodded, then lightened his tone. "Now go. Before your roommate-to-be thinks you've stood him up."

Bucky grinned, grabbing his wallet and keys. "Yes, sir. Captain, sir."

Steve's exasperated eye roll followed him out the door.

The restaurant wasn't fancy by any conventional standard—just a cozy Italian place a few blocks from campus that was known more for its generous portions than its ambiance. But it was a step up from their usual diner or basement movie nights, with actual tablecloths and soft lighting that bathed everything in a warm glow.

Tony was already there, sitting at a corner table, his fingers restlessly tapping the edge of his water glass. He wore a dark button-down shirt that Bucky had never seen before, his usual messy curls slightly tamed, as if he'd made an effort to comb them. The sight made Bucky's heart do a complicated little flip in his chest.

"Sorry I'm late," Bucky said, sliding into the seat across from Tony. "Steve was bein' a pain in the ass about my shirt."

Tony looked up, his tense expression relaxing into something warmer. "It's a nice shirt," he offered, then immediately looked like he regretted the words, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Bucky grinned, ridiculously pleased. "Thanks. You look... different." He winced at his own awkwardness. "Good different. Not sweatshirt different."

Jesus, Barnes, he thought. Real smooth.

But Tony just smiled, small and genuine. "I do own actual clothes," he said. "Occasionally."

"Well, color me impressed," Bucky replied, settling into the familiar rhythm of their banter. "And here I thought you just had a closet full of identical hoodies, like a cartoon character."

Tony's lips twitched. "That's my weekday wardrobe. This is my fancy going-out shirt."

"Special occasion?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the table, fingers resuming their rhythm against the glass. "We signed a lease today," he said quietly. "Seemed... significant."

The simple admission hit Bucky square in the chest, leaving him momentarily speechless. Tony had dressed up for this. For him. Because he thought it mattered.

Before Bucky could formulate a response that wouldn't expose the riot of emotions swirling inside him, the waiter appeared, saving him from potential embarrassment.

They ordered—Bucky going for the lasagna, Tony for linguine with clam sauce—and fell into a discussion about the apartment they'd finally settled on after viewing what felt like half the rental properties in the college town.

"I still can't believe the view," Tony said, tearing a piece of garlic bread into smaller pieces. "Actual trees. Not a parking lot or the back of another building."

"And no suspicious stains," Bucky added, grinning. "Though I'm still not convinced that shower drain isn't haunted."

Tony laughed, the sound warming Bucky from the inside out. "I'm an engineer, not an exorcist. But I'll see what I can do."

"My hero," Bucky said, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Savin' me from the ghost of drain hair past."

They talked easily through dinner, discussing furniture needs (minimal, as Tony owned practically nothing and Bucky's possessions consisted largely of sports equipment and clothes), move-in logistics, and whether the kitchen was big enough for Bucky's ambitious but largely unsuccessful culinary experiments.

"I'm just sayin'," Bucky argued around a mouthful of lasagna, "my mac and cheese is legendary."

"Is that why Steve looked traumatized when you suggested cooking dinner tonight?" Tony asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky scoffed. "Steve has no appreciation for culinary innovation."

"Adding Hot Cheetos to boxed mac and cheese isn't 'innovation,' Buck. It's a cry for help."

The casual use of his nickname—something Tony had only recently started doing—sent a pleasant shiver down Bucky's spine. "You wound me, Stark. And here I was, plannin' a Welcome Home feast for move-in day."

Tony's expression softened at the mention of "home," something fragile and hopeful flickering in his eyes. "I'd eat it," he said quietly. "Even with Hot Cheetos."

The simple declaration shouldn't have made Bucky's heart race, but it did. He cleared his throat, suddenly needing to shift the conversation to safer ground. "So, uh, Dugan's been beggin' to meet you. Him and the rest of the guys. They wanna know who's crazy enough to willingly share living space with me."

Tony tensed slightly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Oh," he said, carefully neutral. "That's... nice of them."

Bucky recognized the hesitation immediately. "It's not a big deal," he assured quickly. "Just, y'know, if you wanted to. No pressure. They're actually decent guys, once you get past the first impression. And the second. Maybe the third."

That earned him a small smile. "I'm sure they are," Tony said, poking at his remaining pasta. "I'm just not great with... groups. New people."

"I remember," Bucky said softly, thinking back to their first meeting—Tony, panicked and cornered on a rooftop, eyes wild with fear. "We could start small. Just Dugan, maybe. Or just Steve properly, since you've kinda met him already."

Tony considered this, his brow furrowed slightly in that way that made Bucky want to reach across the table and smooth it with his thumb. "Maybe," he conceded finally. "Sometime. After we move in."

"After we move in," Bucky agreed, unable to keep the smile from his voice. It sounded like a promise, like a future. "No rush."

Their dessert—a shared tiramisu that Bucky had insisted on despite Tony's protests that he was full—arrived, and Bucky watched with amusement as Tony's resolve crumbled at the first bite.

"Told you," Bucky said smugly, taking his own forkful. "Worth saving room for."

Tony hummed in agreement, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "Okay, you win this round, Barnes."

The sight of Tony's pleasure—unguarded and genuine—sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's body that had nothing to do with the wine they'd shared. Tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying all evening melted away, replaced by a profound sense of rightness.

This was what he wanted. Tony, relaxed and happy. Sharing food and conversation and small, quiet moments that felt significant in ways Bucky couldn't quite articulate.

By the time they finished, the restaurant had emptied considerably, the only other patrons an elderly couple by the window and a group of grad students celebrating what appeared to be the end of a grueling project.

"We should probably..." Tony gestured vaguely at the check their waiter had discreetly left at the edge of the table.

"I got it," Bucky said quickly, reaching for his wallet. "My treat. To celebrate."

Tony frowned. "You don't have to. We can split it."

"I want to," Bucky insisted, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Please."

Something complicated passed over Tony's features—a flash of uncertainty, then resignation, then something softer. He nodded once, a short, jerky movement. "Thanks."

They left the restaurant together, stepping into the cool spring night. Stars were visible between patches of clouds, the campus relatively quiet on a Tuesday evening. Their breath formed small clouds that dissipated in the gentle breeze.

"I'll walk you back to your dorm," Bucky offered, falling into step beside Tony. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, a light touch that no longer seemed accidental.

"You don't have to," Tony started, but Bucky cut him off with a gentle nudge.

"I know. I want to."

Tony glanced at him, those dark eyes reflecting the streetlights, and nodded. "Okay."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the campus peaceful around them. Bucky found himself hyperaware of every point where their bodies almost touched—shoulders, hands, the occasional brush of their jackets. He resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out and take Tony's hand, to lace their fingers together as they crossed the main quad.

Not yet, he told himself firmly. Give it time.

"So," he said instead, "two more weeks till finals, then move-in day. You excited?"

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah," he admitted. "It'll be nice to have... somewhere permanent. For a while, at least."

The hesitation in Tony's voice, the careful qualification of "for a while," tugged at something in Bucky's chest. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be Tony Stark—brilliant and lonely and always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It's gonna be great," Bucky said with more confidence than he felt, bumping Tony's shoulder with his own. "You'll see. I'll only set the kitchen on fire like, twice a month, tops."

Tony's laugh was soft but real. "Reassuring."

They reached Tony's dorm building far too quickly for Bucky's liking. They paused at the entrance, facing each other in the pool of light from the security lamp. Tony looked up at him, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

"Thanks," Tony said finally. "For dinner. And... everything."

"Everything?" Bucky echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Tony gestured vaguely. "You know. The apartment. Taking a chance on... this. Me." His voice dropped on the last word, almost inaudible.

Something inside Bucky's chest cracked open at the vulnerability in Tony's voice. Before he could think too hard about it, he reached out, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder and squeezing gently.

"Not a chance, Stark," he said softly. "A sure thing."

Tony's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something warm and surprised crossing his features. For a breathless moment, Bucky thought—hoped—that Tony might step closer, might close the distance between them.

Instead, Tony ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Right," he murmured. "Well. Goodnight, Buck."

"Night, Trouble," Bucky replied, reluctantly dropping his hand. "See you tomorrow? Library study session?"

Tony nodded, already backing toward the door. "Two o'clock. I'll bring coffee."

"You're a lifesaver," Bucky grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out again.

He watched as Tony swiped his ID and disappeared into the building, lingering on the sidewalk perhaps a moment too long after the door had closed behind him.

The night air felt suddenly colder without Tony beside him. Bucky turned toward his own building, a smile tugging at his lips despite the slight ache in his chest.

Two more weeks until finals. Three until move-in day. A whole summer of coming home to Tony's brilliant mind and quiet smiles and the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his projects.

Bucky quickened his pace, the future stretching before him like a promise.

The party swelled around Bucky like an unruly tide, bodies shifting and swaying to bass-heavy music that made the floorboards vibrate beneath his feet. Red cups littered every surface, casualties of celebration strewn across tabletops and windowsills. The air was thick with the scent of cheap liquor, cologne, and the particular brand of euphoria that came with the end of finals—a heady mixture of relief and reckless abandon that buzzed through the frat house like electricity.

Dugan had dubbed it the "We Survived Everything" party. Baseball season: over. Finals: conquered. Sophomore year: officially in the rearview mirror. The mood was infectious, a joyous chaos that swept through the crowded rooms and spilled into the backyard, where impromptu wrestling matches and drinking games had already claimed several victims.

Bucky was pressed against the wall near the staircase, a drink in one hand and a girl—Leila? Laura?—attached to his neck. Her perfume was sweet, almost cloying, and her body was warm and pliant against his. She laughed at something he'd mumbled, the sound vibrating against his collarbone where her lips had found purchase.

He should be into this. He was trying to be into this.

Two months ago, this exact scenario would have been the highlight of his night. Two months ago, he wouldn't have been cataloging the differences between her laugh and someone else's, wouldn't have been mentally elsewhere while a beautiful woman worked her way up his neck.

God, he hadn't gotten laid in weeks. His body recognized the opportunity, responded to the warmth of another person, the invitation in her touch. But his mind was elsewhere, distracted, divided.

"You're thinking too much," she murmured against his skin, nipping gently at his pulse point. "Let me help with that."

Bucky forced a grin, tipping his head back against the wall. "Just enjoyin' the moment," he lied, taking another swig of his drink. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly through his system, just enough to soften the edges without dulling his senses completely.

She hummed in approval, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingertips tracing the muscles of his abdomen. "You deserve it," she said, looking up at him through mascaraed lashes. "After that last game? The way you played? God, Barnes."

The mention of the game sent a twinge through Bucky's chest that had nothing to do with desire. The loss still stung—coming so close to advancing, only to watch their season end in the regional final. He'd played his heart out, batting .400 through the tournament with three home runs, but it hadn't been enough. The team had fought hard, clawed their way through the elimination bracket after a tough loss, only to fall just short of the Super Regionals.

Coach had told him he should be proud. The scouts had been impressed. But Bucky couldn't shake the hollow feeling that lingered beneath his ribs, the knowledge that they'd been so close—

Lips found a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear, and Bucky's eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment. He made an effort to be present, to sink into the sensation, his hands tightening slightly on the girl’s waist.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, derailing his thoughts.

"Ignore it," his companion whispered, rising onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against his. "Stay with me."

But Bucky's hand was already slipping between them, reaching for his phone. He already knew who it was, could feel it with a certainty that defied logic. Only one person texted him after midnight on a party night.

"Sorry," he murmured, turning slightly as he extracted his phone. "Just a second."

The screen lit up with Tony's name, and something in Bucky's chest loosened even as concern immediately flooded through him.

Tony (12:47 AM): Hey, are you awake?

Nothing alarming in the message itself, but Bucky had spent enough time with Tony over the past months to recognize the subtle signs. Tony never texted this late unless something was wrong. Never started with "Hey, are you awake?" unless he was trying to give Bucky an out, a chance to ignore him if he was busy.

As if Bucky ever would.

Tony (12:48 AM): Sorry, you're probably out. Don't worry about it. I'm fine.

The rapid succession of texts, the unnecessary reassurance—Bucky's internal alarm bells rang louder. Tony wasn't fine. Tony was very much not fine, even if he was trying to pretend otherwise.

"Everything okay?" The girl—Lisa, that was it—peered up at him, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, just—" Bucky hesitated, glancing between his phone and her expectant face. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but not enough to override the urgency building inside him. "Listen, I gotta take care of something. Rain check?"

Lisa's expression clouded, disappointment and annoyance flashing in her eyes before she smoothed it into something more neutral. "Seriously? Now?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, and he meant it, even as he was already formulating his escape. "It's important."

She stepped back, arms crossing over her chest. "Whatever," she said with a forced shrug. "Your loss, Barnes."

Bucky offered his most apologetic smile, already typing a response to Tony with one hand.

Bucky (12:49 AM): I'm awake. What's going on? You ok??

He slipped past Lisa, making his way through the crowded living room toward the front door. The music swelled around him, a remix of some pop song he couldn't name, bodies pressing against him from all sides as he navigated the sea of celebrating students. A hand caught his arm—Dugan, red-faced and grinning, a beer held aloft like a trophy.

"Where ya goin', slugger?" Dugan shouted over the music. "Party's just gettin' good! Barton’s about to do a keg stand that'll either make him a legend or kill him. My money's on both!"

Bucky shook his head, holding up his phone. "Gotta check on somethin'," he called back. "Rain check on Barton’s death by alcohol poisoning."

Dugan squinted at him, momentary confusion giving way to understanding as his gaze flicked to the phone. "Stark?" he asked, surprisingly perceptive for a man who had likely consumed his body weight in beer. When Bucky nodded, Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your boy, Barnes. I'll pour one out for your abandoned hookup."

Bucky rolled his eyes but felt a surge of gratitude for his friend's easy acceptance. "Thanks, Dum Dum."

Outside, the night air felt shockingly cool after the heat of the packed house. Bucky checked his phone again as he jogged down the front steps.

Tony (12:51 AM): I'm fine. Just couldn't sleep. Working on some designs.

The deflection was so transparent that Bucky would have laughed if worry wasn't already churning in his gut. Tony didn't text at almost 1 AM because he "couldn't sleep." Not unless the insomnia was accompanied by something darker—nightmares, anxiety, the shadows that sometimes seemed to chase Tony even on his better days.

Bucky (12:52 AM): Where are you? Your dorm?

The response came almost immediately.

Tony (12:52 AM): No. Engineering lab. Lost track of time.

Bucky changed direction, heading across campus toward the engineering building without a second thought. The walk would help clear his head, burn off some of the alcohol. Besides, the night was pleasant, stars peeking through scattered clouds, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the massive oak trees that lined the main pathway.

Bucky (12:53 AM): Stay put. I'm coming to you.

Tony (12:53 AM): What? No, Buck, you're at a party. I'm really fine.

Bucky (12:54 AM): Too late. Already omw. Want me to bring food? Caffeine? Poorly made decisions?

There was a longer pause before Tony's reply, and Bucky could almost picture him—brow furrowed, chewing his lower lip as he tried to decide how to respond, whether to protest further.

Tony (12:56 AM): You don't have to.

Not a rejection, Bucky noted. Just another attempt to offer an out.

Bucky (12:56 AM): I know. Want to. Be there in 10.

He pocketed his phone, quickening his pace. The campus was quiet at this hour, most students either out celebrating or passed out after a grueling finals week. Only a few night owls and dedicated studiers remained, scattered across benches and lawns, faces illuminated by the blue glow of laptop screens.

Bucky's mind drifted as he walked, concern for Tony mingling with the faint buzz of alcohol still flowing through his system. What had happened? Tony had seemed fine earlier—they'd had lunch together before Bucky's team meeting, discussing move-in plans and arguing over whether Tony's robot prototypes constituted "reasonable decor" for a living room.

Something must have triggered him. A call from his dad, maybe? Tony's father remained a specter in Tony's life, rarely mentioned but always present in the way Tony tensed at certain topics, in the shadows that sometimes darkened his eyes.

Or maybe it was something else—the panic that occasionally seized Tony in crowded places, the nightmares he downplayed but that Bucky knew left him shaking and sleepless. Whatever it was, Bucky was determined to help, even if that just meant sitting with Tony in the lab, keeping him company while he worked through it.

The engineering building loomed ahead, most windows dark except for a few scattered lights on the third floor. The security guard—an older man named Stan who had long since grown accustomed to Tony's odd hours—nodded to Bucky as he approached.

"He's upstairs," Stan said without preamble. "Been there since dinnertime. Wouldn't come down even when I offered him half my sandwich." He scrutinized Bucky with surprising perception for a man pushing seventy. "You look like you've been celebrating."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, aware that he probably reeked of beer and carried traces of lipstick on his neck. "End of finals," he explained. "But I'm good. Sober enough."

Stan's weathered face creased in a knowing smile. "You're a good friend to that boy," he said, buzzed Bucky through. "Third floor, room 307. Like always."

Bucky nodded his thanks, making his way up the stairs. His heart rate picked up as he approached the lab, a mixture of concern and something warmer, more complicated. The door was ajar, spilling a sliver of fluorescent light into the darkened hallway.

He paused, listening. Quiet classical music drifted from inside—Bach, maybe, or Beethoven, Bucky couldn't tell. It was the music Tony played when he was trying to calm himself, to focus on work rather than whatever demons were nipping at his heels.

Bucky knocked softly on the doorframe before pushing the door wider. "Special delivery," he called, keeping his voice light. "One slightly buzzed baseball player, as requested."

Tony was hunched over a workbench in the far corner, surrounded by scattered components and holographic displays that cast his profile in an ethereal blue glow. He looked up, startled, dark circles pronounced beneath his eyes, hair a riot of unruly curls that suggested he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. He wore a henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms smudged with graphite and what looked like machine oil.

"Bucky," he said, surprise evident in his voice despite the text exchange. "You... actually came.”

The wonder in Tony's voice, as if Bucky's presence was something unexpected rather than inevitable, made something twist painfully in Bucky's chest. He crossed the room, dropping his phone on the workbench with a clatter.

"'Course I came," he said simply, as if there had never been any question. "What's up? Lab emergency? Robot uprising? You finally build that lightsaber you keep promisin' me?"

Tony's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing that exciting," he said, gesturing vaguely at the holographic displays where complex schematics rotated slowly. "Just working on some adjustments to the prosthetic interface design."

Bucky studied the displays with genuine interest. Tony's neural interface project had evolved over the semester, growing more sophisticated with each iteration. The current design was sleek, elegant in its complexity, yet Bucky could see the tension in Tony's shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that suggested this late-night work session had nothing to do with sudden inspiration.

"Looks incredible," Bucky said truthfully. "But you didn't text me at one in the mornin' to show off your design skills. What's really goin' on, Trouble?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the workbench, fingers fidgeting with a small screwdriver. "It's stupid," he muttered.

Bucky stepped closer, perching on the edge of the workbench. "Try me."

Tony remained silent for a long moment, the classical music filling the space between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost fragile.

"I got a call from MIT today. About my research proposal."

Bucky's breath caught. Tony had submitted a proposal for summer research funding weeks ago, a project extension of his neural interface work. He'd downplayed its importance, but Bucky had seen the careful hope in his eyes, the way he'd checked his email obsessively while pretending not to.

"And?" Bucky prompted gently.

Tony's knuckles whitened around the screwdriver. "They... they're not funding it," he said, each word carefully controlled. "Said the approach wasn't 'viable' without more preliminary data."

"Fuck," Bucky breathed. "Tony, I'm so sorry."

Tony shrugged, a jerky movement that failed to convey the nonchalance he was clearly aiming for. "It's fine. I mean, it was a long shot. And I've still got the scholarship for fall, so it's not like I'm—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "It's not a big deal."

But it was, Bucky could see that clearly. This wasn't just about funding; it was about validation, about someone believing in Tony's work, in his vision. It was about proving his worth outside the shadow of Howard Stark and MIT and all the expectations that had been heaped on him since childhood.

"Did they give any specific feedback?" Bucky asked, keeping his voice gentle. "Anything you can address for a resubmission?"

Tony nodded jerkily. "Some. They want more preliminary testing, more proof that the neural mapping algorithm can handle variable input." His voice grew steadier as he slipped into technical explanations, finding comfort in the familiar territory. "I can do that, I just need more time, more resources. Maybe if I had access to better equipment, or if—"

He broke off suddenly, frustration and something darker flashing across his face. "Howard has a fully equipped private lab," he said, voice flat. "State of the art. I could have completed the preliminary work in a week there."

The unspoken hung heavily between them: But I can't go back.

Bucky reached out, covering Tony's hand with his own, stilling the restless movement of his fingers. "Hey," he said softly. "Look at me?"

Tony's eyes reluctantly met his, dark and troubled in the blue glow of the holograms.

"This is a setback, not the end," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is brilliant, Tony. One rejection doesn't change that."

Tony's laugh was hollow. "Easy for you to say. You've never failed at anything."

The words hit Bucky harder than he expected, a direct strike to a wound still fresh from the baseball season's end. "You kiddin' me?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "We just lost the biggest game of the season. Came this close—" he held up his thumb and forefinger, barely a hair's breadth apart, "—to makin' it to Super Regionals, and fell short. In front of scouts, fans, everyone. That's failure, Stark."

Tony blinked, regret immediately crossing his features. "Shit, Buck, I didn't mean—the game, I know how much that meant to you. I wasn't thinking."

Bucky shook his head, squeezing Tony's hand. "No, I'm not—that's not my point. I'm sayin' we all fail. It's part of the deal. You think I haven't struck out with the bases loaded? Dropped an easy fly ball? Made an ass of myself in front of scouts?" He leaned closer, holding Tony's gaze. "Failure doesn't define you. What you do next does."

Tony stared at him, something vulnerable and raw passing over his features. For a moment, Bucky thought he might pull away, retreat behind the walls he still occasionally erected when emotions ran too close to the surface.

Instead, Tony's shoulders slumped, the tension leaving him in a visible wave. "I don't know what to do next," he admitted quietly. "Without funding, I can't—"

"We'll figure it out," Bucky interrupted, the "we" slipping out naturally. "Together. Maybe there are other grants? Or equipment you can borrow? Hell, I bet Steve would let you use him as a test subject if you asked nicely. Guy's always lookin' for ways to 'contribute to science.'"

A faint, genuine smile finally curved Tony's lips. "Steve does have an admirable dedication to self-sacrifice," he conceded. "But I'm not sure even he would volunteer for experimental neural interface testing."

"You'd be surprised," Bucky grinned, relieved to see a glimmer of Tony's usual spark returning. "I once saw him eat a spoonful of wasabi on a dare. From a freshman. Guy has no sense of self-preservation."

Tony laughed, the sound soft but real. "Unlike you, who has... what was it? An 'iron will to party'?"

"Damn straight," Bucky confirmed, pleased that Tony remembered the phrase from their first meeting. "Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to be celebrating the end of finals too? Instead of, y'know, brooding in a darkened lab?"

Tony's expression turned wry. "This is my celebration," he said, gesturing at the scattered components. "Wild, I know."

Bucky studied him, noting the deep shadows beneath Tony's eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that spoke of too much coffee and too little sleep. An idea began to form in his mind.

"Come on," he said abruptly, standing and tugging gently at Tony's hand. "We're getting out of here."

Tony blinked up at him. "What? Where?"

"You'll see," Bucky said, already gathering Tony's scattered notebooks and shoving them into his backpack. "Trust me."

Tony hesitated, looking between Bucky and his work. "I should really finish these calculations—"

"They'll still be here tomorrow," Bucky said firmly. "Right now, you need a break. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor," Tony pointed out, but he was already standing, allowing Bucky to guide him away from the workbench.

"No, but I play one in my dreams," Bucky replied, waggling his eyebrows in a way that earned an eye roll from Tony. "Seriously, come on. One hour. If you're still miserable, I'll bring you back and you can brood to your heart's content."

Tony sighed, but there was a fondness in his exasperation. "Fine. One hour."

They left the lab together, Bucky's hand still wrapped around Tony's wrist, a point of contact that neither acknowledged but neither broke. The hallway was deserted, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor as they made their way to the stairwell.

"So," Tony said as they descended, "are you going to tell me where we're going, or is this a kidnapping situation?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," Bucky replied cryptically. "Besides, I made this up about thirty seconds ago, so I'm still workin' out the details."

Tony snorted. "Reassuring."

Stan looked up as they passed his desk, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Heading out, boys? About time. Some people sleep, you know."

"Revolutionary concept, Stan," Tony replied, the easy banter suggesting this was a familiar exchange. "We'll look into it."

"See that you do," Stan called after them as they pushed through the doors into the night air.

Outside, the campus was bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps, the spring night warm and inviting. Bucky led Tony away from the engineering building, steering them toward the center of campus, where the main quad stretched out in a vast expanse of manicured grass.

"Bucky," Tony said after they'd walked in silence for a few minutes, "if you're taking me to that party, I should warn you that I'm not really in the mood for—"

"I'm not," Bucky assured him quickly. "Promise. No parties."

Tony nodded, visibly relieved. "Okay. Good."

They continued walking, the tension gradually easing from Tony's frame with each step away from the lab. Bucky found himself hyper-aware of their proximity, of the way Tony's arm occasionally brushed against his, of the faint scent of coffee and metal that seemed to cling to Tony's skin.

His neck still bore traces of Lisa's perfume, her lipstick probably smudged across his skin like evidence of a crime. Guilt tugged at him briefly, but it was fleeting, insubstantial compared to the certainty that he was exactly where he needed to be.

The main quad appeared ahead, illuminated by soft lights embedded in the walkways. During the day, it was a bustling hub of activity—students lounging on the grass, tossing frisbees, studying beneath the sprawling oak trees. Now, at nearly 1:30 AM, it was deserted, peaceful in a way that felt almost magical.

"Ta-da," Bucky announced, gesturing grandly. "Our destination."

Tony looked around, confusion evident in his furrowed brow. "The quad? This is your brilliant plan?"

"Just wait," Bucky said cryptically, leading Tony toward the center of the open space. When they reached a patch of grass unmarred by pathways, Bucky dropped Tony's backpack and promptly flopped onto his back, arms spread wide.

Tony stood over him, half-amused, half-bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"Stargazing," Bucky replied simply, patting the grass beside him. "Come on, Stark. Live dangerously."

"Lying on the ground is your idea of living dangerously?" Tony asked, but he was already lowering himself to sit beside Bucky, cross-legged on the cool grass.

"After the week we've had? Absolutely." Bucky tugged gently at Tony's sleeve. "Come on. Full effect requires horizontal positioning."

Tony hesitated, then slowly reclined until he was lying beside Bucky, their shoulders nearly touching. Above them, the night sky stretched out in a vast canvas of darkness pierced by countless stars, more visible here in the center of campus where the light pollution was minimal.

"Oh," Tony breathed, the single syllable carrying a wealth of wonder.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Yeah."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, gazing up at the stars. Bucky was acutely aware of Tony beside him—the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, the faint smell of coffee and something mechanical that always seemed to cling to him.

"You know," Tony said finally, voice soft in the quiet night, "when I was a kid, my mom used to take me onto the roof of our house to look at the stars. She had this old astronomy book, and we'd try to find all the constellations." A pause, weighted with memory. "It was the only time Howard couldn't find us."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and significant. Bucky turned his head slightly, studying Tony's profile in the dim light. "She sounds great," he said softly. "Your mom."

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "She was," he agreed, still gazing skyward. "She would have liked you, I think. She always said I needed someone who could pull me out of my head sometimes."

The words sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's chest. "High praise," he murmured. "I'm honored."

Tony's hand rested on the grass between them, fingers absently plucking at blades of green. Without overthinking it, Bucky shifted his own hand until their pinky fingers touched, a whisper of contact that could be dismissed as accidental if necessary.

Tony didn't pull away. Instead, after a breathless moment, he relaxed, allowing the contact to remain.

"So," Bucky said, voice gentle in the night air, "about the research funding."

Tony tensed slightly beside him, but didn't retreat. "What about it?"

"I've been thinking," Bucky continued, choosing his words carefully. "What if you applied for private funding? Small tech companies, medical research foundations—places that might be interested in your work but aren't connected to Howard or MIT?"

Tony turned to look at him, surprise evident in his features. "I... hadn't considered that," he admitted. "I just assumed academic channels were the only option."

"The way I see it," Bucky said, encouraged, "your work has real-world applications, right? Helping people with mobility issues, nerve damage, all that. There's gotta be companies or foundations that would jump at the chance to fund that kind of research."

Tony's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe," he conceded. "I'd need to do some research, find the right places to approach. And redesign my proposal for a non-academic audience."

"I could help," Bucky offered. "I mean, not with the technical stuff—that's all you. But I'm pretty good at talking to people, making things sound appealing. Baseball scholarships don't just hand themselves out, y'know."

A smile tugged at the corner of Tony's mouth. "Are you offering to be my hype man, Barnes?"

"If that's what it takes," Bucky grinned, relieved to see the spark returning to Tony's eyes. "I'll wear a t-shirt with your face on it and everything. 'Tony Stark: Neural Interface Genius.'"

Tony laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet night. "God, please don't."

"Too late, already ordered it," Bucky teased. "Got one for Steve too. And Dugan. We're gonna be a whole cheering section."

Tony's laughter faded into something softer, more contemplative. "You really think it could work? Finding alternate funding?"

"I do," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is amazing, Tony. Just because some stuffy committee at MIT doesn't see it doesn't mean others won't. You just gotta find the right audience."

Tony nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the stars above. "Maybe you're right," he murmured. Then, quieter: "Thanks, Buck. For... this. For coming to find me."

Bucky's chest tightened with an emotion he wasn't quite ready to name. "Anytime, Trouble," he said softly. "That's what—" He hesitated, the word 'friends' suddenly feeling inadequate, insufficient for what existed between them. "That's what I'm here for."

They lay in comfortable silence for a while longer, their pinky fingers still touching on the cool grass between them, a tiny point of contact that felt simultaneously insignificant and monumental. Above them, the stars continued their silent vigil, distant and constant.

Bucky found himself thinking about the girl at the party—Lisa, with her perfect smile and eager hands. He tried to summon regret for walking away, for choosing this quiet moment on the quad over whatever might have happened if he'd stayed.

He couldn't find any. Not with Tony beside him, looking up at the same stars, their fingers brushing in the darkness.

"Your hour's almost up," Bucky said eventually, reluctant to break the peaceful moment but aware of the late hour. "Wanna head back to the lab?"

Tony was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on the heavens. "No," he said finally, the word barely audible. "Not yet. Can we... stay a little longer?"

Relief and something warmer flooded through Bucky's chest. "Yeah," he said softly. "As long as you want."

Tony turned his head, dark eyes meeting Bucky's in the dim light. A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "Thanks for finding me," he said again, the words carrying a weight that went beyond their simple meaning.

Bucky smiled back, overwhelmed by the certainty that he would always find Tony, would always choose this over anything else. "Always will," he promised, the words slipping out before he could consider their implications.

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering in his eyes. Then he looked back up at the stars, but not before his pinky finger curled more deliberately around Bucky's, the contact no longer accidental but intentional.

A silent acknowledgment. A beginning, perhaps.

Bucky tightened his finger in response, a gentle pressure that said more than words could. Above them, the stars continued their ancient dance, silent witnesses to the moment unfolding on the cool grass below.

And if Bucky's heart raced a little faster, if his breath caught in his throat at the deliberate touch of Tony's finger against his—well, that was between him, Tony, and the stars.

[nothingunrealistic]

from beth schacter’s, toney goins’, babak tafti’s, and condola rashad’s instagram stories, april 12-13, 2023

[toxicanonymity]

Apple Blossom. Left in Lincoln, pt. 4

7.5k / dads best friend!Joel x virgin!Reader 

story master list / joel miller master list

His cheeks turned a little pink and his eyes lit up. He handed you the rag.   "What?" you asked. “Nothin',” he said softly and shook his head. “You sure are pretty, darlin’. That’s all.” He dried his hands then gave your butt a squeeze. The moment of domesticity almost made you forget the town was rotting away beneath your feet. 

WARNINGS: I8+ mdni, slow-burn horror w/ potentially disturbing implicit content, big girthy age gap (20s/50s), plot, angst, toxic/dark fluff, gaslighting, manipulation, pressure, grooming, grinding, fingering, oral M receiving, pet names and praise.  Very TOXIC, dark Joel. Impaired editing.

You fell asleep in Joel’s arms and woke up alone in your bed.  The apple blossom was gone from your night stand. You showered and got dressed. You couldn’t find your baseball cap and realized the last time you wore it was in Joel’s orchard.  When you came downstairs, Bill and Frank's bedroom door was open.  Before you could investigate, you heard screeching outside, then cursing. You ran to the door.  Joel was waving his arms and a crow was flying away from him.  He had a screwdriver in one hand. He stood up and smoothed his shirt and a feather floated away from him.  He was wearing Frank's clothes with his hair freshly slicked back from a shower.    

You went outside and looked down at the open vent. You asked, “How’d you get it to come out?”

Joel shrugged with his arms hanging heavy at his sides.  "Nowhere else to go. Gotta be patient sometimes.” He bent one knee and put the hand with the screwdriver on his hip, looking up at the roof of the house. He squinted at the chimney.  “I reckon we left the fireplace vent open the other night.” 

You approached Joel and he extended his free hand for a hug.  He stroked your head and looked at you lovingly.  You were still taking that in -  the fact that Joel told you he loved you.  He gave you a kiss on the head and inhaled your scent.  Then he went to screw the vent back into the side of the house, and your eyes followed his ass.  That was one thing about Joel always having his shirt tucked in - You were very aware of his ass. He was so muscular, almost statuesque to you. His proportions reminded you of classic art. 

Joel glanced back as he bent over and your cheeks burned as you looked away from his body.  

“Can we plant the strawberries today?” You asked.

“Not the season, darlin’. Won’t survive.”

“Ours are still alive," you said. 

“Really?” he asked skeptically. 

"Yeah, they just never fruited."

“Show me.”  Joel finished screwing the vent back into place then stood up and brushed off his knees.  

You led him to the failed strawberry patch and showed him the plants. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Joel said and squatted down to finger the leaves.  "You wanna bring’em, guess we can try it."

You were excited to surprise Frank and Bill with fresh strawberries. Once they fruited, maybe you could transplant them somewhere at home too. 

"Grab a spade and bucket outta the shed. Some of that cloth, too." 

You returned with the requested supplies and Joel said, "Alright, I’ll work on this and you can pick some veggies to take with us if ya want." 

“We’re not coming back today?” 

“Not ‘til we figure out what’s goin’ on, darlin’.” He put his hands on his knees and stood back up with a groan.  “Anything else you wanna plant from here? Arugula?”  

You were still processing the idea of leaving home for multiple days.  “Sure. Wait, what if we get the computers back up to check the cameras?” you asked. “Then we can see if it’s safe.” 

He wiped his brow with the back of the flannel sleeve.  “Just looked at ‘em. All static. Lines must've been cut.  Been down at least a few days." 

"What??" A pit formed in your stomach.  This whole time, you should’ve been even more scared than you were.  Joel sensed your fear. He stepped forward and put his arm around you.  He cradled your head against him.  He smelled a little like Frank.  

“It’s okay, baby. I’m not leavin’ you again," he reassured you.  The low vibration of his voice in his chest was an extra layer to the hug. 

You tried to shake off the dark mood that fell over you. "Can we make apple juice?” you asked.  

“Sure we can, peaches.”

-

Joel uprooted some strawberry and arugula while you picked vegetables then brought them inside.  You got out the empty apple juice jar to take with you and took the cider jar out of the fridge, too.  

Joel walked in and froze. “You’re not drinkin’ that, are ya?” 

“No,” you said, but you didn’t want to offend him since he brewed it.  “Not right now.”

“But you did?” He stepped forward and looked so serious.  Your face went cold.

“Well, no-”

"You shouldn’t be drinkin’ without me, darlin’.  It’s not safe.”  There was an air of judgment in his  voice. You were embarrassed, but shouldn't have been.  You were old enough to drink and your house was full of wine. You could have a drink alone if you wanted to.  Joel extended his hand and looked at you sternly. “Gimme that.”  You felt defensive as if you had done something wrong. Even knowing you hadn't.  You suddenly realized you had no idea where his bottle of whiskey was that he left there days ago.   He might have thought you drank it, too.  You were mortified. 

“I was just gonna pour it out so we could use the jar,” you explained as he opened the cider.  Joel's face softened and he poured it out in the sink. 

“Got plenty of jars at home, baby. Good idea though."  He rinsed the jar then patted the back of your head tenderly. It wasn't enough to soothe the feeling of being scolded, but the feeling would fade. You had bigger things to worry about anyway. He just wanted to keep you safe. 

-

On the walk to Joel’s house, you told him all about the night before.  How Abe didn’t come by, then you heard Abe's truck, but didn’t see him.  You told him about the songs playing on the radio station, which gave you chills to even think about.  

Joel heard the distress in your voice and stopped dead in his tracks, disturbed.  “Sorry I wasn’t there, darlin’.  Never shoulda left ya." He took a deep, ragged breath in. He cupped your cheek.   “Guess I didn’t wanna be a bother if ya didn't want me stickin' around.” 

You felt a wave of guilt for sending him home each night.  You imagined him walking alone in the dark worrying about you, thinking he was bothering you.  

"It's okay, Joel," you reassured him.  "I should've asked you to stay." 

"It's not okay, baby.”  He shook his head at himself, then looked at you with grave concern.  “What if somethin' happened?" 

"Well, I guess it didn’t.  I'm okay," you said. 

He sighed and cradled the back of your head.

"But I'm worried about Abe," you added. 

Joel dropped his hand, and looked off into the distance, jaw muscle flexing.  

"What if he's in trouble?" you asked. 

Joel took a deep breath and looked in the direction of Abe’s property.  "Tell ya what, darlin'. I'll go check on him today, how’s that sound?”

The distress melted away from your face. “Thank you,” you gushed and wrapped him in a hug.  He kissed the top of your head.

A bird cried and both of you turned toward the sound.  It was a crow.  It followed you the rest of the way to Joel's house, squawking obnoxiously.  

-

It was your first time being in Joel’s house.  It was about as neat and clean as you expected for the most part.  It smelled woodsy and nutty, like pine and almonds, and faintly of apples.  He led you upstairs to a spare bedroom and left you there to get settled in. He said to let him know if you needed anything.  

You walked around the room and picked things up. There was a dresser, a vanity, and a mirror.  On top of the vanity was a jewelry box and a hairbrush.  A stationary set.  There was a stool at the vanity and a box fan on the floor.  

Everything was so perfect and comfortable. It was what you imagined a hotel might be like. Clean and cozy. You sat down on the neatly made bed and took your shoes off. Joel came back a few minutes later and stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He looked around the room then nervously put his hands in his pockets.  He asked, "What do you think?" 

"It's amazing." 

He looked relieved.  He came over to sit next to you on the bed.  "Good," he said.  He smiled and his eyes scanned your body.  He caressed your neck and planted a kiss on your cheek.  

"Can we pick apples to make the juice today?"

"Not today, darlin'. Not 'til we're sure it's safe." He raised your hand to his mouth and kissed it.  "Got some apples in the kitchen, though." 

-

Joel made lunch and told you about the different improvements he made to the house and orchard in the past few years.   You asked for a tour and he said you could have one after he knew the community was secure.  He got up and took the dishes to the sink.  He turned on the water to wash them and you got up and volunteered to do them instead. It seemed only fair since he made lunch. You stood next to him at the sink and reached for the rag. His cheeks turned a little pink and his eyes lit up. He hesitantly handed you the rag with a slight smile.    

“What?” you asked. 

“Nothin',” he said softly and shook his head, looking at the floor.  He looked back up at you and sucked his bottom lip.  “You sure are pretty, darlin’. That’s all.” He dried his hands on a clean towel, then gave your butt a little squeeze. You smiled and giggled silently.  The moment of domesticity made you forget the town was rotting away beneath your feet. 

Joel moved to stand close behind you and put his hands on your hips.  He spoke softly into the crown of your head.  “I'll go take a look around the neighborhood and check on Abe.”  

You turned your head and nodded, “thank you, Joel.” 

His voice got low and serious, but remained gentle.  “Stay here. Don't go outside.” 

You nodded again. 

“You don't answer the door for anyone but me.  Real important, okay?"

You put down the dish in your hand and turned around to face him fully. "Okay."

"Even if you think you know 'em. Don't know who could be infected." He swallowed regretfully. 

You nodded in agreement, "Okay."

His hands on either side of your hips casually caged you against the sink.  He gently pressed his hips, then his lips into yours.

“Back before sundown,” he muttered. 

He put on a jacket, went down to the cellar, and returned with two firearms. He handed you a pistol, put on his jacket, and kissed you goodbye.  He winked as he left, then locked the door behind him from the outside.  

-

While Joel was out, you got curious and bored. You  walked around the house.  The first door you tried to open was locked.  The second one led down to the cellar.  You took a few steps down and tried to reach the light string that hung from the ceiling.  it swung away.  After another step down, the door behind you began to close.  You panicked and lunged up the stairs to keep it open.  That was stupid. You could have gotten locked in.  You scurried up the stairs back into the living room.  Once you caught your breath, you shut the door behind you and didn't go back.   

Another door was a closet.  Jackets, hats, boots. You saw an old Red Sox hat and your heart skipped a beat.  Your first thought was Jesse.  Your heart pounded in your chest and you weren’t sure why.  It was probably yours.  Joel must have scooped it up when you left it in the orchard.  It could have faded from the elements.  You had the strongest urge to touch and smell the hat, but you didn’t dare disturb it.  Joel seemed like the type to know exactly how things were. You didn't want him to know you were snooping.  

You didn’t try any more doors after that.  You went back to the kitchen.  You opened the pantry and there were two crates of jars, one of them locked. You looked around the opposite counter from where you had been doing the dishes.  A basket of apples, a jar of apple seeds. A fresh branch in a vase of water with a budding blossom.  You held up the vase and smelled the bud. 

You were startled from the moment by a faint scraping and clinking sound outside.  You fumbled the vase and almost dropped it but caught it.  Your pulse sped up and your eyes darted to the window.  You put the vase down and walked to the kitchen door which looked out into the backyard and orchard.  You put your hand on the knob, then changed your mind, Joel’s cautionary words fresh in your ears.  You stood at the window and looked.  You didn’t see anything.  You heard it again. It sounded like it was coming from the back of the orchard, which you couldn’t see.  All you saw was dirt, grass, a fire pit, neat rows of tree after tree, dead leaves tumbling across the ground with the wind.  Maybe it was the wind.  

When you heard it again, you were unsettled enough to step away from the window.  You went back up to the bedroom, figuring it was the safest place.  You covered yourself in the quilt and hugged one of several pillows, waiting for Joel's return, hiding, praying no one was around.  Hoping no one could possibly know you were there.  Grateful you weren't home alone at a time like this. You kept the bedroom door open so you'd be able to see trouble if it came. 

-

You dozed off and awoke when the back door to the kitchen unlocked downstairs.  Your heart raced and it took a moment to remember where you were.  It was almost dusk outside.  You quietly slid out from under the quilt and prepared to cautiously venture downstairs, assuming it was Joel who just came in the house.  A door closed downstairs, then the water heater turned on. You pulled the quilt back over you and turned off the light, waiting in the dark. After about ten minutes of lying there slowing your heart rate, the water turned off. A few minutes later, a door opened downstairs again. You wished you could fast forward to the next time you'd be in Joel's arms. 

You felt a presence.  "Joel?" It came out far quieter than you intended, but you were too afraid to repeat it louder. The stairs quietly creaked with padded footsteps. The creaking got closer and closer, then stopped.  You sat frozen, looking at a looming shadow in the hall, trying to make sense of it as Joel’s silhouette. The shape looked jagged, angry, nothing like him.  

“Peaches?” his voice made you jump; it was much closer than you thought.  Your hand came to your chest as he stepped into view and asked, “You okay? Thought you might be nappin', didn't wanna wake ya up.'” 

"I'm okay," you said and took a deep breath. "What's going on?"

Joel approached the bed and sat down with his hand on your knee. He was freshly showered and dressed in his own clothes again.  

"I think Abe left, darlin'."    

"Left?? Why??" 

"I dunno, sugar. It was like he just packed up." 

You were stunned. Abe couldn't possibly have packed up and left. This didn't explain anything at all.  You'd have to see it to believe it.  

"No. He wouldn't just leave," you said and got de ja vu. You were quiet. Nothing felt right.  You spent the whole afternoon scared and alone, and now this?

"Sorry, peaches. Didn't know you were close."

"We weren't. I just - I'm surprised. He didn't say anything this week, did he?"

"Sure didn't." 

"Just like Jesse,” you whispered. 

Joel inhaled through his nose as though calming himself. 

“I don't understand it," you said. 

Joel was quiet for a moment.  "People leave, darlin'. But I promise you I won't.  Not ever." 

You mustered half a grateful smile and indulged him. “Promise?”

"Never.”  He looked gravely serious.  “Not unless I take you with me,” he said softer. 

“Thanks,” you said. 

He shook his head.  “I mean it, peaches.  Nothin' in this world could take me away from you." He stroked your thigh and leaned in for a much-needed kiss. 

Then he put his arm around you, rubbed your shoulder, and leaned his temple against yours.  You sat side by side on the bed in silence for a minute, then Joel said, “been a rough day or two, huh?" 

You nodded pensively. 

"I know what we need." 

"What?" 

"How 'bout a special dinner?” he lifted your chin with his finger and your eyes met his affectionately. "There she is." 

"Okay."

"Put on somethin' nice, I'll get cookin'."

“Oh, I didn’t bring much,” you said, embarrassed. 

“Let's check the closet,” he said with a wink. "See what got left behind." 

He kissed you on the head and stood up. It was a shallow closet that rolled open from two doors to expose a single rack of clothes.  He rolled open the left door and there were five or six dresses. They didn't look like anything Ellie or Tess would wear and you didn't know who else could have left them behind. Whoever lived there before, you supposed.   

Joel pulled out two coathangers. A floral wrap dress and a low cut burgundy sweater dress. "See what ya like," he said softly with a sparkle in his eye.  "Take your time. I'll get cookin'." He winked and put the hangers back in the closet before leaving you to the task. 

You stayed seated on the bed and stared into space for a while, thinking about Abe.  Then you got up and put on the burgundy dress. It was a perfect fit. You stood in front of the vanity as the smell of fried rabbit wafted upstairs. You primped yourself and touched your neck, looking yourself in the eyes.  You wanted to be happy, but your eyes were sad.  You opened a dresser drawer looking for socks.  Sure enough, there was a small drawer full of socks and stockings.  Another drawer full of underwear, and even the same type of fabric washable pads you had to use for your period. You dreaded your period coming in a few days. That probably wasn't helping your mood.

-

Joel served a candlelit dinner at a card table in his living room. He said it was safer away from the windows at night.  He wanted to give it another day or two to make sure the community was safe.  He was walking to the table with a bottle of wine and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you in the dress. He put down the bottle and said. "My lands, peaches." He wet his lips. "C'mere, gorgeous." He rubbed your forearms with his thumbs and looked you up and down. "You're so goddamn beautiful," he whispered. 

"You look nice, too," you said. He chuckled. He wasn't wearing anything out of the ordinary but he always looked nice. He took your head in both hands and kissed you softly.  Then he looked at you again, wrapped his arms around you, and kissed you harder with an "Mmm," into your mouth. 

He pulled out your chair for you at the table. He poured your wine, served you salad with no cucumbers, rabbit, eggplant, and applesauce. The salad dressing was incredible. He made it himself. "secret's in the basil" he said proudly. "Gotta mash it up real good, let the flavor out. If ya like it, we got more to plant out back.  Rosemary, too. Make us a little herb garden.” You smiled. The applesauce was amazing, too. 

He got up and retrieved a stone bowl from the counter. "Fresh cinnamon sticks.  I crush’em up dry first. Then add just a little apple to the cinnamon, mash it up so it’s all wet, then add that to the rest at the end."  He tasted the cinnamon mixture with his finger.  “Kinda spicy.”  He dipped his pinky for more and held it up to your mouth.   "Go on," he said.  You held eye contact with him as your tongue met his pinky. The cinnamon was strong.  Delicious.  He took a deep breath as you sucked his digit clean. "Good girl," he whispered, watching you in a trance. He put the bowl back on the counter.  “Use it for cobbler, too. We can make some if ya want.”  You never knew Joel was such a good chef.  

-

You ate quietly. You wanted to let Joel’s nice dinner take your mind off things, but it didn't.  You didn't want to grill him about Abe's house or say anything negative at all since he put so much effort into the meal. He put so much effort into making you feel good in general.  So you tried to pretend you were okay, but he sensed your mood.  

After cleaning up from dinner, the two of you sat down on his sofa in the living room.  He brought whiskey and a bag of pills and put them on the coffee table with two glasses. “Need a good night’s sleep,” he muttered as he sat down and poured a glass.  “How ‘bout you?” 

You didn’t say anything. 

“What’s wrong, peaches?”

You were quiet, but he didn’t let you off the hook.  He looked at you, expecting an answer.  Finally, you blurted out, “I’m lonely.”

Joel looked confused.  “We’re together now, baby."

The tears welled up over your eyes.  “Not right this second. I mean in general.”

Joel swallowed, then nodded.  “Must get lonely on your own.  Why don’t you stay here with me?” He took a sip, put down his drink, and scooted closer.  He rubbed your back.  

You ignored his offer, frustrated that he didn't get it or didn’t care. “Everyone's gone,” you said and started to cry.  “Everyone left.”

Joel’s face darkened and his jaw clenched. His body tensed and he stopped rubbing your back.  He sank back into the sofa and clasped his hands in his lap.  You turned around to face him, expecting more comfort, but he didn’t look at you or open his arms.  

“Not sure what to say to that, peaches," he said flatly.  He took another sip of his drink.  "You mean the world to me, and it sounds like I’m nobody to you.” 

“Of course not,” you said.  Your heart dropped at your foolishness.  Here was the one person you had left.  The best person who could possibly be left.  Someone who would take care of you no matter what it took.  Someone who cared more about you than anything or anyone else.  And instead of being grateful, you acted like he was nothing. 

Joel nodded slowly, looking down with a scowl.  He swallowed. 

You said, "I just miss them, that's all."

His eyes intensified and he took a deep, calming breath. 

“Bill and Frank, I mean,” you clarified, desperate not to make it worse. 

"I know ya do," he said in a near whisper, still looking down.  

You continued, your tears slowing but not stopping.  "It doesn't feel right here with everyone gone." 

“Doesn’t feel right here,” he repeated.  He raised his eyebrows and bit his tongue, sticking it into his cheek. 

You looked away, sensing that you hurt him but unsure what to do.   You sat in silence for what felt like several minutes, both of you looking straight ahead. Your back felt so cold without him comforting you.  

When you looked back at Joel, his eyes were glistening.  “You're enough for me, peaches.” His voice cracked.  “You’re all I need in the world.” He dabbed his eye and your heart broke. "Nothin' feels more right than bein' with you. I love you that much.”

No one ever made you feel that way before, like you were their entire world.  His affection overwhelmed you.  It felt like he cared as much about you as Bill and Frank, just in a different way.  

"I love you too, Joel." You squeezed his thigh reassuringly. 

“No, darlin'.  I’m in love with you. I don’t care about anything else.” 

You turned toward him and tried to meet his eyes.  “I’m in love with you, too.” 

He finally stroked your back.  “You might think so, darlin’.” He sighed.  “And I ‘preciate you sayin’ it. . . But when you say,  ‘it doesn’t feel right here’. . .” He dabbed his eye again.  “I gotta wonder.”

“I do, Joel.” 

“I dunno if you understand love, darlin’.  Or you wouldn’t say that.  And you wouldn’t feel lonely.” 

You were overwhelmed and confused.  It didn’t make sense to you. “I wouldn’t miss my parents?”

“Course you’d miss’em,” he conceded.  “But you wouldn’t feel lonely.” 

“Guess that’s what I meant,” you said.  He nodded and his face warmed slightly. "Plus, I'm worried about Frank," you said and started crying again. Something was tugging at your gut.  You felt worse, not better.

Joel started to say something, but didn't. He rubbed your back. “I know, darlin’. He poured you a glass of whiskey and composed himself. “They’d be proud of ya, how you’re doin’.”  

You laughed through your tears. “Sorry,” you sniffled. “I didn’t mean I was lonely. I’m not.” 

“Okay, darlin’,” he whispered

You couldn’t tell if he really forgave you.  Your whole face felt tense. 

-

Joel looked at you and a look of deep concern washed across his face, realizing how bad he made you feel.  “Hey, hey. . . . c’mere. . . “  He rubbed your back.  You scooted closer and hugged him from the side.  He brought your far leg into his lap so you were twisted over him. “Shhhh,” he said and kissed your forehead, but something was still off about him.  “It’s okay, baby.”  He softened but still felt more distant than usual, like he wasn’t sure he could believe you.  The distance made you panic. 

“I love you, I really do,”  you said.  

He drank the rest of his whiskey and bent forward to put the glass down, then stretched his arm out on top of the sofa.  You tucked one leg under yourself and rested the other leg over his lap.  He draped his hand on your knee, but didn’t make a move to pull you closer.  You climbed into his lap, suddenly more concerned about his feelings than anything else.  

You wanted to be closer to him, as close as possible.  You wanted him wrapped around you, inside you.  You wanted to be a part of him and for him to be a part of you.  You kissed him on the cheek.  He smiled but didn’t look at you, not really.  He looked at your eyes but it felt like he was looking past them.  “Joel,” you whined, eyes welling up at the lack of validation.   You cupped his face in both your hands and kissed him.  His lips pressed softly into yours.  You looked back and forth between his eyes, trying to connect enough to show him how much you meant it. 

“I wanna be with you,” you whispered.  “I don’t care about anything else.” 

Something behind his eyes flickered on.  “You mean that, peaches? You don’t care about anything else?” 

You nodded and pressed your lips into his again. 

He asked, “You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

His hands embraced your back and the affection returned to his eyes full-force like it was in the morning.  He wet his lips. 

“Good,” he whispered.  “It’s you and me, darlin’. We only got each other.” 

You nodded. 

-

He looked from your eyes to your mouth and back, closed his eyes, cradled the back of your head, and kissed you deeply.  He held you and kissed you, the taste of whiskey fading after a few seconds as your mouths combined.  He pulled you closer into his lap and his jeans hardened against your dress and panties, making your core tingle.  He moaned into your mouth and your panties moistened rapidly.  His cock was big, and feeling it get so hard just for you made you feel special. Earlier, when you said you wanted him inside you, he said you were still being shy with him.  He said you hadn’t even touched it yet, that you weren’t giving him everything.  

You wanted to show him you could give him everything.  His big hands pulled you close and his hips lifted your body as he licked into your mouth. His hard cock pressed perfectly against your clit as his hips moved.  You reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, then tugged his shirt up and he let you untuck it.  He was truly in the moment.  He was yours.  You gently grabbed at the bulge in his jeans – it was more than a handful – and he thrust into your palm with a sigh. 

You broke the kiss to unzip his jeans, and he watched you like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  You slid your hand into his pants and softly gasped as you felt the stiff outline of his cock through his boxers.  His hips lifted into your hand with a soft grunt and he said, “Givin’ me everything, aren’t ya baby?”

You nodded earnestly.  He slid his hand between your legs, ghosting your clit over your panties, making you moan.  

“Wanna make you feel good,” you whispered, groping his hard cock and feeling a wet spot at the tip.  

“Always feel good when I'm with you, darlin’.” 

“Want it in my mouth,” you said.  

He inhaled sharply. “Fuck, darlin’.”  His eyes widened. “That what you want?”

“Yeah,” you nodded and got down on the carpet. 

You got out of the way while he took his jeans off for you.  

He spread his knees again and pulled the waistband of his boxers down below his balls.  He wrapped his fingers around the shaft with his thumb at the tip.  Butterflies swarmed between your legs at the sight of his strong hand holding his cock at attention for you. You nestled yourself between his legs.  

“You sure?” he asked and looked you over. 

You wet your lips and nodded without taking your eyes off his imposing cock. 

“Alright, darlin’.” He looked at you with pride and curiosity. 

You held his cock at the base and opened your mouth, hovering over the tip. 

“Just a little kiss,” he murmured. 

You pressed your lips against the tip and kissed it, sucking the salty precum into your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he sighed. “Now a little at a time.” 

You wrapped your lips around the tip and licked it, looking up at his face for approval.  The look on his face made you wet.  Joel sighed and tried not to lift his hips. “Good. Doin’ great, baby.” 

You sucked a little more of him into your mouth. He was so big, the head alone seemed to stretch your jaw. 

“Good, baby.  Nice and slow, not too much.” His velvety tip grazed the roof of your mouth.  You throbbed between the legs, wishing so badly to have him there instead.  But you had to show him you could give him everything.  

You braced the shaft at the base and the humidity of his salt and pepper hair made you throb more. You sucked and tongued his shaft and looked up at him for approval. 

“Good girl,” he nodded.  His validation made you slurp more of him into your mouth, a little too much, and you started gagging. 

“Easy, darlin’, hold on,” he chuckled.  “Take a breather,” he said.  

You were a little embarrassed.  “I wanna do it,” you whispered. 

“Okay,” he smiled.  “How ‘bout you lick it, get it real wet for us.” 

You salivated at the sight of his cock in his hand and licked him from base to tip three times -  once on the underside, and once from each side.  

“Now use your hand, darlin’.” You hesitantly wrapped your fingers and thumb around his shaft and he swelled into your hand.  His cock dwarfed your fingers, making you wetter. You were salivating.

You asked, “Are you sure you don’t want my mouth?”

“Darlin’, I love your hands.” 

He covered your hand with his and stroked himself with it. 

His hips thrust into your hand and it was so easy to imagine yourself impaled on his cock, it was all you could think about.  

“Give it another kiss, baby.” 

You brought the tip into your mouth again, then licked his cock from base to tip and sucked the head again, curiously tonguing the salty slit. You left as much saliva as you could.  

“Good girl,” he murmured and took your hand in his again. 

You ached to have him inside you. You wet your lips thirstily. 

He watched your face as his breath grew heavier. “Whatcha thinkin’ bout, peaches?”

You had a feeling he knew.  You looked down at his cock then back up at him, then away.  

“Don’t be shy, baby.” 

You looked up and made eye contact. “Putting our bodies together,” you said breathily and watched his face melt into a puddle of want. 

He inhaled through his nose, then murmured, “Want that real bad, don’t ya?” 

You nodded.

“Why’s that, darlin’?” His lips glistened and his eyes were half-lidded. 

“Wanna feel you inside me.” 

He breathed heavier as your hands slid up and down on his shaft.  He asked, “How ya think it’s gonna feel?” 

“I’m gonna be full of you. Attached to you.” 

“Yeah, you will,”  he nodded.  His grip tightened around your hand as he stroked himself. “You’ll be so full of me, baby. ..” 

“I really wanna be,” you whispered. You wanted it so bad you could cry.  “I need to be.”

“You will be, baby,” he said soothingly.  “You want your mouth filled up now?”

“Yeah,” you hovered your mouth near his cock again.  

“Go ‘head, baby.  Take it, it’s yours.” He took his hand away and put it gently on the back of your head.  

You sucked the tip of his cock into your mouth again and made eye contact as you sucked.  

He groaned and his thumb stroked the nape of your neck, then he lifted his hips and erupted in your mouth.  His warm, salty spend hit the roof of your mouth, then the tip slid back along your palate, and he pulsed again.  More cum hit the back of your throat.  Your eyes watered and you swallowed. 

“You did so good, baby.” 

-

He tucked his cock into his boxers and spooned you on the sofa.  

“Why’s it feel so good, doing that?” you asked.  

“Doin’ what?”

“Just having it in my mouth.”

“S’posed to, baby.  Your body’s gettin’ ready for mine.” His words sent a pang of desire between your legs. “Turns you on, right?” He reached under your dress and stroked your panties from the outside.  He felt the dampness and murmured, “Guess it does.” 

“A lot,” you said.  He began stroking your clit rhythmically over the cotton.  Your hips started to move on their own in his hand. You moaned softly. 

He slid his hand into the front of your panties and thumbed your soft curls.  “It’s ‘cause your special parts think I’m fixin’ to put mine right here.” He dipped his middle finger into the pool of wetness hanging at your entrance. 

“I wish you would,” you sighed.  

He groaned softly at those words, the blood already flowing back to his loins.  “You really do, huh?” His voice was low and soft. “You really wanna be full of me.” He wet his fingers with your slick and began gently circling your clit. “Attached to me.” 

“Yeah,” you said. “More than anything.” 

“Love hearin’ that, peaches.”  He held you tighter. 

“I wanna give you everything,” you said. 

“Gotta be ready, darlin’,” he said into the crown of your head.  

“I’m ready.”

“Your body too, angel.” You could hear the smile in his voice. 

“My body wants yours so bad,” you whined.

“Wantin’ it’s not enough, baby.”

You groaned in frustration. 

“Well. . . you tell me, darlin’.  You’ve had it in your mouth now.  Think it’ll fit in this sweet little hole?”  he swirled his finger around. 

“I dunno,” you sighed.   Your body didn’t care, it wanted whatever he would give you. “I’m sorry,” you muttered.

“For what?”

“Not having my body ready.” 

“Oh peaches, I’m glad you’re not.  It’ll be a privilege gettin’ you there.” He gently circled your clit. 

“Really?”

“Of course, darlin’,” he said softly. “Sometimes they bloom late for a reason.” He dipped his finger into your wetness again. “And this one’s just for me, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.  

“We’ll get there, baby.  We’ll get there in time.” 

“Okay,” you sighed. 

“Let’s see how much you can handle,” he said. “See what it’ll take to get there.” 

“Yeah,” you said.  “Please.” You lifted your thigh to make more room for his hand.

He slowly slid half his middle finger into your tight, wet heat. You moaned at his first intrusion. 

He sucked air in through his teeth.  “How’s that feel, baby?” 

“I want more.” 

He took a deep breath and pushed his finger all the way in.

You whimpered, “yeah,” as your body adjusted. 

“God damn,” he whispered as your cunt hugged his digit. 

He curled his finger just slightly and you moaned again. “It’s so thick,” you said.  

“See? Got a long way to go.” His cock twitched against your ass.

“No, it feels good,” you said as he slowly moved his finger inside you.  “I want more.”  

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you answered impatiently.  

“Just one more.”  You squinted in frustration.  Why just one more? 

He took his middle finger out and flattened it alongside his ring finger.  He slid them up and down your slippery seam before slowly plunging them inside together. It was a tight squeeze.   “God damn,” he breathed. He paused half-way in. 

“Feels so good,” you panted.  “Keep going,” you begged. 

“Don’t wanna hurt ya.”

“Doesn’t hurt at all.”

He slowly sank his two fingers into you completely.  “Real snug,” he muttered. “You sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“Too snug? Is that bad?”

“No, no, not at all, baby. But it’s gonna take time to be ready.” He began to move the heel of his palm against your clit and you grinded back against it.  

“God, Joel,” you sighed. 

“Gonna take time,” he repeated.  “‘fore you’re ready for this,” he said with a thrust of his hips, grinding himself into your ass, already fully erect again. He thrust against you again with a soft grunt. 

You asked “You want it too, don’t you?” 

“Course I do, baby,” he panted. “Gotta feel good for both of us, though. Gotta do it right.” He kissed your head and curled his fingers inside you, digging the meat of his hand against your clit again. “Gotta be real special.”

Your clit twitched against his hand and he said, “C’mon, baby,” moving his hand at a slow rhythm. “Every time you come, gets us closer to what we want.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, sugar.”  He breathed heavily with his body enveloping yours, pumping his fingers deep in your cunt, pressing his palm against your clit. 

You let your hips grind back unrestrained. 

“There ya go, darlin’,” he said, pressing his hard cock against you as he moved his fingers.  “Yeah, just like that.” 

You closed your eyes and pretended his fingers were his cock. You knew his cock would feel even better. 

“Can’t wait to be inside ya, baby,” he whispered. “Nothin’ I want more.” He slowly pumped his fingers deeper into you as your body opened up for him.  “Wanna slide into this tight little hole,” he panted, his cock rutting gently against your ass.  “Want you wrapped around me.” He rubbed his palm against your front. “Yeah. . .wrapped so tight around me, baby. Like ya can’t pull us apart”  Your hips grinded into his hand with your climax in sight. “Gonna have you so full of me,” he breathed, then he moaned with a harder thrust against you.   “Joined together,” he added. “Forever, baby. It’s forever,” he whispered in your ear.  “Me and you.” You whined on the edge of your climax.  “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, pumping his fingers, rocking his palm, grinding against your ass. 

He thrust against your ass with a grunt, and his grunt in your ear was enough for you to see stars.  “Joel,” you whined. 

“Yeah,” he said as your climax seized you. You whimpered as you came. “Yeah, I got ya, baby,” he whispered.  “Good girl.” He kissed your head. 

-

He held you and caressed you as you bathed in the afterglow. It gave you clarity on how wrong you were earlier.  You felt the things he felt.  You realized how hurt you would have been if he said the same things – That he was lonely, that it didn’t feel right there.  

“I’m not lonely,” you whispered.  “And of course it feels right, bein’ with you.”

“Okay, baby.”  He kissed your head.  

“Guess I meant the town didn’t feel. . .”  You meant the town. Your stomach dropped as you realized it.

The town. If Abe was really gone, you and Joel were the only two people left in Lincoln.  Joel was the town.  You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you felt like you might be sick.  

“I know, darlin’,” he said obliviously. “But in a way, it’s nice we have this time together.”  His arms tightened around you. “Silver lining.  Right?”  He sighed. “We’re together, don’t care about nothin’ else.” 

“Right,” you whispered and tried not to think about it.  You shivered and Joel rubbed your arms.  “It’s chilly down here. Let’s get you tucked into bed.” 

-

Joel showed you the restroom and your toiletries and towels.  He offered you a painkiller to help you sleep. You didn’t want to take it, but he left it on the nightstand with a glass of whiskey in case you needed it.  “Know it’s weird, sleepin’ somewhere new,” he said. He took a nightgown out of the dresser for you.  He kissed you good night, then shut your door behind him.  

You woke up in the middle of the night when you heard something metal clang then rumble outside.  You felt safer with Joel in the house, but you wanted his arms around you. Maybe he’d let you climb in his bed.  Surely he wouldn’t turn you away.  He was being a gentleman, offering you a bed of your own. You opened your bedroom door as quietly as possible and gathered the courage to go downstairs.  

Downstairs, you pushed his bedroom door open.  “Joel?” you whispered. He didn’t answer. “Joel?” There was a flickering glow outside his window, which made it harder to see the inside of the room until your eyes adjusted.  

He wasn’t in bed.  Not the bathroom, either.  You sat down on his bed and smoothed your hand over his pillow.  You dipped your nose into the cotton and inhaled his scent, closing your eyes.  It gave you a rush of comfort.  A metal clang jolted you back to the moment and the flickering light brightened for a moment.  Your heart raced.  You carefully peeked out the window and faintly saw what looked to be the silhouette of Joel standing over a burning barrel.  You felt like you should go back upstairs, as much as you wanted to curl up in his bed, inhaling his scent.  

Your heart was beating too fast to get back to sleep, and you didn’t know why.  You paced around the room and looked out the window.   You sat at the vanity.  You looked in the drawers.  You were waiting to hear the door open downstairs.  Then you could pretend to come down for the first time.  Joel would comfort you, kiss you, cuddle you to sleep.  But the door didn’t open downstairs.  You paced more and sat on the bed.  You opened the closet and looked at the dresses again. You held one up in the mirror. 

You opened the other closet door and something caught your eye.  In the back, on the very last hanger, there was a dress that made your breath hitch.  White with lace sleeves.  The longer you looked at it, the more butterflies gathered in your chest.  Maybe your eyes betrayed you.  It was too dark to tell.  You closed the closet, took the painkiller, and got back in bed.  You listened out for the door and tried to conjure the feeling of Joel’s arms around you. That was all you wanted. 

-

Thank you so much for reading and engaging! Thank you for your patience, too.  I love you guys!!!

I'm not sure if there will be one more part or two; I have to see how it writes. I feel like probably two, but it could be one long one with a little bit of a time jump.

-

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor 

Lincoln: @fan-fiction-floozy @ivyblxnde @lhymer1995 @sugarspiceanthrax @isimpforfictionalmen @zynbsblogg @swedishscumfuck @sadgirlstoohightocare @steveharringtonswh0re @skythighs @aoziety @leeeesahhh @jupitersmoon-cal @peekymoon @dtfawn 

(ct'd in comments or reblogs)

[paigegonerogue]

Ficlet where Ellie gets a fever/mild cold while still on the road to Lincoln or Pittsburgh? There's just so much time skipped in that whole period before jackson where endless bonding moments and potential for learning to trust can exist

Sorry this took a hot second! Thank you so much for the request!

Anyone can send me asks for specific TLOU story ideas and I’ll write a bit for them! So anyone reading this—feel free to send me requests!

(1.1k words. Mentioned character death.)

(Also I know you said before Pittsburg but I did right after because it worked a bit better for this story)

They were nearly a week out from Kansas City when Ellie’s cough started to worry Joel. It had started small, just a sound he’d attributed to the dusty tunnels they’d all gone through with Henry and Sam. But it had gotten worse. Small, sharp exhales to guttural roars that racked her tiny frame. 

She’d been quiet since KC, something Joel had been trying and failing to convince himself was because of how raw her throat most likely was.

Eventually they found a small town, a place called ‘Lecompton’, as far as he could tell from the worn, tattered signs scattered around the eerily empty neighborhoods.

It had been one of the places FEDRA tried to clear out before they gave up and started barricading civilians in the QZs, or at least he thought, judging from the tank tracks etched into the concrete, bullet holes in the shabby, cracked plaster of houses, and homes burnt until they were just charred frames.

They barricaded themselves in an old bar, Joel sealing all the windows in an attempt to muffle their sounds to the outside. Ellie’s coughs were loud enough that he felt like everyone in the world could hear, and even if the town seemed relatively safe there was probably a stray infected or two somewhere nearby.

”Hey, Ellie, I’m goin’ out for a second.” He took her shoulder after her latest round of hacking screeches. She looked up at him with a pathetic choke, her eyebrows drawn together. “Try to be quiet.”

She looked up at him, widening her eyes and making an explosion gesture above her head. ‘Woah, really?! I hadn’t thought of that’. 

Joel sighed, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Somehow she could still manage to snark him with her voice blown out.

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” He told her. “I’ll be right back.”

He took a seat outside the abandoned bar, letting his head fall back as he stared up at the cloudy sky above him. The cough was making him nervous. A frantic kind of nervousness that could only be cured by getting it to stop. Getting Ellie okay.

He couldn’t trade for medicine. Even if he found another party, people offering something as valuable as medicine almost always had an ulterior motive.

He made a mental note to tell that to Ellie later.

Really all he could do at this point was hope that the cough wasn’t an infection or strep throat. But he was never good at waiting or hoping, and as he stood and prepared to try and find anything useful he could in the small houses surrounding them, he spotted a small pine tree off in the underbrush where the town trailed off twenty feet away.

“Brought you some tea.” He said gruffly, sitting down next to where Ellie was curled in her sleeping bag on the floor. “Need some fuckin’ peace and quiet.” He handed her the tea he’d brewed, still hot in his thermos from the fire he’d snuffed out outside.

Ellie looked down at it, a crease between her eyebrows as she looked back up at him.

“It’s Eastern Red Cedar tea. You make it using the pine and boiling it. Helps with coughs.”

Ellie looked back down at the tea, slowly lifting the cup to her lips and tilting her head back to drink. She made a face, nearly dropping it. 

Joel’s first instinct was to snap at her, but she hadn’t really done anything wrong.

“Yeah, I know it doesn’t taste great,” he told her instead. “But it’ll help.”

Ellie scrunched her lips to the side, nodding once before she reached over towards her backpack, unzipping it and shuffling through the contents.

She pulled out a sketchpad they’d found a few days ago in an abandoned gas station and a blue pen which she shook a few times.

‘U botenist now?’ She wrote in the smallest possible font, trying to save as much room as possible for her surprisingly good drawings.

“First off it’s spelled with an ‘A’, not an ‘E’. Second off… just drink the fuckin’ tea.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, scratching down a quick ‘fine’ before pausing and staring at the letters.

He knew they were both thinking of exactly the same person.

Suddenly the silence didn’t seem so refreshing anymore.

“A couple years after the outbreak this young woman joined our little group of raiders—me and Tommy’s.” He started before he could think better of it. But by the way Ellie lit up he knew it was the right choice. “Drink your damn tea while I’m tellin’ you all this.” He told her, gesturing at his thermos. “So her name was Poppy, which was pretty funny ‘cause she loved plants. Loved ‘em.” He scratched his cheek, considering his words. “She was the caretaker of this garden at her college before the outbreak. Brought the whole thing back from just a couple dead weeds. She was real proud of it.” 

Ellie finally took another sip of her tea.

“Once we’re all headin’ through Kansas and she points out this pine tree. She says ‘that’s an Eastern Red Cedar, it’s good for coughs and bronchitis and joint pain and digestion’. And I really didn’t give a shit, but I go ‘damn, why ain’t we usin’ this all the time?’ And Poppy goes—” he smiled a bit, thinking back to it. “—‘’cause it tastes like if a pinecone could shit’.”

Ellie let out a small laugh, wincing and reaching her hand to her throat. 

“So there’s your story. Now drink.” Ellie grudgingly took another sip, reaching towards her notebook and scribbling something down.

‘What happened to her?’ 

Joel forced himself not to wince.

“We went our separate ways.” He lied. “The group disbanded eventually and we just said our goodbyes.” He could still hear her screams, trapped, rattling around inside his skull, clawing for his eardrums.

He blinked, her decimated corpse flashing behind his eyes.

Ellie looked down, taking another sip.

‘Really?’ She wrote. Joel nodded.

“Yeah. Saw an old ally of mine and they said she’d settled in the Phoenix QZ.” He knew he shouldn’t lie. Shouldn’t come up with tall tales trying to spare Ellie’s already gone innocence, but he didn’t want to see that look in her eyes anymore. The one she got when he knew she was thinking about just another person who died.

“Y’know, I had another ally. His name was Hank, but we all called him ‘Barrel’ because he could handle a rifle best I’ve ever seen.” 

Ellie perked up, looking surprised he kept talking. 

“So one day me and Barrel, we’re out scavenging for food—drink your tea—and we get ambushed. There’s ten raiders on us and we’re dashing like hell to—”

THE END

Remember, send me requests for more! This was super fun to do!

[veganpeachpie]

Books without overwhelming romance

I feel like a lot of books people talk about these days have a heavy focus on romance and spice, which really isn't my cup of tea, and it's hard to find good recommendations that don't have that. So here are some YA/adult books I love that don't have romance as a huge part of the plot!

(There may be some minor romantic subplots, but they aren't a major focus.)

The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles In June, 1954, eighteen-year-old Emmett Watson is driven home to Nebraska by the warden of the work farm where he has just served a year for involuntary manslaughter. His mother long gone, his father recently deceased, and the family farm foreclosed upon by the bank, Emmett’s intention is to pick up his eight-year-old brother and head west where they can start their lives anew. But when the warden drives away, Emmett discovers that two friends from the work farm have hidden themselves in the trunk of the warden’s car. Together, they have hatched an altogether different plan for Emmett’s future.

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles In 1922, Count Alexander Rostov is deemed an unrepentant aristocrat by a Bolshevik tribunal, and is sentenced to house arrest in the Metropol, a grand hotel across the street from the Kremlin. Rostov, an indomitable man of erudition and wit, has never worked a day in his life, and must now live in an attic room while some of the most tumultuous decades in Russian history are unfolding outside the hotel’s doors. Unexpectedly, his reduced circumstances provide him entry into a much larger world of emotional discovery.

Babel by R.F. Kuang 1828. Robin Swift, orphaned by cholera in Canton, is brought to London by the mysterious Professor Lovell. There, he trains for years in Latin, Ancient Greek, and Chinese, all in preparation for the day he’ll enroll in Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation—also known as Babel. The tower and its students are the world's center for translation and, more importantly, magic. Silver-working—the art of manifesting the meaning lost in translation using enchanted silver bars—has made the British unparalleled in power, as the arcane craft serves the Empire's quest for colonization. For Robin, Oxford is a utopia dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But knowledge obeys power, and as a Chinese boy raised in Britain, Robin realizes serving Babel means betraying his motherland. As his studies progress, Robin finds himself caught between Babel and the shadowy Hermes Society, an organization dedicated to stopping imperial expansion. When Britain pursues an unjust war with China over silver and opium, Robin must decide . . .

This Savage Song by V.E. Schwab Kate Harker and August Flynn are the heirs to a divided city—a city where the violence has begun to breed actual monsters. All Kate wants is to be as ruthless as her father, who lets the monsters roam free and makes the humans pay for his protection. All August wants is to be human, as good-hearted as his own father, to play a bigger role in protecting the innocent—but he’s one of the monsters. One who can steal a soul with a simple strain of music. When the chance arises to keep an eye on Kate, who’s just been kicked out of her sixth boarding school and returned home, August jumps at it. But Kate discovers August’s secret, and after a failed assassination attempt the pair must flee for their lives.

Anxious People by Frederick Backman Viewing an apartment normally doesn’t turn into a life-or-death situation, but this particular open house becomes just that when a failed bank robber bursts in and takes everyone in the apartment hostage. As the pressure mounts, the eight strangers begin slowly opening up to one another and reveal long-hidden truths. As police surround the premises and television channels broadcast the hostage situation live, the tension mounts and even deeper secrets are slowly revealed. Before long, the robber must decide which is the more terrifying prospect: going out to face the police, or staying in the apartment with this group of impossible people.

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig Somewhere out beyond the edge of the universe there is a library that contains an infinite number of books, each one the story of another reality. One tells the story of your life as it is, along with another book for the other life you could have lived if you had made a different choice at any point in your life. While we all wonder how our lives might have been, what if you had the chance to go to the library and see for yourself? Would any of these other lives truly be better? Nora Seed finds herself faced with this decision. Faced with the possibility of changing her life for a new one, following a different career, undoing old breakups, realizing her dreams of becoming a glaciologist; she must search within herself as she travels through the Midnight Library to decide what is truly fulfilling in life, and what makes it worth living in the first place.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak It is 1939. Nazi Germany. The country is holding its breath. Death has never been busier, and will be busier still. By her brother's graveside, Liesel's life is changed when she picks up a single object, partially hidden in the snow. It is The Gravedigger's Handbook, left behind there by accident, and it is her first act of book thievery. So begins a love affair with books and words, as Liesel, with the help of her accordian-playing foster father, learns to read. Soon she is stealing books from Nazi book-burnings, the mayor's wife's library, wherever there are books to be found. But these are dangerous times. When Liesel's foster family hides a Jew in their basement, Liesel's world is both opened up, and closed down.

The synopses were all taken from Goodreads. Feel free to comment/DM me if you have any questions about these!

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Darla keeps going, climbing up on the countertop with the phone, but cocking her head all innocently and asking, "For what? What's so important, Violet?"

The phone rings again. This time, she just rejects the call.

Bee continues fussing, settling for a moment, getting loud again when the phone rings again but seeming to settle again as soon as Darla hangs it up. Darla notices. "Well, someone wants her mommy, don't'cha, Bee?"

Violet also winces when Bee starts crying, wishing more than anything she could just turn the phone off and ignore it. But she can't. Not if she wants to keep her family safe. She starts to offer Bee to Darla, but her eyes go wide as Darla reaches for the phone instead, not able to stop her from snatching it out of her hand.

Abigail Lincoln barely has a moment to register the voice on the other end of the line. Her daughter, but not the one she was expecting. She doubts Violet would've told her sister, so she's curious to know how the other found out, and more than a little pissed at how disrespectful she's being.

"No. No, no, no, no, no." Violet scrambles after her sister, still clinging onto Bee tightly, trying to rock her and soothe her while she follows after Darla. "Fuck. Darla, give me the phone back. Now."

[popculturebuffet]

How would you rank the Sam and Max episodes?

This is something I genuinely WAS going to do... but my massive workload and how tired I was at the time won out, a sign I was getting the cold i'm still fighting to finish my christmas reviews on time.

Anyways

Beyond the Alley of the Dolls: Is the clear #1. Recency bias is probably in play a TINY bit.. but it has all the jokes you'd expect, the most enjoyable puzzles in the series with me only having to use my guide occasionally, and genuine great tension and that climax is fantastic. While the season still ended on a high note, it's defintely the biggest and best ending of the trilogy. 2. The Mob the Mole and the Meatball: Season 1's best and honestly the best setting in the series.. and the latter games are none too shabby. It's just such a simple yet messed up concept: a chuck e cheese as a mafia front. Give those mafiso teddy bear heads and you have an outright classic. 3. The Tomb of Sammun Mak: The format bender really helped this one: the reel switching is the series best gimmick to shake things up and is a lot of fun. It's also their best asset flip, is packed with some iconic jokes and is charming as hell. 4. Situation: Comedy: While I loved these games from Culture Shock, Situation Comedy is where everything clicked: better puzzles, a great new environment to explore, great additions in mr featherly and two all time great bits: cooking without Looking and Subrban Cowboys (Their probably hiding a cow) It's only not higher up because it has that wonky as hell cow puzzle. I don't mind a long puzzle but I do mind when the puzzle is just "ask until you get the right question but we won't give you clues as to what the right answer are". It's fine if you can give wrong ansers and get great jokes, not so much in a loop but ot their credit the developers learned that lesson. Mostly.

4. The City that Dares Not Sleep: The touching, hilarous, and heartwrenching coda to the whole saga. The puzzles are a bit lighter, not hitting quite that good ballance of "Tricky but managable" and just being managable mostly. But it's still a standout conclusion to the best game in the trilogy.

5. Abe Lincoln Must Die!: This one like Situation Comedy would rank higher were the puzzles less frustrating or the hike back and forth from the street to the whtie house not tedious. That said while both of those can be grating... Abe Lincoln Must Die is just that funny. You have Max running for president against a giant stone abe lincoln, Superball's debut and of course the war song. I'm really disapointed the later games dropped musical numbers, as War and World of Max are bangers. I still listen to the war song regularly and probably will again just bringing it up here. 6. The Penal Zone: A brilliant start to their best season, a llittle lower due to that pigeon. Yes i'll never not resent the pidgeon pizza puzzle, as what the hell was that. But the chapter overall is fun, hilaroius and lets you get into the new groove of things nicely. Plus Max snorting at the penal zone's name will never not be funny.

6. Bright Side of the Moon: The most gorgeous chapter of the original game , with a grand set piece to close it out, a great villian reveal and of course... world of max. once again the song helps really boost this but it was a truly perfect ending to such a batshit season. 7. Night of the Raving Dead: IS a lot of fun. It has the worst puzzle in the trilogy, the dj puzzle, but damn if Jurgen isn't entertaning. Making a vampire lord an overly dorky scene kid was genius, and adding in that poor monster and of all people superball, and pulpy good flint paper and you have a stew goin.

8. They Stole Max's Brain: This one, like many is only so low thanks to one thing dragging it down: in this case the entire sammun mak act. I dreaded it going in and while it was better than I braced myself for it was still not great. You take my lack of love for stock ancient egyptian themeing (You can use it well but you have to work at it as it has cool astetics but is often used clusmily and sameily) and "The world is changed but only one person remember it plots" and i'm gonna have ab ad time. But the first two acts are so fun it compensates. 9. Culture Shock: Culture Shock is decent and is just above the bottom because while funny, a great start to the series and solid... the later chapters of both it's own game and the series as a whole really step it up. It dosne't help the main guests are the soda poppers who i've made my opinons of clear. Only specs dosen't make me want to kick his ass, to build a machine to kick his ass, to build an empire to house the machine to kick his ass!

10. What's New Beelzebub: Is solid. It's this low due to it's puzzles and the soda poppers reveal being VERY mid. I knew going in.. but that's the case with ALL the main villians and Hugh Blizz and The Narrator's reveals are way more effective: Bliss comes off as off from the start and the narrator is well set up whlie still being effective with an aamazing reveal. The Soda Poppers are just little weenies and them being revealed as the lords of the dammned isn't funny it's just.. what. You had Jurgen RIGHT THERE. The Soda Poppers really do ruin everything

11. Ice Station Santa: Starts well and has some great gags, torture me elmer is the best as is buster blaster

12. Chariots of the Dogs: Is fun, I just felt other chapters were better. But the payoff for the birthday and boscow do help this one up. The sexist humor not so much. Still has neat time travle 13. Reality 2.0: This one is only not bottom because it debuts the COPS. It gave us the COPS who rightly go on to play a bigger role in the next two games as the developers clearly loved them and so do I. It also has a fantastic finale, that graet mario joke and more I forgot, saving it from the bottom. But my god this one smells of "we ran out of time and needded a cheap chapter to make 6." I wouldn't be suprised if bduget is why the sequels are both 5 chapters instead as this one just.. asset flips to hell and isn't super fun about it. It TRIES but the digtial setting just feels lifeless. I think this one hasn't been helped by the sequels all having bigger more expansive sets, while this just feels half assed.

14. Moai Better Blues: has some frustrating puzzles like the cloud one, abe lincoln at his worst and that fucking surfboard minin game. Add in some mild racism and this one is just meh. The weakest chapter of them all. Some good jokes but that's standard for sam and max. What's not standard is that goodamn surfboard. There's a few good jokes but this feels like a mishmash of ideas rather than a more coherent chapter. Chariot Reused a lot but at least it was funny