#Pressed Number Plates

[orbitganymede]

18+, MDNI

having a one night stand with simon and thinking you’d never see him again, he was a good lay, giving you orgasm after orgasm and speaking absolute filth into your ear when he was deep inside your cunt. you’d say maybe the best you’ve ever had, but that didn’t stop you from leaving early in the morning from his sparsely decorated flat, a note left on his side table that simply said you’d had a good night and you hoped he did too, you even added a cute little smiley to the end. then you’d gone on with your day, with your life.

until, about 2 weeks after, there was a knock at your door, it’s late, already having put on your pjs and started searching your pantry for something to make for dinner. and when you open the door, your surprise is palpable, there simon stood, long, strong legs covered in cargo pants, pretty brown eyes locked on you, a black surgical mask covering the lower part of his face, hiding the long scar that you remember feeling rub against your thigh. he holds a bag of takeout and then proceeds to shoulder his way in, leaving a small kiss on your cheek through the mask before making his way to your couch.

you want to ask how he found your place, how he knew you were home, and why the hell he’s here. you actually do ask the third one, which he answers with a simple, gruff “dinner”. you nod slowly, finding your way to the other end of the couch, but are met with a huff and a large hand pulling you closer to him, making sure your leg is pressed right up against his. he plates your food, then starts eating his own, makes small comments about the taste and asks questions about your day. the night seems almost normal, like something you’ve done before with him, disregarding the fact that you’d only been around each other for 2 hours tops and almost all of that time was spent by you trying to do something other than moan his name.

when you’re done you expect him to leave, to go on with his night, or maybe you to wake up from a dream. instead he makes his way to your bedroom, sits down on the bed and tells you how he can’t stop thinking about your lips around his cock. and yeah, you fold.

that’s how you end up learning that his stamina is insane, especially for an older guy, and he likes to see your face, makes sure to face you towards a mirror in full nelson or holds you in mating press with his pink (scarred) lips against yours. maybe you also learn that his phone lock screen is a color scarily similar to your irises and you see a file with your full name (one you hadn’t given him) front and center when he rolls over to unlock his phone, he says something about how he needs to send a message to ‘his team’ about dinner this weekend to meet his new bird, you wonder what kind of sports team he’s on, gotta be rugby with a build like his, but your thoughts don’t stray too far before he’s ready to go again, something about three being his lucky number, that this time it will take.

[madamechrissy]

The Last Mad King

Pairings- Satoru Targaryen x F! reader

Warnings - oral sex (f receiving) mating press, breed kink like a mf, psycho satoru, Sapphire the dragon being cute asf, fingering, cum play, overstimulation, MORE breed kink (he needs his targaryen babies dammit!) mentions of violence and torture

Okayyy I decided to make it a series lmao - surprise - @sweetlandspos is making such inspiring art rn I need to carry on!! :')

<<<Part One - Part Three>>>

Part Two

There were two things that were actually rather lovely about being a newlywed to Satoru Targaryen.

One, riding a fucking dragon.

On your very wedding night, as a man with a flare for the dramatics, Satoru Targaryen made sure that he rode up to that wedding on the back of Sapphire, his hands gently rubbing her neck as he grinned down at you. Sapphire's eyes lit up as she nudged her head, as if she wanted pets.

You nervously stepped forward, brushing your fingers along her scales, and she practically purred in the form of a soft hum, rather sweet for a dragon you watched burn someone. Oh, and she ripped off someone's head - with a cute grin and a lolling tongue, as if she were playing.

You can't help but enjoy her, when Satoru hops down off the saddle he'd had custom made for her, to match her pearly white skin. He hops down and lands right on his feet, he looks majestic in his white robes, holding out a gloved hand for you then, assessing the wedding gown he'd had made.

"Fuck, look at you," he's grinning in that feral, psychotic way again, slipping his fingers across your shoulders, as the wind gently blows your dress around your thighs. "God I can't wait to rip this off you, tear it to pieces."

"I like this dress!" You pout as he throws his head back then, looking at Sapphire.

"Should we let her keep it, baby girl?"

He calls his dragon baby girl?

Sapphire, fast becoming your friend, nods in your agreement, and you smile, and then when you do smile, you make Satoru's heart pound in his chest. "See, she agrees, it's too pretty of a dress."

"Ah, I see, my girls teaming against me," he leans forward, lips pressed against your ear, as if he couldn't have Sapphire hear his next words. "Then I'll just make sure it's filthy, covered in all that cum that'll leak from your cunt."

You gasp, eyeing him and his bright blue eyes, flashing just like his dragon, his big white grin terrifying, your tummy is in knots when he grips your chin, his other hand dancing across the pretty white silk of your gown. You're a flustered mess, much to his clear delight, his chuckle shaking his chest.

"Let's get this on with, I need you in my bed."

The number two good thing about being married to him?

The man ate pussy like he was starved, and he literally skipped your wedding dinner, instead spreading you right on that elegant table and burying his face. The plates and silverware had been shoved onto the stone floor with his haste, while he devours your cunt.

"Your majesty!" You're gasping out as he's lapping his tongue inside your slick hole, your walls pulsing around it as he laps up all your juices, his big hands dragging you against his face, tongue slipping up your slit as he eyes you, snowy lashes lowering.

"Satoru, call me Satoru my queen, hmm?" He pouts, lips glossy from you, his chin coated in your slick.

"S-satoru, it's too sensitive mnh!" He chuckles against you now, leaning up and slipping two fingers in your cunt, brushing your hair back almost tenderly, his crown falling just a bit askew on his head.

"God look at you, so fucking ready to be filled," he's tugging your tit out, sucking on a nipple as her curls his fingers just right inside your hole, pressing right on that spongy spot, as pressure builds in your tummy. "I can't wait for these to leak milk, I'll drink so much of it, we'll have to get a wet nurse."

"What now!? You - ah! Oh my god, I'm gonna..." Your words are lost when the psycho king who wants to suck all your future baby's milk is making you cum right on his fingers. He pulls back, little strings of his clear spit dripping from your puffy nipple, chuckling as the aftershocks rock you.

"You like that thought, don't you? me fucking an army of dragon riders inside you?" You can't function, just whimpering as Satoru looks down at your cunt now, lapping up all the juices that spilled and moaning. "Don't worry, I won't make you wait anymore sweet girl."

You barely register what his chambers look like, lips, thighs spread, his thick mushroomed tip sliding between your slick folds, as your dress is carefully opened, as if he remembers his promise, letting it splay across the bed. He puts his hand on your tummy, grinning as he slides in, watching it bulge as his thick cock stretches you.

"God, look sweetheart - fucking ruining your insides, I can't wait for you to give me heirs," he's slammed all his nine inches so deep, bottoming out as you eye the way your tummy moves, and he grabs your thighs, shoving them up high. "You'll take my seed better like this."

You're gushing around his cock as it splits you in half, as he fucks you into a mating press, your thighs smushed on your breasts, and Satoru's whimpering in your ear as he grips your face with his huge hands. So tightly you think he could crush your skull, his eyes lighting up as he grins and shoves you full.

"You're doing s'good, fuck I'm s'glad I didn't... lock you in the dungeons... fuck, sweetheart you're milking me already!? Greedy little slut, I love it, you can have it all pretty," you're torn between enjoying his filthy fucking praise, cumming on his huge cock, and terror with how he looks at you, how he's pounding into you.

"Satoru!" You can't help but cum on him, and he's slamming his lips on you.

"Taste your cunt, huh? Do you like it?" You weakly nod, he's chuckling and leaning up, shoving his cock deeper, his balls slapping your ass as he moves. "Fuck, I'm gonna fill you up - put all my seed inside you - are you ready sweetheart? Say yes."

"Y-yes - ah!" Satoru fills you up like this, hot spurts of cum as he cries out in your ear, and you can hardly breathe with his weight pressing on you, eyes rolling back in your skull.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he's moaning as he pulls out, making a mess on the comforters, on your dress, as promised, his cock pouring sticky seed all over your perfect dress, as you watch the mess with a furious blush.

He bends down, looking at the mess he’s made of you, groaning. “Mnh!”

"Tch, don't waste it sweetheart, you'll hurt my feelings," he's sadistic when he slips his long fingers around your hole. "Slutty hole is wasting it all, baby that's not okay! You need to apologize," he says it all cute, like he’s not wrecking your cunt so bad it’s aching, his lower lip jutted out, eyes glimmering.

"S-sorry, ah! Satoru fuck!" He's fingering that cum right back inside, cooing as you're whining out at the stretch, cunt already sore and overstimulated.

"I need you to take it all, I need our dragon army baby, hah - imagine when we take over everything," he's sucking his own cum off his fingers then, cheeks hollow as he moans. "God taste us."

Not like you have a choice when the mad king spits his cum right in your open mouth, right on your pink tongue, making him grin with delight as you swallow obediently. You're dizzy, swallowing it down when he has you prone bone, cock shoved right back inside you, stretching you out so good you’re close from the first few strokes.

"Ngh!" Your head falls back as he moans your name in your ear, hand choking you with long fingers around your throat. Sapping your oxygen as he grins against your lips, you taste both of you on his glossy lips.

"More, you need more? Don't worry sweet girl, I have so much to give you - ah - that's it," Satoru's filling your tummy again, his hand slips down it, splaying it with his long fingers. "Already full, aren't you? Fuck I can't wait for it to be so round with me, fill your womb with so much of me."

You're so fucked out and still that mix of terrified and fucked out - after the second round you almost faint, when he pumps more cum into you, so much by the time he's got you on top of him, she’s making a mess, pooling his cum and yours along his flat belly button. “I d-don’t… know what to do up here?”

“Just ride me, fuck if you do a good job you’ll ride my dragon soon, ah! like that, there you go, fuck you're slutty.” You’re not doing much riding, not when Satoru has tugged you against his chest, lifting your ass up and fucking up into you, slamming your cervix and using you. “That’s it, you can take more huh?”

“N-no more cum… can’t fit…” he laughs again, that throaty sound, as he rolls his hips and your head falls back, his cock pumping yet another load of cum.

“Oh you’re such a good girl,” he kisses your neck, up your cheek as you cry just a bit, Satoru laps up a tear and moans, as you tremble. “Water, you need water, I’ve got you sweetheart wait here, okay!?”

You nod as he eagerly runs off, completely fucking naked - and god did that man have a perfect form, if you could see properly you'd admire it more, but your vision is blurred.

Satoru’s back soon, caring as he lets you sip the water, before fucking you again, your cunt is a sore puffy mess when he’s lapping at his own cum as if to clean you, chuckling as you jerk and hiss. He grabs your hips, cock already hard again at the sight of the bruises on them, on how perfect they were, god he just knows you’re going to give him so many babies.

After six rounds, you cannot walk the next morning, but you don’t need to, not when Satoru carries you around in his arms to have breakfast. He’s got you on his lap as the sunlight filters through the windows that morning, feeding you delicately and grinning, as he tosses Sapphire meat into the air. She burns it with her flames before gulping it down, grinning just like her master.

“My two girls, what a splendorous morning aha!” He’s apparently in a great mood, too good of one, you feel his cock pressing against your thigh and you shift, so sore it hurts to sit. “Sweetheart, do you need more cum? You have to eat first!”

Your tummy clenches at the thought, panicking. “N-no! Um… Satoru I’m very-”

“Oh just two more bites, my sweet girl, then I'll fuck you some more. You and Sapphire must eat!” He’s tossing her another piece, she does a little spin, her tail wrapping around her legs, he grins and squishes your cheeks in his hand. “Open up pretty.”

You do that just as he asks, and he moans as he remembers spitting in your mouth last night. He’s already got a finger against your slit, torturing your puffy lips. Your silky blue robes are all shoved up when his advisor Suguru Stark walks in, looking at the sight and raising a brow. “Your majesty.”

“Suguru, not now, I’m preparing my meal,” he says, slipping two fingers in your cunt and grinning, you’re hastily trying to cover your thighs, but Satoru seems to not care one bit if his advisor gets a view of the slick leaking down your inner thighs. “She’s yummy too.”

“I bet she is,” you’re a flustered mess as the handsome man chuckles, burying your face against Satoru’s neck. “I know you’re enjoying your time, but we have to go to this meeting with the emissary.”

“No! I don’t want to go today,” he is running his fingers on your clit, you’re biting your lip as you hear his dragon roar in irritation about the news. “I want to play with my pretty bride!”

“You can later, we need to be there.”

“Oh fuck you, Suguru." The dark haired man raises a brow. "Fine, I need a taste to keep me going,” he’s pulled back his fingers, lapping your cunt off him then. “Fuck you’re so sweet. Baby be good for me, okay?”

“I w-will…” You manage, he’s kissing you over and over, sighing.

“Don’t lose any of that cum, or I’ll have to put it back in, okie?” He’s smiling all sweet, like he's not psychotic and threatening you, tapping the tip of your nose, and you manage a nod. “Good girl, I’ll see you soon, okay baby!?”

"Yes, of course." He's kissing you and humming, and soon you watch as him, Suguru Stark and Sapphire walk out, leaving you alone in the castle aside from a few very frightened and quiet servants. “Fuck, my cunt…”

You’re holding it damn near, hissing at how stretched out you are, your thighs are so sore, your cunt aching, as you wobble along the halls, maybe Satoru wasn’t that bad - he’s just misunderstood? Was it the orgasms talking!? But no, he's so sweet with his dragon and-

Wait, was that a scream!?

You limp over - god this man has you fucked out - and follow the sounds of the screams then, your hand sliding along the golden walls. Decorated along the halls were pictures of Sapphire all over, in various art styles, he’s got only one picture of himself riding her. You can’t help but have a soft spot for the love he has for her, until another scream sounds, echoing through the walls.

What the fuck is that? 

It leads you to a door, hidden inside the walls, and you hear it even more clearly - save us, save us - just what the fuck was going on down there!? You open the door carefully, heart pounding, when you see a dark set of stairs.

I'll have ya'll choose where this goes, I have too much fun with it hehe

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

tags hehe- @starlight5cat @slayzzz @noonalocalll @le0na2 @ilovebattinson @descargueestoporgojosatoru @wstaley2 @evii1e @babychickenscareme @pinky0328 @da-pinguuu @lnette04 @luvmichu @erensdxrling @cringefactory @b0nez9 @aldebrana @sukunandtoru @yomama2089 @maaic @itsmeaudrieee @venus-suc @ivvypg @applepi405 @itsmeaudrieee @bunheadusa @strychnynegirl @jinjen @stvrf1re4 @forest-nymph420 @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs

[lemon-limess]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ x ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

cw/tw: unwanted touching, obsessive behavior, panty sniffing and licking, masturbation

note: someone sent an ask about this BUT I ACCIDENTLY DELETED IT!! I AM SO SORRY ANON I DID NOT MEAN TO DELETE IT AHHHH!! anyways enjoy~ (´・ω・`)

this post will contain 18+ content MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who is used to being fawned and lusted over. born with a pretty face and a charming personality, he knows how to use it to his advantage and charm people into doing his bidding.

He's also insanely loaded. like he has a shit load of sugar mommies/daddies, a paypig, and has a page where he uploads special content. how he's able to manage all that, we'll never know.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who stumbles upon a tiny cafe you happen to work at, feet killing him from walking around with his sugar daddy and sugar mommy in his favorite baby blue stilettos.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ mumbles his order, rubbing his temple from an oncoming headache as he reaches into his bag to pull out his card in between his pointer and middle finger, pays for his items, and heads toward a table located in the corner of the cafe.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who scrolls through his phone mindlessly, the tapping of his acrylics being the only thing heard in the quiet space. you, on the other hand, made his drink with ease, walking back and forth behind the counter to make sure his order was properly made.

walking over to his table, you set down the drink first, to which he began to sip on, and then placed a white porcelain plate with a blueberry muffin right in front of him.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who raises a perfectly trimmed brow and points at the dessert. "I didn't order this." to which you shake your head. "I know! You just seemed a bit stressed so I uh, thought you might need something sweet to brighten your day."

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who's heart skips a beat at your kind words. his cheeks turning red as he stutters out a 'thank you' and nibbles on the sweet treat. you smile and walk back to your station, not knowing the green eyes lingering on your figure.

and that's how ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ made it his mission to visit the cafe pretty much every day in order to get to know you better. not to mention, he leaves a huge tip just for you. bro wants to give you his tip

the more he visits, the more he falls in love with you and your kind personality. eventually, he was able to snag your phone number and texts you every day.

'heya [name]! how r u?' 'are u busy? wanna call later?' 'maybe we could hang out later if ur free??'

after pressing send, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ clenches his phone to his chest, rolling back and forth on his bed as he let out giddy giggles, feet slamming against his mattress.

but it's not enough.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who watches you walk to your car from an alley after a tough day at work and in the early hours of the morning, he calls a tow truck to tow away your car while you were sleeping.

you end up calling him in a panic, practically begging him if he could drop you off at work. he giggles, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, and goes to grab his keys.

"sure! I'll drop you off," ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ turns his car on and begins driving as you gave him your address.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who parks in front of your workplace, you gather your stuff and turned to thank him, only to find his lip gloss covered lips plant themselves on your cheek, leaving a pink mark behind.

you freeze, cheeks warming at his actions. he giggles, leaning over once more to plant another kiss on your other cheek. "have a good day, cupcake!" and drives off, leaving you stunned on the sidewalk.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who then starts getting more confident in his affection.

from simple brushing against your hands to him planting goodbye kisses before dropping you off to work. it always leaves you flustered, but you don't say anything.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who brings you back to his apartment after a stressful day of work; customers shouting at you to hurry up with their order, some even throwing their drinks at you. you were on the verge of crying before ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ came to scoop you in a warm embrace, cooing words of comfort in your ears.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who encourages you to take a relaxing bath using his bath salts and bath bombs.

"i'll give you a back massage while you bathe." he coos, slipping your shirt down your shoulders, kissing at the exposed skin. you shudder at the feeling. "won't it be relaxing? you could have a sleepover here."

so here you are in the bath... with ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist as he snuggled his face in the crook of your neck. when you asked about why he was in the bath with you, he just shrugged you off, mumbling how “we’re both best friends and this is what best friends do."

normally friends don't do this but... you thought, shutting your eyes as ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ scrubbed your body with body wash. it does feel nice.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who immediately notices your relaxed expression, smiles and brushes his hand against your inner thigh. you jump at the feeling, turning your head to the side to stare at him.

"relax~" he laughs, the tips of his fingers teasing your folds. "I'm just washing your body."

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who teases you a bit more before removing his fingers, leaning over to pull out the drain. "time to get out, darling!" he stands up and you immediately look away from his crotch.

jesus fucking christ.

turning your head slightly, you try and get another look before flushing and shaking your head, going back to stare at the water draining. how the hell does he hide that... that weapon on him??

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ notices your staring, hoping out the tub with a towel in hand, not even bothering to hide his cock from your sight. the bastard is practically flaunting it.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who begs you to allow him to wrap you up with a smaller towel, to which you do, but man was it tight on you. pushing your breasts together and barely covering you.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who shrugs at your persistence for another towel. "it's the only clean one I have." he said like a liar, subtly eyeing the hallway closet that had towels that would completely cover you.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who gives you his clothes to wear, ignore how he picks up familiar piece of clothing, briefly bringing it to his nose for a deep sniff before shoving it under his bed for later use.

"i'll change in here with you if you don't mind!~" ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ declared, dropping his towel to slip into his sleepwear. which was an off the shoulder sweatshirt and some booty shorts that BARELY hid his bulge.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who later puts on a movie for you both to watch, sitting his plump ass on you, wrapping his arms around your neck, and giving your neck a quick peck.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who gets bored fast and decides to tease you. subtly grinding his crotch against yours, claiming that he 'was trying to get comfy,' and peppering your neck in kisses. your grip on his waist tightens at his administrations, letting out a small whine as he sucks on your skin slightly.

he soon stops his movements and continues to watch the movie like nothing happened. you pout at him, cheeks hot as you shake your head before watching the movie.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who tucks you into his bed, kissing your forehead like a loving partner before whispering he'll join you soon. you nod, turning to your side and slipping into sleep.

waking up from a loud shout with a startle, you glance at the glowing clock. it was 2 AM. ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ hadn't joined you yet so you slip out of bed and left the room in search of him.

wandering down the hallway of his apartment, another loud shout startles you. glancing around, you spot a closed room with light peeking underneath it. curiosity getting the best of you, you tip toe closer and gently cracked open the door to peek inside.

there on the bed layed ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ, in one of his hands was a clear dildo shoved in and out of his tight ass and the other was tugging at his pink puffy nipples.

in front of him was a camera. the blinking light signaling that it was recording ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ and his self-pleasuring. in his mouth, that barely did anything to cover up his loud moans, were your panties he had stolen earlier.

covering your mouth in shock, you couldn't take your eyes off of him. watching him pleasure himself was hot. ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ was hot. you can't deny that.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who begins to get louder, his hands on the dildo and his nipple went faster and faster. with an arched back, his eyes roll to the back of his head as he came. his sticky white mess landing on his chest and all over his hands, hips jerking his cock into the air, like he was imagining he was fucking into your tight cunt.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who slumps in his bed after weakly reaching over to turn off the recording, spitting out the saliva covered panties next to him and removing the dildo from his ass.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who finally catches his breath, snags a rag from the bedside table and begins to clean himself up happily. "I'll edit and post the video later but for now... it's time to sleep next to [name]!" he cheers, tossing the dirty cum filled rag into the laundry basket and changed back into his sleepwear.

realizing he was heading back to his room, you quickly head back, slipping under the sheets and closing your eyes just in time for his arrival.

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ who sneaks inside the room, gently shutting the door and pulling back the sheets to slide in next to you. "goodnight [name]~" he whispered lovingly, pecking your cheek and spooning you from behind, practically purring from your warmth.

the next morning, you couldn't look at ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ in the eyes, too ashamed from peeking in at his private activities. he notices your behavior and saunters over to your side of the table. "something on your mind, [name]?" he questioned, tilting his head to the side. "you look like you've seen something... naughty~"

you jump, slamming your knees against the table. "n-no! I haven't seen anything, I, uh, just had a weird dream last n-night! haha!"

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ rests his chin on the palm of his hand, a smug look plastered on his face. "you sure?~" he teased. you shout 'yes!'.

later in the day, long after you went back home, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ decides to edit the video he took a few hours ago. staring at the paused screen, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴇᴍʙᴏʏ palms himself through his shorts at the sight of your flustered face watching him please himself.

"you're sooo cute, [name]." he moans, biting his lip. "I can't wait to make you mine."

My tip jar! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) banner made by dollywons

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Recount Your Kids, Batman

[A loose continuation to this post]

Talia doesn't visit the Wayne manor. At least not regularly nor officially. All the batkids and Batman know she comes sometimes, just to check up on Damian and maybe bother Bruce from time to time, but this is the first time she has ever shown up to a dinner.

And, as they all take their seats, she gives Damian a long curios glance. Then, she looks to Bruce.

"Is that everyone?" She asks, easy and lighthearted. One might think she is simply not acquainted with the number of Wayne children or that she is teasing Bruce on the sheer amount of them. But Damian is looking down to his plate, and Tim knows for sure Talia keeps up with Wayne's head count, and Dick is fairly certain Talia would never tease Bruce, at least not so subtly.

It could have been some sort of a hint at Jason. If he was not here, that is. But he is, for once, so this is really all the family at one table.

"Yes?" Dick tries, looking around the table just to make sure. Steph and Babs are not here today, but that's definitely not what Talia could have meant. Bruce also looks just a little confused, which is a nice change of pace since he looked guarded and on edge from the very moment Talia showed up.

The woman hums, her eyes studying Damian. The youngest bat keeps his gaze down on his empty plate. No one really understands what's going on, but they all feel like there's something important and heavy hanging in the air.

Then, Talia stands up and turns to Alfred, "We will be dining later. It has come to my attention that kids are a lot more secretive than I thought," she explains cryptically and smiles at Bruce, "Beloved, will you come with me to the training grounds? I have something to show you."

Bruce doesn't move for a long moment, and Talia's smile becomes almost gentle, "It's about your son."

At least that makes the man move.

When they get down to the Cave - since Talia insisted this was not a matter that could be resolved in the manor's training room - it's not only her, Bruce, and the little bat there, of course. The whole family was way too intrigued, and some were even alarmed.

The most alarming part, though, was the fact that Damian had been uncharacteristically quiet on their way down. Yet, when Dick looked to Cass, she just shook her head slightly. The boy was not worried. To Cass, he looked almost resigned, if a bit displeased.

"Your sword, Damian," Talia commands, and the boy presses his lips into a thin line.

"This is not necessary, Mother."

"It is," the woman looks amused, but there's an underlying layer of concern to her tone.

"...Yes, Mother," Damian nods his head on what feels like surrender and takes his katana. Not the training one, the real blade. Bruce makes a soft, alarmed grunt, but Talia waves him off.

"Not to worry, Beloved. I will not harm our brethren."

She doesn't take a stance, nor does she pick out a weapon, simply lunges for Damian as soon as they are both on the mats. Two daggers seem to appear in her hands out of nothing, and, contrary to her words, her aim is towards Damian's neck. The boy blocks, jumps away, and blocks another attack.

Tim steps closer, "You can't just-"

"Step away, Drake," It's the first time Damian has spoken to them since they've sat down for dinner. His voice is tense, but not derisive. If anything, it sounds a bit tired.

Talia lunges for him again, faster, meaner. Metal clings against metal.

"You understand this can not keep going, my child," she tells the boy, startlingly gentle on the contrary to her definitely dangerous strikes.

Damian doesn't answer.

The rest of Batfam are forced to simply watch the encounter: Damian is mostly on defense as Talia goes for him, harder and harder with every hit. Until, without any warning, the woman strikes for Damian's arm, making him drop his katana, and-

A few things happen at once.

Talia lunges for Damian's throat. Bruce jumps onto the mats so fast that he almost trips. Tim yelps.

But Talia's blade doesn't strike.

A figure of another child, eerily similar to Damian and wearing the League of Assassins uniform, is standing in front of the littlest bat, two crystal clear blades in his hands, blocking the dagger.

Bruce halts midstep. The rest of the family holds their breath.

But Talia simply smiles and drops her daggers, backing away and looking at the boy between her and Damian with a fond gaze.

"Danyal," she greets, and the boy huffs, lowering his weapons. He doesn't drop them - they simply dissipate in the air, turning into tiny snowflakes.

"Mother," he greets back begrudgingly, and his voice is the exact replica of Damian's. A clone? No, because Damian reacts to him nothing like he had to the clones, simply clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes.

"You could have simply asked, Mother," he comments, taking a step forward and stading near the other boy. Danyal. When standing side by side, they look nearly identical - same facial features, same posture, same hair, even if Damian's is a little more tame.

But Danyal's eyes are just a few hues off. Still green but lighter than Damian's.

"I assumed if you have spent years living here and never bothered to mention your brother, I would need a little more than asking, my love," Talia doesn't laugh, but it sounds like she wants to. Both boys roll their eyes, perfectly in sync.

Hold the fuck up, brother?

"Huh. I thought you died," Jason mentions offhandedly, and the whole family whips their heads to him. Yet, before any of them speak, it's Danyal who answers.

"I mean, I did? Kinda?" He waves his hand in the air and shrugs, and he acts so unlike Damian while also simultaneously having his face, that it makes Tim shiver a little.

"You-" Bruce starts, seeming to finally find his voice, but the boy cuts him off.

"I'm not actually yours," he snorts at Bruce's facial expression, "Yeah, I know I look like I am. Blame the ghost sewers, Chronos, and my stupid ass for making decisions while not being fully awake."

There is so much to unpack in that sentence that no one has the barest of ideas on where to start.

Damian curves his lips down in a sneer.

"The longer you stay there staring, the colder the dinner will be when we return," he reminds them, and Danyal suddenly perks up.

"Dinner? Can I join? It's been ages since I've had anything home cooked," he smiles, like there's some kind of an inside joke in that sentence. Damian rolls his eyes.

"The food doesn't come alive in this household, Danyal."

"Bummer," the boy looks a bit disappointed, but not too much. "And it's Danny, for the thousandth time."

Talia picks up her daggers, hiding them somewhere in her clothes in an unnoticeable motion. Then, she gives Bruce a small, if a bit sly, smile.

"You can not call it 'family dinner' if not all your family is there."

[mssishipi]

okay? okay. — sjy

two awkward nobodies turns tension into physical.

content tags: set in 1990's, no plot just loser!jake & loser!reader, s-stuttering? bear with them. explicit content (smut): cunnilingus, fingering, little bit of nipple play. MDNI! WC: 2.3k

It wasn't like Jake had no friends, at least not entirely. Technically, he had three people he occasionally talked to. Maybe not friends in the traditional sense, more like peripheral figures, one he sometimes exchanged notes with before class started, another who shared the same lunch table out of habit, and the third... well, Jake wasn't quite sure who the third was anymore.

When his mother found out it was his birthday, she lit up with an enthusiasm so disproportionate to the occasion that Jake felt immediately suffocated. She insisted on celebrating—went out and bought cake, plastic streamers that sagged against the living room wall, and even set out paper plates. Then she turned to him with a forced smile and said, "Invite your friends, sweetheart. All of them. It'll be fun!"

So, he'd done exactly that. Messaged the three people whose numbers sat unused in his contacts list. He waited until the very last minute, typing out a bland, uncertain invitation that he almost deleted several times before finally pressing send. Predictably, none of them replied.

Except for you.

You showed up ten minutes after the time listed on the message. Jake opened the door like he'd just been caught off guard, blinking behind his crooked glasses as if unsure whether to smile or hide.

"U-uh... H-happy b-birthd-day, J-Jake," you stammered, eyes flicking away from his.

He moved aside to let you in without saying a word, and now the two of you sat at the edge of the couch in his living room.

You kept tapping your foot against the carpet. Jake sat beside you, hunched slightly forward, hands wringing together in his lap, shoulders high. He kept adjusting his glasses even though they didn't need adjusting, the same way you kept picking at your nails or brushing invisible lint from your sleeve. Both of you mirrored each other's awkward tics without realizing it. The half-eaten cake on the coffee table sat untouched, its frosting slowly melting.

Jake finally broke the silence. "S-so... you came."

You nodded once, eyes flicking briefly toward him before darting away again. Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. "Y-yeah. Um. I d-didn't have anything else, so..."

The sentence trailed off, neither of you bothering to pretend it was a convincing excuse. There was no music playing. No other voices in the house. His mother had retreated to the kitchen, likely pretending to busy herself while eavesdropping.

Minutes dragged of another silence, Jake reached for a slice of cake, changed his mind, pulled his hand back. You leaned forward like you might say something, then leaned back instead.

Jake cleared his throat, “uh… want to go to my room?”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rising from your collar to your ears. You adjusted your glasses with shaky fingers, blinking once, then nodding. “Y-yeah… okay.”

"R-right there, Jake… ahhh. Just like that, please."

The faint static hum of the cassette player filled the air, mixed by the breathy sound of your voice that was something Jake never imagined he’d hear.

He never thought the first time he'd taste someone—you, of all people—would feel like this.

It was like a discovery. A minute ago, it had been all small talk and the awkward thuds of your steps across his carpeted floor. Now, his mouth was buried between your legs, and his world had narrowed to the rhythm of your breath and the sweetness of your skin.

Jake seen you at school, always half-hidden under oversized jumpers and layers. You’d sit beside him sometimes at lunch, two losers orbiting the same cafeteria table in silence, sharing glances that lasted just a second too long, and yet neither of you had ever said anything

Now, he realized what he’d missed, what had been concealed beneath the quiet demeanor and deliberately plain clothes. Your body was insanely hot, sinfully curved in ways that had Jake's hands unsure of where to settle, his brain desperately trying to keep up with what his body was experiencing. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged with heat, and the tips of his ears were burning as he adjusted his angle and listened to every sound you made in response to his tongue.

He licked tentatively at first, awkward, but then you moaned his name and something in him snapped. His hands gripped your thighs with more certainty. He moved his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, testing what made your hips twitch or your breath hitch. Each reaction you gave was a reward, and Jake chased them obsessively.

"Please… m-more."

Jake nearly lost his mind. He moaned, open-mouthed, right against your soaked folds, the sound vibrating into you as he pushed his tongue in deeper.

There was still a part of him that couldn’t believe this was real. That he was doing this. That someone was writhing beneath him, clenching at his sheets, begging him not to stop.

He remembered how grossed out he used to be, overhearing locker room talk from guys who bragged about "the best pussy of their lives." Their words always came with a smirk, with arrogance, with a tone Jake hated. He thought it was pathetic.

Now, he fucking understood. The sounds you made, the way you whined, whimpered, and gasped sent heat rushing to his groin, making his cock throb painfully in his pants. But he ignored it. You were the center of his world right now. Your pleasure. Your body. Your voice. He’d never been good at much, but if he could just make you feel like this, if he could memorize every twitch and moan, then maybe he could be good at you.

Jake glanced up through the fogged lenses of his glasses, catching a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were barely open, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. Your head was tilted back, exposing the column of your neck as your hips rolled into him, grinding your heat against his mouth.

He groaned again, involuntarily, as he looked lower—your breasts bouncing softly with every motion, round and heavy and perfect, the sight alone enough to make him dizzy.

God, you were so fucking hot.

He pulled back just enough to drag his tongue slowly across your slit, savoring the taste. Then, with shaky resolve, he let one hand slide lower.

He pressed a finger against your entrance and felt how wet you were. Tentatively, he pushed in, slowly, watching your reaction, his finger slid inside you, warm and tight, and Jake nearly whimpered at how it felt around him.

Your moan cracked sharp through the air, and he moved quickly, adjusting. He ducked his head, focusing his lips on your clit, sucking softly. Your hips twitched against his face, your moans climbing in pitch, and Jake’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved his finger in a gentle rhythm—curling, dragging, retreating before plunging in again.

"Jake!"

He added a second finger without overthinking it, pushing deeper as he sucked harder on your clit. His pace grew more confident now, still trembling slightly, but driven by the way your thighs began to clamp around his shoulders, your body helplessly responding to everything he did. He could feel the way your walls clenched around his fingers. 

He was drowning in you, and he didn’t want to come up for air.

His hand gripped your thigh harder as he thrust his fingers faster, curling them just right, chasing the way your cries rose in volume and pitch. Jake couldn’t stop moaning either. 

Jake lifted his head, pulling back just enough to speak, breathless, face glistening. His fingers never stopped moving inside you. "Am I… am I doing a good job?" he asked,  eyes wide with hunger.

You reached for him, grabbing the frame of his glasses, tugging them gently off his face and setting them aside. Then your hand cradled his jaw, pulled him up over your body, and you kissed him hard.

The moment your lips crashed into his, you both moaned into each other’s mouths. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and intense, spit-slicked and shameless. Jake’s hand stayed between your legs, his fingers never stopping, still thrusting and curling inside you as your hips rocked against his palm.

Your tongues tangled in a frantic rhythm, colliding like neither of you had ever kissed someone before—and in truth, maybe neither of you had quite like this.

Jake whimpered against your mouth as your teeth caught his lower lip, tugging at it before crashing into him again. He tasted you on your tongue, on your lips, everywhere. 

His free hand slid under your back, holding you tighter, pulling you against him. Your breath hitched as his fingers curled again inside you, faster now, more urgent. The wet sounds of his hand between your legs mixed with the quiet, needy gasps you both kept sharing in between kisses.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hips grinding unconsciously against the mattress, desperate for relief, but he never stopped moving his fingers inside you.

You broke the kiss first, gasping for breath, your lips swollen, eyes fluttering open with a dazed kind of bliss.

“A-are you close?” Jake asked.

You nodded frantically, whimpering louder as your hips rocked down against his hand, chasing the high he was pulling from you so perfectly.

Jake shifted, sliding behind you, pulling your body back against his chest. He wrapped an arm under your chest, his palm cupping one of your breasts. The second his fingers brushed your nipple, he moaned against your neck—actually moaned—at how soft and warm you were in his hand. His thumb began to flick over it, teasing it to a stiff peak while his other hand stayed between your legs, fingers thrusting deeper now from this new angle.

In this position, he had control.

His legs tangled with yours, spreading them open, locking you down so you couldn’t close them even if you tried. His chest pressed against your back, every shaky breath he took ghosting over your shoulder. His fingers buried inside you could now reach places that made you cry out, nearly screaming as your head fell back against his shoulder.

Jake caught the sound with his mouth again, kissing you, swallowing your cries as he worked you relentlessly.

"Say my name when you cum," he breathed, voice cracking with need. "Tell me I'm doing good. Please. Please."

His hips rocked against you from behind, his clothed cock rutting helplessly against your lower back, leaking through his boxers. His thumb kept playing with your nipple, gentle and desperate at once, trying to hold you in place while you trembled against him.

You could barely think. Your skin was burning, your stomach tight with that sharp, spiraling pleasure that was just about to break loose.

You grabbed his wrist, guiding his fingers faster, pushing yourself down on them.

“Y-You’re doing so good, Jake,” you moaned, biting your lip. “Fuck, your fingers feel so good—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

Jake gasped behind you, clinging tighter to your body, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, desperate to be anywhere on you. You kept whispering, choking on moans, eyes rolling back as your climax crept closer with every flick of his wrist.

“You’re making me cum, Jake,” you panted, mouth falling open, hips jerking. “God, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard on your fingers—fuck—don’t stop.” 

Jake whimpered again, rutting harder against you from behind. 

And then you came.

You screamed his name, your body convulsed in his grasp, your slick heat pulsing in wet, desperate contractions that squeezed him in a way that made his brain blank out completely.

Jake’s eyes widened in a haze of disbelief as his cock throbbed once—twice—and then spilled. Completely untouched, fully clothed, still grinding against your back, he came in his pants.  His cum soaked the front of his boxers, but the feeling that overtook him was so violently good, he couldn’t even care.

He gasped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body trembling as the orgasm ripped through him, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out like an idiot. His hips jerked again, trying to ride out the friction.

Jake made a girl cum.

Jake made a girl fucking cum.

His mind couldn’t process anything else. Jake slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked cunt, blinking down at them in disbelief—glossy with slick, dripping down to his knuckles. Your cum. 

His heart pounded in his ears. His glasses were gone. His pants were soaked with his own mess.

And still, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “I… I made you cum.”

"Y-yeah," you squeaked, still catching your breath. Your fingers reached behind you, gently brushing over his thigh. “T-thank you, Jake…”

He swallowed hard. “Did I… Was it… okay?”

You turned slightly, shifting in his lap, enough to glance back at him. His face was flushed deep red, hair sticking up in awkward angles, your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile, and you leaned back against him again hesitantly. 

Your lips curved into a soft, breathless smile. You leaned back against him again, a bit hesitant, but you wanted him close. 

“Okay?” you echoed with a light laugh, still flushed. “Jake, I couldn’t see straight. You made me forget my own name.”

Jake blinked rapidly. “U-uh, really?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, biting your lip as your gaze dropped, suddenly shy again in the aftermath. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Really.”

There was silence. You felt Jake shift behind you slightly, still holding your body.

And then, in the quietest voice, he asked:

“T-then… can I… can I keep doing this to you?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes again. He looked scared. Like he’d already started bracing for rejection. 

You nodded, leaning in to press your lips to his jaw. “O-okay.”

His hands tightened around your waist, you could feel him harden again against you, still trapped inside soaked boxers, his body catching up fast to what his heart had just heard. 

"Okay? Okay." 

[mercvry-glow]

love me hard love me soft

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.

warnings. age gap (jack mid/late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), typically pitt medical drama stuff, hospital setting, work place kind of relationship, they're pining but not kissing, other pitt characters, santos is mouthy, no use of (y/n), but let me know if there's more!

notes. the jack abbot grind is real and alive within me, I need so many more fics with him to come out. not much to say here, but since my requests are open I will mention I do try to keep my readers as nondescript as possible so every one can feel welcome here! please enjoy and any and all feedback is welcome, ask box is open as always!

wc. 1600+

It was no secret to the PTMC staff that Jack Abbot wasn’t a soft man. Rough around the edges and tough as nails, the ex army medic was as stoic as they come. He had been at the pitt for a number of years before you came around, working day by day to provide the best care he possibly could for the people that came to the ER. 

It was a hard job, physically and mentally taxing on the body. Everybody kenw that, it was basically in the job description—but you made it easier on him, and everybody saw. 

You, the nurse who had come in as a temp, were the saving grace of quite a few people in the pitt. 

Jack included. 

Sure, he was a hardass but he was genuine and kind if not a bit guarded. 

“You could take it easier on some of the interns ya know,” you said, taking a seat next to Jack as he finished charting a few things on one of the computers at the nurses station. 

He left a small scoff, not turning to look at you “the job isn’t easy, they can go to Robby if they want someone nicer.” 

You gave him a knowing look, “You’re plenty nice, Jack. They just want to learn from you, being more approachable is what makes you a good teacher.” 

Tough love was more Jack’s style, patience was yours. 

“Jesus, woman. You come over here to lecture me or something? I’m sure someone needs their temperature checked.” That remark earned him a slap on the arm and an indignant scoff from you. 

“Oh don’t be an asshole Jack! I’m just saying you’d go a lot farther with some of the younger staff if you could lighten up.” Sitting forward in your rolley chair you scooched closure to the older man, clearly invading his personal space as the two of you continued the conversation in a small moment of peace. 

Jack leaned back in his chair just slightly, eyeing the way your knees bumped against his. You were always doing that—getting in close. Somehow you weren’t scared of what might be underneath all that steel-plated attitude.

He tilted his head toward you. “You know I don’t do well with ‘lightening up.’ That’s your department, Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” you warned, trying not to smile.

He smirked—just a twitch of the lips, but enough to count. “Then stop smiling every time I do.”

“Touché.”

There was a beat of quiet between you, broken only by the distant rattle of a gurney being rolled past and the soft clack of a keyboard a few feet away. It was almost peaceful. Almost.

“You really think I’m too hard on them?” he asked, voice lower this time—quieter, more honest.

You blinked. He rarely opened the door like that, even after years of working together, of being together. 

“I think you’ve seen a lot of bad, Jack,” you replied, nudging his foot with yours under the desk. “And I think you want to make sure they’re ready for it. That’s not wrong. But… compassion doesn’t make you weak. And letting them in, letting me in, more doesn’t make you soft.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the monitor, lips pressed tight.

Finally, he said, “You made the Pitt better when you walked in here, you know that?”

You looked at him, surprised.

“That’s not me being soft,” he added gruffly. “That’s just the damn truth.”

You smiled again, leaning back with a little satisfied hum. “See? You can say nice things.”

He groaned and went back to typing. “Don’t get used to it.”

On the otherside of the pitt, a few of the interns (namely Whitaker and Santos) stood watching the interaction. 

They couldn’t understand what was different about you, why Dr. Abbot let you get so close or why it even mattered to them. 

“Is he actually smiling?” Whitaker whispered, brows furrowed like he was witnessing some kind of natural phenomenon.

Santos squinted, arms crossed over her black scrubs. “I think that was technically a smirk. But yeah. I’ve never seen him do that before. Not even when a guy walked in here with a screwdriver in his shoulder.”

Whitaker huffed. “What is it about her? Like… we’ve been here for weeks and the guy barely grunts at us outside of traumas.”

“She called him an asshole once,” Santos said, deadpan. “To his face.”

“That’s what I mean! Anyone else’d be doing triage on themselves. But her? He likes her.”

They both watched as you leaned in and nudged Jack’s arm again, laughing softly at something he said. The kind of sound you don’t really expect to hear in an ER.

Whitaker shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s because she doesn’t try too hard,” Santos mused. “She just… gets it. The pace, the patients. Him.”

Whitaker rolled his eyes. “You think it’s cute, don’t you?”

Santos shrugged, hiding a grin. “Kinda. But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll say you’re lying.”

The brief quiet between didn’t last long—peace rarely did in the Pitt.

“Trauma incoming!” someone called from the double doors, and instantly, the mood shifted. The air snapped to attention. Everyone shot to their feet at the same time, chairs rolling and shuffles heard in unison.

“Room 3,” Dana’s voice rang out. “Ped versus auto, ETA three minutes. Bystander started compressions.”

You and Jack were already moving, grabbing gloves and snapping them on. He tossed you a look, his version of “ready?”—and you gave a nod back, adrenaline kicking into gear.

Inside the trauma bay, the gurney rolled in hard and fast. Blood, pressure alarms, panicked shouts. A young teen, unresponsive, with a cracked helmet and the visible deep red staining the right side of his jeans said it all.

Jack took command like always. “Let’s go! O2 on, wide bore IVs—Kid, stay with me.”

You moved into position while the interns filtered in along the wall, wide-eyed and stiff. Santos lingered a bit too close, trying to be helpful but also trying to see everything at once as per usual.

“Pressure’s dropping,” you called out, hand on the young man’s wrist. “Palpable at 70.”

Jack was already cutting through fabric, assessing the damage. “Get that line in now. If he’s got internal bleeding—”

Santos blurted, “Damn, this is intense. No wonder she’s always stuck to you like glue.”

You froze for a split second—so did Dana and everybody in the room—and Jack’s head snapped up like a missile had locked on.

“What did you just say?” His voice cut through the chaos like a ten blade.

Santos blinked, caught completely off guard. “Uh—I didn’t mean—”

“This is a trauma room, not a gossip circle,” Jack barked. “If you’re not focused on the patient, you can get the hell out.”

Silence fell for just a second before another doctore pushed past Santos to jump in on the line.

“Intern out,” Dana said firmly, giving Santos a nudge toward the door without even looking at her.

You didn’t have time to react, not really—not when a kid’s life was in your hands—but you felt Jack’s presence tighten beside you. All steel again. The warmth from earlier was gone. Not for you—but for everyone else.

And Santos would probably think twice before running her mouth in the middle of a trauma again.

The rest of the team worked in a tight rhythm, the energy electric and focused. Fluids in. Monitors up. The suction buzzed while Robby barked vitals. You stayed glued to the patient’s side, hands steady, voice low and soothing despite the pressure.

After what felt like forever but was only about ten minutes, the kid finally stabilized. Pressure creeping up. Oxygenation improved. No sign of a brain bleed on the portable.

It was a win, another save. 

“Get him up to CT,” Jack instructed, peeling off bloodied gloves. “Page ortho for that femur. Kid’s gonna have a hell of a time if he wants to bike again,”

As the gurney rolled out, the noise faded into the hallway. The tension broke. Air was breathable again.

Jack leaned against the wall as people filed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. You stepped up beside him, just outside the room, letting the buzz of the hospital fill the gap.

“You alright?” you asked softly.

He gave a low grunt. “Would be better if I didn’t have interns running their mouths in the middle of a code.”

“She was probably just nervous,” you said gently, though you couldn’t begin to excuse Santos’s timing. “And maybe a little dumb.”

Jack snorted.

You nudged your elbow into his. “Things look different for everyone.”

His brow quirked, eyes flicking toward you. “That’s what that was?”

You smiled, giving a little shrug. “I mean… could be worse, right?” 

Jack rolled his eyes but didn’t push you away, which for him might as well have been affection after what had just happened.

“I’ll talk to Santos,” you added. “She’s got so much potential. Just needs to learn when to shut up.”

“I’ll make Robby talk to her too,” Jack said quietly, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But not today. She already got lucky once.”

You leaned your shoulder against the wall, mirroring his posture.

“Y’know, for what it’s worth…” you said, glancing sideways at him, “You were kind of amazing in there, as always.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those tired hazel eyes.

“Don’t start,” he warned lightly. “You’re already ruining my image.”

You smiled, placing a small kiss on his cheek. “Too late.”

mercvry-glow 2025

[elodieunderglass]

History of Black jockeys in the USA: tumblr starter pack

The gif above was created by animating the motion study of “Annie G,” plate 627 of Eadweard Muybridge’s 1887 work, “Animal Locomotion”. The horse is a mare named “Annie G.” The jockey, unknown, is a Black man. It is one of the earliest motion studies on record, and captures some of the first humans and first animals to be recorded this way. (The earlier 1878 Muybridge study of the mare Sallie Gardener is more famous but you can’t really see the jockey.)

The Black jockey is referenced (fictionally) as an ancestor n Jordan Peele’s film Nope (2022) which also looks at the relationship between Black men, horses, and the consumption for entertainment of both of their bodies.

Fold into that what we are learning about today’s acceptance of the jockey-as-consumable, of their body as an accessory, of their wellbeing as mostly irrelevant; but then remember that once upon a time, people cared a lot more about horse racing. This is a big, tricky topic in American horse racing. There was a time in American history when Black jockeys were enslaved and forced into a job that we know is dangerous and consuming. Later there was a time in American history when Black jockeys were incredibly influential and important, competing equally alongside white jockeys, and they were deliberately pushed out of a sport they had mastered.

“The Undefeated Asteroid,” Edward Troye, 1864. Enslaved horse trainer Ansel Williamson, right, holding saddle. Ed Brown, jockey on left adjusting his spurs, was the young enslaved jockey. The groom is unidentified.

Press Keep Reading for an essay/signposts to resources. It’s intended as a jumping-off point for curious people and historians to learn more. TW for racial discrimination and discussion of weight.

As we know by now, jockeys are considered consumable/disposable by their sport; they are athletes whose names are less memorable than their mounts and their working conditions are tough. The sacrifices that jockeys make today to remain strong and light are hard enough when the jockey is willing. They have hard weight limits on their profession. And one of the very dark horrors of this was that young enslaved Black men of small stature and riding ability were singled out and used as jockeys. Their sacrifices would not have been willing. While this essay is about the Black athletes who willingly entered the sport post-abolition, I think it’s important to be up-front about the history of enslaved jockeys in America. Jockeys like Ed Brown (above) were forced into the job very, very young.

Horse racing is a bonkers calling, but it’s also one that people willingly follow. Post-abolition, there were many Black American jockeys who were incredible athletes, their records and statistics still impressive today. In a surge of excellence around the 1890s, Black jockeys rose to remarkable influence and power in America, becoming household names above even the horses, travelling the world, greeted with admiration, true celebrities with their faces on merchandise. At the very first Kentucky Derby, raced in 1875, 13 of the 15 jockeys were Black men.

Between 1890 and 1899, African American jockeys won the Kentucky Derby six times. By the early 1900s, they were history. The key push to exclude Black jockeys came when White jockeys began violently attacking their African American counterparts by boxing them out during races, running them into the rail, and hitting them with riding crops. These attacks prevented Black jockeys from finishing in the money, and endangered fragile and valuable racehorses. Soon after the attacks began, African American jockeys found they could not get rides. Anxiety over job insecurity appears to have played an important role in White jockeys’ actions: there were only a limited number of riding slots. White jockeys would have benefitted in any circumstances from the exclusion of Black jockeys, but in the late 1890s the US was in a depression, and unease about finding rides was especially high. Combined with a growing anti-gambling crusade that reduced attendance at racetracks and eliminated some tracks entirely, jockeys found demand for their services contracting.(National Bureau of Economic Research)

Professor Pellom McDaniels, describing the impact of this on legendary Black American jockey Isaac Burns Murphy:

MCDANIELS: If black people are supposed to be inherently inferior, to have someone who demonstrates success in material terms unravels this idea and therefore those whites during this time period who believe themselves to be inherently superior, something's broken in their psyches. And Murphy represents that kind of attack on white supremacy.

Isaac Burns Murphy, one of the best American jockeys of history, had an unprecedented rate of wins (something like 44% which is almost impossible.) he was born into slavery, but his mother managed to escape with him as a toddler to a Union Army camp. He was inducted into the Jockey’s Hall of Fame in 1955 and Eddie Arcaro was quoted, “there is no chance that his record of winning will ever be surpassed.” (How could it?!)

Today, the American Racing Museum honours many Black jockeys of history in their Hall of Fame, telling some truly incredible stories that are worth browsing.

Like James Winkfield. Born in America 1882, died France 1974. won the Kentucky Derby twice. Left America due to this rising backlash against the growing prominence of Black jockeys, the KKK in particular explicitly objecting to his celebrity and earnings by sending him death threats. Winkfield therefore rode and trained in Europe, settled in Russia, FLED THE 1919 REVOLUTION WITH 200 HORSES?, married an exiled Russian aristocrat (????) and, lest he know peace for five minutes, defended his horses from the European Nazi invasion with a pitchfork(!!!!). Fleeing WW2 to America, where the new racial segregation was now being widely embraced, Winkfield found hotels that had once welcomed the celebrity athlete suddenly turning him away (never forget that segregation was artificial and deliberate.) I am still stuck on him sneaking 200 thoroughbreds out of Russia. Here’s his Britannica article and Hall of Fame bio.

The campaign of racism and terror was successful at driving Black athletes from the profession, and Winkfield was the last Black jockey to win the Kentucky Derby. Jim Crow swept through the USA, and white people in the South comforted themselves with “lawn jockeys,” racist caricature lawn ornaments of Black men in jockey silks.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that Black jockeys began winning high-stakes races in the USA again.

Hopefully this has spurred (ha!) your interest. Here are some links if you find yourself interested in more!

American racing museum: Jockey hall of fame

Kentucky Derby Museum’s Black Heritage in Racing collection

How and Why Black Riders Were Driven from American Racetracks (summary paper, National Bureau of Economic Research)

There is no competition: the legacy of black jockeys (1975 entry in Sepia magazine preserved here. Note that James Winkfield’s picture incorrectly identified as Isaac B Murphy.)

This 1975 photo is from the article above and describes Cheryl Smith, “first Black American female jockey to hold a license.” I haven’t been able to find out much about her, but I’m not a historian - let me know if she takes your interest as a topic!

It looks like there are some big interesting books on the subject, though I haven’t read them myself. If you’re interested in doing a research project, here they are!

The Great Black Jockeys: The Lives and Times of the Men who Dominated America's First National Sport, by Ed Hotaling, 1999

Isaac Murphy: The Rise and Fall of a Black Jockey, by Katharine C Mooney, 2003

The First Kentucky Derby: Thirteen Black Jockeys, One Shady Owner, and the Little Red Horse That Wasn't Supposed to Win, by Mark Schrager, 2023.

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader  word count: 2.4k notes: part 3 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack WAYYYYY fluffier than the prequel — a gift to me and all of you. Also I think this might be the last part??? unless any of you have questions or one shots you want to hear about these two 🥹

You’re late to Beau’s baseball game. Not wildly—just enough that your pulse is up, your hair’s a mess, and you feel that twist in your chest that only happens when Jack gets there first.

You scan the bleachers, hand shielding your eyes. He’s easy to spot. Legs stretched out, ball cap pulled low, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. One arm draped across the bench beside him, claiming space.

Of course he saved you a spot.

“Christ,” you mutter, flopping into the seat beside him. “It’s mid-April. Why is it still so cold?”

Without missing a beat, Jack tilts his head toward the parking lot but reaches down at his feet. “There’s a coat in the car, but I’ve got a blanket here.”

He pulls out a slightly-rumpled camping blanket and offers it without looking—like this is just what you do now. Like he’s still the guy who knows when you’re cold before you say it.

You shake your head, tugging the sweatshirt you’ve been holding over your head.

“I’m good. Just needed this.”

Jack turns. Looks. And comically blinks.

It’s the team hoodie. The one the team mom handed out last week. Big enough to swallow you whole. Team logo on the chest. But it’s the back that gets him—ABBOT in bold block letters, above Beau’s number: 4.

You pretend not to notice how he’s staring. Pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips when his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“God,” he finally breathes. “You could’ve warned a guy.”

You smirk, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, low and hoarse. “You realize that, right?”

“It’s not like I put your name on it for you, Jack. There’s no player with my last name. I’m supporting our kid.”

His eyes drag down your body again—slower this time. Less surprised. More… appreciative.

“Right,” he says, blinking slow. “Supporting Beau. Totally normal. Not suggestive at all.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. It’s a losing game—trying not to feel everything you’re feeling. Want. Nostalgia. The sharp edges of maybe.

“He’s almost up to bat.”

Jack lifts his phone like he’s just remembered he has it. “Gotta document the moment. Hold still.”

You hear the shutter click.

“Send that to Robby and I’m never wearing it again.”

He grins as he taps the screen. “Too late. It’s already in the group chat. Dana’s gonna combust.”

You groan, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. “You’re such a menace.”

But you feel his gaze still on you. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s remembering the nights he used to get to see you in nothing but one of his sweatshirts—and wondering if this counts.

He nudges your knee with his. “You know, it’s not too late to get one with your last name on the back.”

You glance sideways.

“I mean it.” His voice softens. The grin tugs at his mouth, but his eyes are steady. “You wear my name like that again, I might get ideas.”

Your breath catches—just for a second.

You look away, toward the field, voice deliberately casual. “Let’s just focus on the game, Romeo.”

But he leans in, not quite touching, his breath warm against your ear.

“Sure,” he murmurs. “For now.”

And when Beau steps up to the plate, Jack sits back with one arm stretched casually across the bench behind you, fingertips grazing the letters printed across your back.

–

The next weekend is Beau’s half-birthday—his idea, obviously—and while you and Jack didn’t plan a full-blown party, somehow it’s turned into one.

Robby’s manning the grill like he’s auditioning for Food Network.. A couple of interns are tossing a ball with Beau and his friends on the lawn. You’re watching from the shade with a drink in hand.

Jack sits beside you, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. And it kind of is.

“You need anything?” he asks.

You hum a soft no, your shoulder brushing his.

Across the yard, Dana lowers her sunglasses and stares you down as she approaches.

“Well, well, well.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Look at you two. Domestic as hell.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Jack mutters, sliding his arm around your waist.

Dana smirks. “No, I say that like I’m preparing a toast for the wedding.”

You roll your eyes.

“Not yet,” Robby calls from the grill. “But someone got tagged in a very cozy park bench photo last week.”

Jack winces. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” you say, leaning into him. “People were always going to talk. At least now it’s about something we’re proud of.”

He glances at you—really looks—and nods once.

Just then, one of the neighborhood moms hustles over, diaper bag slung low. “Do you mind watching the baby for a few? Would love to pee in peace for the first time in years.”

“Been there,” you say, arms already out. “Take all the time you need.”

You settle with the baby, Jack beside you, the baby nestled against your chest. Comfortable silence settles between you.

“Now is this grill a time machine?” Robby shouts. “Feels like we’ve turned back the clock five years.”

Jack chuckles, leaning in to nibble the baby’s socked foot. “Yeah. I miss this age.”

You hesitate, heart in your throat. You’ve been dealing with major baby fever lately—but you never thought you'd get to feel this again. Not with him. Not here.

You bite the bullet. “Always thought I’d have two or three, y’know?”

Jack hums. “Never even thought I’d have one. But after Beau, I figured we’d end up with a whole football team.”

A neighborhood kid runs up and squints at you. “Mrs. Abbot… is this your baby?”

You laugh. “Nope, this is Mrs. Turner’s baby. I’m just holding her. My only baby is Beau—and he’s all grown up now.”

The kid nods solemnly and runs off.

“Tough crowd,” you murmur.

You turn—and find Jack still watching you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a quiet look on his face, “...you didn’t correct her on the last name.”

“She’s four. It's a bit complex to explain that yes, my son’s last name is Abbot, but mine isn’t.”

His lip quirks. You nudge his shoulder gently with yours.

–

It’s Beau’s Pre-K graduation and he’s somewhere outside, bounding around in his paper cap with the usual crew.

Inside, you’re balancing a lukewarm coffee in one hand and a paper plate of grocery store cookies in the other. Someone’s mid-way through an impassioned pitch about why you should join the PTA next year.

Jack’s at your side—polished enough for a school event, sleeves rolled, one too many button undone, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Present in a way that feels new. Like he wants people to know he’s here, with you.

You barely even catch the name slip: “So nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s hand finds your hip, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze.

You smile without missing a beat.

The conversation wraps. You make polite excuses. You and Jack step out into the hallway toward the playground.

Behind you, the buzz of small talk fades.

“Felt kinda nice, didn’t it?” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I knew you were going to make a comment.”

You turn the corner—and he catches you. One arm braced against the wall, the other slipping around your waist, pinning you gently between him and the cinderblock.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “They called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t flinch.”

You shrug, breath hitching when he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” he says, lips skating down your jaw, “you keep playing this game, it’s gonna give me ideas.”

“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” you whisper, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

His mouth finds yours again—firmer this time. Slower.

Footsteps echo down the far end of the hallway.

You both break apart, laughing quietly.

“Down, boy” you say, smoothing your hair. “We’ve got a graduate to wrangle.”

Jack grins, still close. “For the record, Mrs. Abbot has a real nice ring to it.”

You laugh, “There are worse last names to be stuck with”.

But when he laces your fingers together and leads you out into the sun, you don’t let go.

–

It’s the last month of Beau’s summer break when you head out to the lake. Your parents will be there. Your sister and her kids. Jack’s brother and his family are driving in, too.

You’re panicking, of course. Jack is cool as a cucumber. Beau’s bouncing off the walls with excitement about a whole week of cousin chaos.

You gave your family a stern talk before you left. Be nice. You love him. Beau loves him. He’s doing the work. He’s different now. You’re making it work—and yeah, you’re scared—but you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been.

Naturally, you three are the last to arrive. Of course it’s your fault. One final Zoom dragged long and you left straight from Pittsburgh with your laptop still warm in your bag.

The cabin is palatial. Jack found it. He definitely went over budget, but you know he’d never charge your family. It’s just who he is now—present, generous, steady.

You send Jack and Beau to the backyard with the others while you start unpacking.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes you glance up. Your sister walks in and flops dramatically on the bed.

“Okay,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you replaced your ex with a well-adjusted clone. Where’d Dr. McBroody go?”

You laugh. “I know. It’s weird. You guys didn’t know him when we first started dating. He’s… back. The guy I fell in love with. I didn’t think I’d get that again.”

She hums, skeptical. “Then why are you still keeping him at arm’s length?”

“What?”

“Just trying to figure out why you’re still holding back when he keeps proving himself—over and over—from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes.”

You glance out the window. Jack’s lifting Beau to dunk over the older cousins, both of them laughing.

You sigh. “I’m scared. I can’t go through that again.”

She softens. “You can’t live like that. Cut the poor man some slack. Either go all in, or cut him loose. But don’t keep him in limbo. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you murmur, following her downstairs.

It’s a surprise when Jack books dinner for just the two of you on the last night of the trip. At the waterfront place you told him your parents went to every summer.

“You’ve got a house full of babysitters,” your dad says, shooing you out the door. “Go enjoy yourselves. Beau’ll be asleep before you’re back.”

It’s a quick drive, and Jack reaches for your hand over the console as soon as you hit the main road. His palm is a little clammy. Yours too.

“I think this might be the best week of my life,” you say, squeezing his hand.

He’s quieter than usual. But relaxed. Smiling.

At the restaurant, he rounds the car to open your door, hand warm on your lower back as he leads you in.

“Reservation for Abbot.”

“Ah yes—right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”

You give him a look. “You paid them to say that.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says, smug as he pulls out your chair.

Dinner is easy. Familiar. Dreamy.

“Can I ruin the moment?” you ask.

“Nothing you say could ruin this.”

“I miss Beau. He’d hate it here—no kids menu. But I love our little unit.”

“I love our unit. I love Beau. I love you.” His fingers trace absentminded circles over your ring finger.

“I love you too.”

After dinner, you walk along the beach, your head resting against his shoulder. He leads you to the edge of a quiet pier.

“You know,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve been through a lot. And yeah, I’d change so much… but also nothing. Because it all got us here. And I know we’ve talked about this, kind of, but I still wanted it to feel a little traditional—”

You blink, heart racing. “Jack…”

“Just let me finish—before you turn me down, let me say this. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying. Really trying. And I think you’ve seen that. I think—” his voice catches. “I think we can do this. For real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears are already slipping down your cheeks. “Jack. Just ask me the question.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Oh—right. Okay.” He drops to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Your breath catches.

“Baby,” he says, eyes shining, “I know I don’t deserve you. But would you do me and Beau the honor of becoming an Abbot?”

You drop to your knees in front of him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” You kiss him between each word.

He slides the ring onto your finger. You kiss him again, a little breathless.

“Alright,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let’s get you home.”

In the car, you stare down at your hand.

“This ring is perfect. It looks just like my mom’s. It’s my dream ring.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s not like it. It is your mom’s.”

“What?”

“They knew how much you loved it. They gave it to me.”

You stare.

“We still can go ring shopping if it isn't what you want. But when I told them I was going to ask… they offered it. Thought it might mean more.”

“It does,” you whisper. “They know?”

“Of course they know. And Beau knows. And your sister. My brother. Robby. Half the ER. Even the grocery store checkout lady. I haven’t shut up about it.”

You laugh as he pulls into the driveway.

The house is dark, unusually quiet after a week of family chaos.

You lean across the console to kiss him, half-climbing into his lap. He grins against your lips but gently stops you.

“Let’s get inside first.”

You cock your head. “Since when are you the voice of reason?”

He rounds the car, opens your door, and leads you inside, where the lights flip on and the entire house bursts into shouts of “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Beau barrels into your legs and you scoop him up, laughing through tears as Jack presses a kiss to your temple.And for the first time, you don’t flinch when someone calls you Mrs. Abbot. You just smile, because it’s exactly who you are now.

[undercoveravenger]

Room in The Den

Pairing: Hybrid!141 x Male!Reader

A/N: Intended as an early-stages poly relationship, but could also be interpreted as platonic.

Part 2 -> Click here

-----

It’s a bullshit new law that does it. Some asshole lawmakers deciding that just because there’s some small fraction of animal DNA in them that they can’t do their jobs right without “an actual person” watching over them that gets you assigned to the 141.

Sure, joining a team that elite is an honor, but it’s something you’d have wanted by your own merits, not just because someone who’d never seen real combat in their lives thought your new colleagues needed someone fully human to reel them in. 

You’ve seen their numbers - they don’t need you and you’re sure as hell they don’t want you encroaching on the bond that their experiences have fostered between them. That’s why you come in expecting the animosity. 

You were right. Captain Price is cordial enough, he shakes your hand without crushing it and says he’s eager to work with you but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes and the terseness in his voice tells you he’s just saying it to be polite. He’s run this task force long enough to know how to do his job without you there. His Lieutenant doesn’t even grant you that. The sergeants seem wary and you don't blame them but you know that it’s better to be someone like you that knows their worth than one of the holier-than-thou bureaucrats they’d been considering assigning to this post, so you’ll just have to try to find your place in the team.

-----

Soap is the easiest to win over. He finds you in the gym one night long after everyone else had retired back to their bunks, ripping through reps at the bench press without a spotter. He’s thrown for a minute, used to being the only one up this late since the rest of the squad is mostly diurnal, but he’s content enough to admire the way your compression shirt is darkened with sweat and to watch your muscles shift with each movement. Can feel himself drooling a little at the spice of your scent, heady and masculine and tempting enough to make him want to bite.

 He wonders a little, whether you’d be able to keep up with him and he can’t help the steady pace his tail picks up behind him as he decides he’s going to find out.

You’ve got your eyes closed and earbuds in like you’re the only one for miles and yet you still seem to sense him as he drops his bag and moves to stand near you. 

“S’dangerous,” he says as you re-rack your weights and pull an earbud out, “To lift without someone to spot you.” 

You nod, it’s one of the biggest rules of gym safety for a reason, but you’d never been great with rules. “Never much liked askin’ for help,” you admit after a minute. “Didn’t wanna bother anyone.”

He hums, and you don’t feel judged, just understood, “Well, you’re stuck with the lot o’ us now, whether you like it or not,” he grins, wolfish and happy, and moves to stand at the head of the bench to spot you, “Bother away.” And just like that, you’ve got yourself a new workout buddy.

It’s like he’s your self appointed shadow after that, waiting outside your door every morning with a freshly made protein shake in each hand, one for each of you. He’ll get all whiny about it too if you say no, pointy wolf ears drooping and tail falling still behind him. He looks like he’s about to cry until you finally relent and take yours from him (he perks up right away every time, the little faker). Eventually you learn that it’s easier to just take it from him without the fight and let him ramble on about whatever he’d seen on tiktok the night before as he walks you to your office.

He joins you for meals too, complains about the amount of food on your plate and scoops bites off his own plate to supplement yours despite your protests. His Ma had always told him growin’ up that he had to eat plenty of protein if he wanted to be big and strong and protect his pack, so he’s just tryin’ to do the same for you and doesn’t understand why you feel the need to argue about sharing food.

You’re part of his pack now, and Soap’ll be damned before he neglects one of his packmates, just don’t be surprised if he starts bullying his way into your room at night too - he’s a cuddler.

-----

Gaz warms up to you next, though he always blames the blood loss if someone asks what won him over. He’d joined you and Soap for your evening workouts a few times, and grinned at each other when you passed in the halls, but it’s not until the morning after a brutal op that he really starts to see you as part of the team.

It’s early. Barely three-thirty in the morning when the heli touches down and maybe only four when the squad tumbles through the doors but you’re right there with the rest of them. Price is already headed down to the administrative wing for a debrief and Ghost has a snoring Soap over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes on his way to the barracks, and then there’s just the two of you.

You’ve got one of Gaz’s arms over your shoulder and an arm heavy around his waist, tucked snug under his bleeding wing, taking most of his weight as you help him limp through the halls. You hang a left instead of the right that would lead to the infirmary, instead guiding him into your office. You sweep whatever paperwork had been on your desk aside, and help him up to sit, legs hanging off one side of your desk and wings cascading over the other.

You’re quick to shrug off the outer layer of your tactical gear and cast it aside, pulling out a sizable med kit from under your desk and settling on your knees in front of him. You ask him if it’s okay, before you help ease his cargo pants down enough to get to the wound on his thigh and he finds himself taken aback since their usual medic would just muscle them off or cut them away to get at it. You wait until he nods to start tugging at the fabric, fingers careful and intent as you work the material free from the torn flesh. 

He watches as your gaze flickers over the wound and you reach for what you need without even looking. He’s been told his eyes are intense before, it’s normal for bird of prey hybrids, perhaps especially so for golden eagle hybrids like him, but he’s never quite understood the way people describe being pinned in place by his gaze until now. 

You work fast, sterilizing, stitching, and then bandaging his wound with a speed that would rival the military doctors in the infirmary, and the stitches seem more sturdy than he can remember his last ones being. 

Once you’re satisfied with his leg, you stand and move behind him to get a better look at his wing. He'd taken a bullet to it, right through the meat of the muscle, and he knew he’d be grounded a long while until it healed. You hesitated then, unsure if he’d be okay with you touching such a personal area as his wings. 

Gaz swallows hard, trying to think of the last time someone other than himself had handled his wings, and nudges it back into your hands. You’re remarkably gentle, he thinks, as your fingers card delicately through rich caramel feathers until you’re able to uncover the bullet hole. You use a pair of tweezers, to make sure that there are no lingering bits of shrapnel, and a tiny set of scissors to trim back any of the soft downy feathers that could catch in the wound as it heals. 

He’s started churring by the time you’re done, a sort of contented trill from the feeling of someone else preening his wings, despite the lingering pain from the injuries. His golden eyes snap back to focus as you nudge a water bottle and granola bar into his hands with a muttered apology that it was all you had on hand, and he’s still plenty happy because you’re trying to be part of his flock by preening him and providing for him. He churs the whole while as you guide him back to his room and help him into bed.

Gaz quickly becomes a regular participant of you and Soap’s late night gym sessions and joins you for mealtimes once in a while after that night.

-----

Truthfully, you still don’t know what convinced Ghost you were worth knowing, but he supposes that’s because you hadn’t known he was there. He’d been on his way to deliver a mission report from Price to one of the other admin when one of his rounded ears caught the sound of your raised voice. His curiosity drew him to the door, cracked just enough that he was able to see you stood across a table from a trio of generals, arms crossed and back straight. 

“I appreciate your congratulations,” you growled, and Ghost was taken aback by the ferocity in your voice. He’d never heard you speak like that before, not even in the field. “But I am not the one who should be hearing it.”

His ears prick forward, tugging against the thick fabric of his mask as he listened closer, intrigued. 

“With all due respect, Major, task force 141-” one of the pencil pushers started.

“No,” you interrupted, hands coming down hard on the desk between you and the other officers, “They are due the commendations. They are the ones who built this team from the ground up. Sure, there have been successful missions since my joining, but those are not only my achievements. If you want to offer a public congratulations on a successful operation, it will be to my entire team, not just the picture you think would be easiest to publish.”

With that, you turn from the board of your superior officers and head for the door, ignoring their protests, and Ghost has to scramble back in order to avoid being hit with the door. 

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” you say as you see him, moving out of his way. “Didn’t see you there,” and for once that doesn’t sound like some slight against his panther genetics, just a plain statement - he’d been behind the door and you hadn’t meant to nearly clip him with it. You clap him on the shoulder and head off down the hall back toward your office and Ghost is tempted to drop the file where he stands to follow you, one simple interaction you hadn’t meant for him to see enough to convince him there was far more to you than he’d thought. 

You weren’t just some babysitter added to their little family to observe them like they were no more than wild animals - you actually saw their worth and were willing to fight for it?

An amused little huff escapes him and Ghost forces his attention back to the task at hand, spotted tail lashing smoothly behind him as he turns and continues on his way, sharp claws digging puncture wounds into the folder he’d been sent to deliver and your words ringing in his mind.  

----

Price was the last to come around to you being a part of their little family, though he’d never been outright hostile the way Ghost had at first. He’d done his best to be professional with you, complying with the needed paperwork and taking your insights on each operation under consideration, though he never deliberately sought you out. 

That didn’t mean he could avoid you when the team had a mission though, especially not now with the five of you piled into a much-too-small cabin in the mountains near where intel suggested one of Makarov’s bases were. Laswell had just radioed in to let Price know there was a snowstorm incoming so evac might be delayed and to expect to hunker down at least another two nights.

With only two bedrooms and a total of three small beds between them, you’d volunteered to take up roost on the lumpy couch in the living room so he’s not surprised to see you there, so much as he is by your company. You’re sprawled out in about the middle of the couch with Gaz tucked comfortably against your side, your arm around his shoulder and one of his wings curling around the both of you. As Gaz’s wing shifts, Price notices Soap curled against your legs, snoring away, but he freezes as he sees Ghost.

Everyone on the team has gone through hell, but Price knows Ghost has dealt with more than his share. Nightmares aren’t uncommon for any of them, but for Ghost a decent night’s sleep was an incredible rarity. That’s why he’s so startled to see Ghost stretched comfortably along the rest of the couch with his head on your lap and his face nuzzled into your stomach, skull mask gone in favor of his more casual balaclava, and his breathing deep and even.

A pleased little huff escapes Price, warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of his three favorite people curled up together happy and comfortable. And if you were part of that? Well, there was plenty of room for one more in that old bear’s heart.

[crybabycabin]

attrition | b.b. (1)

✮ synopsis: six months. that's how long it takes for you to realize love isn't enough. six months of bucky sleeping on the couch, of missed anniversaries and empty drawers where his things should be. six months of being loved by someone who treats you like you're already a ghost.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers (18+): heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (unintentional), alcohol use/intoxication, unwanted touching (from minor character), violence, ptsd and trauma responses, therapy avoidance, communication breakdown, emotional neglect, mild sexual content (minors dni), depression, co-dependency, anxiety, self-destructive behaviors

✮ word count: 14.7k (woof)

✮ a/n: ANGST CITY BABY. but this is part one of a two-part series and i p r o m i s e (promise promise) there's a happy ending on the horizon. but i've gotta drag everyone through the emotional trenches first 🤠 (also the text messages keep formatting all wonky and i've given up trying to fix them. sry.)

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The candle wax had started pooling at the base, creating small rivers that threatened to spill onto the tablecloth your grandmother gave you. You'd been watching it for the past twenty minutes, cataloging its slow destruction while the roast chicken developed a skin that could probably deflect bullets.

Which, given who you were waiting for, felt grimly appropriate.

Your bare feet had gone numb against the kitchen tile, a bone-deep cold that crept up through your ankles. The dress—the one that made you feel like you could conquer an imaginary boardroom and bar fights with equal efficiency—now clung uncomfortably to your ribs, each breath a reminder of how long you'd been sitting here, waiting. Your stomach had given up growling an hour ago, resigned to its empty fate.

Six months. The number sat heavy behind your sternum, a weight that pressed against your lungs with each inhale. You'd moved in together at three months—a decision that had felt like destiny at the time. His toothbrush next to yours. His combat boots by your rain boots. His leather jacket slowly accumulating the smell of your perfume. 

It had seemed romantic then, this swift collision of lives. Now the apartment felt like a beautiful prison you'd both walked into willingly, locking the door behind you.

The wine had gone warm in your glass, taking on that sickly sweet quality that made your teeth ache. You'd stopped drinking after the second one, some optimistic part of you still believing he'd walk through the door in time to share the bottle. That same part of you had carefully wrapped the small gift sitting on the coffee table—nothing major, just something that had made you think of him. A leather journal, worn and vintage, the kind he always touched in antique shops but never bought. You'd written something inside it this morning, when hope still felt like a reasonable emotion.

Your phone sat dark beside your plate. No messages. No missed calls. The silence of it felt accusatory, like even the device had given up on pretending this was normal.

When the key finally scraped in the lock, your spine straightened involuntarily, vertebrae clicking back into alignment after hours of slumping. Your heart kicked up its rhythm, that Pavlovian response to his arrival you hadn't managed to train out of yourself yet. Even now, even angry and hurt and tired, your body betrayed you with its eagerness.

Bucky filled the doorway like he always did—not just with his physical presence but with that particular gravity that made rooms reorganize themselves around him. Exhaustion hung on him like a second skin, in the slope of his shoulders and the way he held his head. His shoulders carried that specific tension that meant the mission had gone sideways, muscles bunched under his jacket like he was still ready to fight. The cut on his cheek was fresh, still weeping slightly, and his tactical pants bore smears of something dark that could be mud or blood or both.

He stopped mid-step, keys still dangling from his flesh hand. His eyes—that impossible blue that still made your stomach flip traitorously—tracked from your face to the dress to the table set for two. The wine bottle. The wilted salad. The candles drowning in their own wax.

You watched the exact moment comprehension hit him. His pupils dilated slightly, jaw going slack before tightening again. The keys landed in the bowl with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.

"Shit." The word came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep in his chest. "Sweetheart, I—"

"It's fine." The words jumped out before he could finish, your voice pitched just high enough to sound almost believable. Already you were moving, hands reaching for plates like this was all part of the plan. The ceramic was cool under your fingers, grounding you. "You're here now. Are you hungry? I can reheat—"

"Don't." His voice cut through your bustling, low and rough like gravel. When you looked back, he hadn't moved from the entryway, just stood there like he was cataloging damage from a bomb he'd accidentally detonated. One hand braced against the doorframe, knuckles white.

"Really, it's nothing." You turned back to the table, focusing on the simple task of stacking dishes. Your hands stayed steady even as something hot and tight crawled up your throat. "I made too much anyway. You know me, always overestimating portions."

"What time did I say?" The question came out carefully neutral, but you'd learned to read the microscopic changes in his voice. The slight rasp that meant self-hatred was creeping in.

"Seven-ish?" You kept your tone light, breezy, the voice you used when pretending everything was fine during your mother's phone calls. "But honestly, I should have checked. I know how these things go."

"It's nine." He said it like he was confessing to a crime. "Nine oh seven."

"Bucky, really—"

You glanced at him, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the scene again. His eyes moved from the table to you, cataloging details with that sniper's precision that never quite turned off. The dress. Your bare feet. The careful way you'd done your hair. Then his gaze caught on something over your shoulder, snagging like fabric on a nail.

The coffee table.

His whole body went rigid, that predator stillness that meant his brain was processing a threat. Except the threat was a small wrapped package, sitting innocent and damning in the lamplight.

Your stomach dropped somewhere around your knees.

"What—" he started, voice strangled.

"Oh, that's nothing." The words tumbled out too fast as you moved, scooping up the gift before he could step closer. The paper crinkled under your grip, and you fought the urge to crush it completely. "Just something I saw. Picked up. Seriously, not important."

His face went pale—not the gradual drain of color but an instant bleaching that made him look hollow, ghostlike. The cut on his cheek, half-healed and forgotten until now, stood out angry and red against his bloodless skin. You watched him piece it together in real time, could actually see the moment understanding clicked behind his eyes.

His left hand—the metal one—betrayed him first. The plates shifted and recalibrated with soft mechanical whispers, the way they always did when his emotions ran too hot, too fast for his body to process. A tell he'd never managed to suppress.

His gaze drifted past you, landing on that stupid Seinfeld calendar stuck to the fridge. The one he'd bought you three months ago, cackling like an idiot in the checkout line about how George Costanza somehow perfectly captured your shared existential dread. It hung there between old takeout menus and photo booth strips from better days, garish and wonderful and so utterly them that it hurt to look at.

You watched him stare at it, watched him count backwards in his head. Watched the last piece slot into place.

"It’s today," he said slowly, like he was defusing a bomb. Like the words might explode if he said them too fast. "It's—fuck." The profanity came out as barely more than a breath. "Fuck. Six months."

"It's really not a big deal." You were already shoving the gift into the nearest drawer, the wood protesting as you forced it shut. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around your ribs and was slowly tightening them. "Just a random Tuesday, you know? I mean, who even counts months? That's so high school."

"You made dinner." His voice had gone hollow, echoing strangely in the small space. Each word seemed to cost him something. "You got dressed up. You bought—"

"I like cooking." The words came out too fast, too bright, like shattered glass catching light. Your smile felt like it might crack your face. "And this dress is comfortable, I wear it all the time. You probably just haven't noticed because you're—anyway, should I heat up the chicken? You must be starving."

"Stop."

The word came out rough, almost angry, but when you looked at him, you could see all that fury turned inward. His flesh hand was clenched into a fist so tight you could hear his knuckles pop. The metal one hung carefully still at his side, like he didn't trust it. Didn't trust himself.

"Just—stop pretending this is okay."

"But it is okay." You forced the smile wider, until your cheeks ached with it. The expression you'd perfected after months of practice. "I understand. Your work is important. The world needs saving. What's a dinner compared to that?"

Something shifted in his expression—frustration bleeding into something that looked almost like disappointment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words, trying to find the right ones. You recognized that look. It was the same one he got when he wanted you to yell at him, to throw something, to be anything other than understanding.

But you couldn't give him that. Wouldn't. Because if you started letting the hurt show, you might never stop. The dam would break, and you'd drown both of you in the flood.

"I forgot our anniversary." He said it flatly, like stating evidence at a trial. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would hurt less. It didn't.

"It's just a day." You busied yourself with clearing plates, needing the physical action to keep yourself anchored. The fork clinked against china, a tinny sound that made you wince. "We're together every day. That's what matters, right?"

"You don't believe that."

"Sure I do." Another lie, smooth as silk. You'd gotten good at them. Had to, living like this. "Besides, when you think about it, anniversaries are kind of arbitrary. Why six months and not seven? Why celebrate time at all when—"

"What was in the box?"

He'd moved closer while you rambled, silent as always. Ghost-quiet, they probably called it in his files. Now he stood between you and the kitchen, blocking your escape with his body. This close, you could smell the mission on him—cordite and copper and something acrid that might have been burning plastic.

"Nothing important. Just… something that made me think of you." You shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around manic. Your hands fluttered like birds with broken wings. "But honestly, it's stupid. You probably wouldn't even—"

"Show me."

"Bucky—"

"Please." The word caught you off guard, soft and desperate. It hit you in the solar plexus, knocked the air from your lungs. "Just... let me see what you got me."

You could have refused. Should have, maybe. Instead, you found yourself retrieving the small package, the drawer sticking slightly as you pulled it open again. Your hands trembled as you held it out, and you hated them for the betrayal.

He took it carefully, like it might explode. Or like it was precious. The same way he'd touched you, in the beginning, before he'd learned you wouldn't break. The paper fell away with careful movements of his flesh hand, the metal one still hanging useless at his side.

The journal revealed itself slowly—leather worn soft with age, the color of whiskey in low light. You'd seen him run his fingers over similar ones a dozen times in antique shops, always putting them back with a small shake of his head. Like he didn't deserve nice things. Like he couldn't allow himself even that small pleasure.

"I thought—" Your voice caught, and you had to swallow hard to continue. "You're always writing on those loose papers, and they get everywhere, and I thought maybe—but it's dumb. You probably prefer the papers. It's not—"

"It's perfect." His voice came out raw, scraped. Like the words hurt coming up.

He opened it with careful fingers, found the note you'd tucked into the first page. You watched his eyes track over your handwriting, watched his jaw tighten with each word. You'd written it last night, three glasses of wine deep and feeling sentimental. Something about how his stories deserved a better home than scattered napkins and receipt backs. Something about being grateful for every day, even the difficult ones.

Now it felt like evidence of your naivety.

"It's really not," you said quickly, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. "I can return it. Get you something more practical. Or nothing. Nothing's good, too."

He looked up at you then, and the devastation in his eyes made your stomach flip. It was the look he got sometimes when he woke up from nightmares, before he remembered where he was. When he was. Lost and guilty and carrying too much weight for one person's shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between you, the journal still clutched in his flesh hand like an anchor. "Acting like nothing matters. Like I didn't just—like this doesn't—" He stopped, frustrated, the words tangling up behind his teeth. "I fucked up. I forgot something important. Why won't you be angry?"

"Because I'm not angry." Your voice stayed steady even as your nails dug crescents into your palms. "I'm fine. We're fine. Everything's—"

"Fine," he finished, bitter as black coffee. "Yeah. You keep saying that."

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of your body. How your feet ached from standing, cold and numb against the tile. How the dress pulled at your ribs with each breath. How your hands couldn't seem to stop moving, straightening things that didn't need straightening.

"Look, why don't you get cleaned up?" You couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a spot just over his shoulder. "I'll put the food away. We can just... reset. Pretend this didn't happen."

"Is that what you want? To pretend?"

"I want—" The words caught in your throat like fishhooks. It felt like a test.

You forced another smile, felt it stretch your face into something that probably looked more grimace than grin. "I want you to eat something. And maybe put something on that cut. It looks deep."

His flesh hand went to his cheek automatically, coming away with fresh blood. He stared at it like he'd forgotten he was bleeding. Like physical pain was so far down his priority list it barely registered.

"It's nothing."

"Now who's deflecting?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, carrying more edge than you'd intended. A crack in the facade you'd been so carefully maintaining.

His eyes sharpened, zeroing in on that first real break in your performance all night. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you're pushing down." He moved closer, and your body responded without your permission—heart rate spiking, breath catching, skin prickling with awareness. "Come on. Tell me what a shit boyfriend I am. Tell me how I'm ruining this."

"You're not—"

"I am." His voice was rough, urgent. Desperate in a way that made your chest ache. "I know I am. I can see it happening and I can't—I don't know how to stop it. So just say it. Please. Be mad at me."

"I can't." The admission came out small, tired. True. "I can't be mad at you when I know what your life is like. When I know what you carry. It would be like... like being mad at the rain for falling."

His metal hand clenched, servos whirring softly in the quiet apartment. 

"I'm not the weather," he said quietly. "I'm a person who makes choices. And I chose wrong tonight."

"You chose to save lives." You moved past him toward the kitchen, needing distance. Needing air that didn't smell like gunpowder and guilt. "Hard to argue with that math."

He caught your wrist—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was trying to be gentle. His thumb found your pulse point automatically, and you knew he could feel how it jumped at his touch.

"That's not... You know that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" You looked down at his hand on your wrist, at the blood still drying in the creases of his knuckles. At the flesh and bone that could be so gentle and so violent, often in the same night. "Every time you walk out that door, you're choosing them over me. And that's... that's right. That's what heroes do. I just need to be better at accepting it."

"Don't." His grip tightened fractionally. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but enough to feel the desperation in it. "Don't make me into something noble when I'm fucking this up. When I'm hurting you."

"You're not hurting me." The words tasted like ash. "I'm fine."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so bitter. "You keep saying that word."

"Because it's true."

"No," he said quietly, "it's not. And we both know it."

You stood there in your kitchen—his kitchen, this shared space that felt more like a crime scene now—and wondered how you'd gotten here. How six months of loving this man had taught you to swallow so much disappointment it had become second nature. Your throat felt full of unsaid words, accusations and pleas and declarations all tangled together into something too big to voice.

"I need to change," you said finally, extracting your wrist from his grip. The skin there felt too warm, like his touch had branded you. "This stupid dress is giving me a headache."

That was a lie too. The headache was from clenched teeth, from holding your face in that careful smile, from the effort of pretending everything was fine when it was anything but. But he let you go, watching you retreat with eyes that seemed to catalog every step like evidence of his failures.

You made it to the bedroom door before his voice stopped you.

"I love you."

The words hit you in the back like bullets. You closed your eyes, hand tightening on the doorframe until your knuckles went white. Your lungs forgot how to work for a moment, chest tight with everything you couldn't say.

"I know," you said without turning around.

Because you did know. That was the worst part. You knew he loved you the way he knew how—desperately, violently, silently. The way a soldier loves peacetime. The way a ghost loves being seen. The way a weapon loves being put down.

It just wasn't enough anymore.

But you couldn't say that. Couldn't risk the weight of that truth. So you did what you'd gotten so good at doing.

You pretended it was fine.

The bedroom was dark when he finally came to bed, but you weren't sleeping. Couldn't, with your mind running circles and your body still humming with the tension of the evening. You'd changed into one of his old shirts and curled up on your side, facing the wall, listening to the sounds of him moving through the apartment. The shower running. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. His footsteps, heavier than usual with exhaustion.

The mattress dipped behind you, and you felt the heat of him before he even touched you. He smelled like your soap now, the gunpowder and blood washed away, leaving just Bucky. Just the man you'd fallen in love with, who was somehow both exactly who you'd thought he was and nothing like it at all.

His flesh hand found your hip, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn't pull away. You never pulled away. That was part of the problem, wasn't it? You'd made yourself so available, so understanding, that he'd forgotten you had edges. Forgotten you could break.

"You awake?" His voice was rough in the darkness, barely above a whisper.

You didn't answer, but your breathing hitched, giving you away. You felt him shift closer, his chest pressing against your back, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against him. The metal arm stayed wedged between them, carefully positioned so the plates wouldn't touch your skin.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You closed your eyes, feeling the familiar routine begin. This was how he apologized when the words weren't enough, when his voice failed him like it so often did. With touch. With his body. With careful, focused attention that used to make you feel cherished.

His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach. Not demanding, just... present. Asking. Always asking, even after six months, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. His lips pressed against your shoulder, your neck, the spot where your pulse jumped traitorously.

You turned in his arms because you were weak. Because despite everything, your body still responded to his like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes were dark in the dim light filtering through the curtains, pupils blown wide with want and something that might have been desperation.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he could fix everything broken between you if he just tried hard enough, loved you thoroughly enough. His flesh hand cradled your face like you were something precious, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with aching gentleness.

You let him, because this was easier than talking. Easier than admitting that the distance between you had grown so vast that even this—this thing that had always worked—felt like putting a bandaid on a bullet wound.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, his touch mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing you. Like he was afraid you might disappear. And maybe you were, in a way. Maybe you'd been disappearing for months, becoming less solid with each missed dinner, each forgotten plan, each night you fell asleep alone.

His mouth followed his hands, pressing apologies into your skin that he couldn't speak aloud. He knew your body like a mission he'd studied, every sensitive spot, every place that made your breath catch. He applied that knowledge with focused intensity, watching your face in the darkness for every micro-expression, adjusting his touch based on the smallest reactions.

It was good. It was always good. He made sure of that with technical precision, with the kind of attention to detail that should have made you feel worshipped. His flesh hand worked between your thighs with practiced movements, finding exactly the right rhythm, the right pressure. His mouth on your breast, your throat, swallowing the sounds you made like they were sustenance.

But even as your body responded, as heat coiled low in your belly and your hands tangled in his hair, some part of you stayed separate. Observing. Cataloging the way he held himself so carefully above you, weight balanced on his right arm while the left stayed pressed against the mattress. The way his breathing stayed controlled, measured, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. The way he watched you with that same focused intensity he brought to everything, like making you come was a mission objective to complete.

When he finally pressed inside you, your back arched and his name fell from your lips like a prayer. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, sharing breath in the darkness. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the effort it took to maintain that careful control.

He moved like he was handling something breakable. Deep, measured thrusts that built a steady rhythm designed to take you apart by degrees. His flesh hand found yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head, while the metal one stayed planted firmly on the mattress, bearing his weight.

You wanted to tell him to let go. To stop being so careful, so controlled. To give you something real instead of this perfect performance. But the words stuck in your throat, trapped behind months of fine and okay and it doesn't matter.

He knew exactly what angle made you gasp, exactly how to roll his hips to hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. He applied this knowledge ruthlessly, efficiently, until you were shaking beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He watched you fall apart with dark satisfaction, like he'd successfully completed a mission. His own release followed shortly after, his body shuddering silently above you, face buried in your neck. Even then, even lost in his own pleasure, he was quiet. Just harsh breathing and the whisper of your name, barely audible.

After, he held you too tightly, both arms around you now that the careful control wasn't needed. The metal arm was cool against your overheated skin, and you pressed into it, into this part of him he tried so hard to keep separate.

"Better?" he asked quietly, and you could hear the hope in it. Like maybe this had fixed something. Like maybe you'd forgotten about the cold dinner and the lonely wait and the wrapped gift hidden in a drawer.

"Yeah," you whispered, because what else could you say? How could you tell him that technically perfect sex couldn't fill the emotional void between you? That you needed more than his body—you needed his words, his presence, his time?

"Good," he murmured, already drifting toward sleep. The mission was complete. Objective achieved. Girlfriend satisfied.

You lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his arms around you. Six months of this. Six months of being loved by a man who couldn't say it out loud unless he thought he was losing you. Six months of being held by someone who only knew how to hold on too tight or let go completely.

Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow you'd find your voice. Tomorrow you'd stop pretending everything was fine.

Tonight, you just closed your eyes and pretended to sleep, counting his heartbeats against your back and wondering when love had started feeling so much like loneliness.

The morning light was doing that thing where it slanted through the blinds just wrong, striping across your face in a way that guaranteed a headache by noon. You'd been awake for the past hour, maybe two, caught in that special purgatory between sleep and consciousness where all your mistakes liked to parade themselves for review.

Bucky was still wrapped around you, flesh arm heavy across your waist, metal arm tucked carefully behind his back. Even in sleep, he kept it away from you. Like his subconscious had been programmed with the same careful distance as his waking mind.

You studied the ceiling, counting water stains like constellations, and tried to remember when it had become like this. When you'd become someone who catalogued disappointments instead of joys. Someone who lay in bed calculating the exact weight of a sleeping man's arm across your ribs.

It hadn't always been like this.

Six months ago, you'd been the woman who'd laughed—actually laughed—when he'd awkwardly admitted his therapist had suggested he ask you out. Not a polite titter or an uncomfortable chuckle, but a real, surprised burst of laughter that had made him jump.

"Oh my god," you'd said, wiping tears from your eyes while he sat frozen across from you at the dive bar he'd chosen. "Shit. That's definitely the most honest thing anyone's ever said on a first date."

His face had done something complicated—surprise melting into confusion, then something that might have been the birth of a smile. "You're... not going to throw your drink at me?"

"Why would I?" You'd raised your beer, foam sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "At least you're, I don’t know. Working on yourself. Do you know how rare that is, these days?"

He'd clinked his bottle against yours, and there it was—a real smile. The kind that transformed his whole face, made him look younger, softer somehow. "To horrible first impressions?"

"To honesty," you'd corrected. "Even the awkward kind."

That had been the beginning. Or maybe the beginning had been earlier, in your bookstore that smelled like dust and old paper and the obscure eighties rock you played just loud enough to discourage teenagers from using it as a hangout. He'd wandered in looking lost, all broad shoulders and careful movements, like he was afraid of breaking something.

Five visits. That's what it had taken. Five separate occasions of him pretending to browse your stacks while stealing glances at you over copies of Kerouac and Murakami. You'd watched him work up to it like a man approaching a live wire, and when he'd finally asked—voice rough, words tumbling over each other—you'd said yes before he'd even finished the sentence.

You'd slept together after that first date. It had surprised both of you—the way you'd crashed together outside your apartment, the way he'd kissed you like he was starving for it, the way you'd pulled him inside without a second thought.

"I don't usually—" he'd said after, lying in your bed looking shell-shocked and unbearably soft in the lamplight.

"Yeah, me neither," you'd admitted, then traced a finger along his flesh arm, marveling at how someone so dangerous could be so gentle. "But I'm glad we did."

He'd pulled you closer then, nose brushing against your temple. "Me too."

Those early days had been full of small revelations. You'd discovered he kept notes—actual handwritten notes on receipt backs and napkins and torn corners of newspapers. You'd found them scattered around his apartment like breadcrumbs: likes her coffee with cinnamon when she's sad and wears dad's old college sweatshirt on laundry day and laughs at commercials but only when she thinks no one's watching.

"Is this... about me?" you'd asked, holding up a scrap that read hates cilantro but won't send food back.

He'd flushed, reaching for the paper, but you'd held it out of reach. "My memory," he'd said quietly. "It's not always... Some days are harder than others. I don't want to forget the important things."

You'd kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting the vulnerability in his admission. "I hate cilantro," you'd confirmed against his lips. "But I love that you noticed."

He'd come home bleeding more nights than not in those early months, before the move, when boundaries were still being negotiated. You'd gotten good at first aid by necessity, keeping supplies under your bathroom sink like some people kept spare towels. He'd sit on a stool while you worked, and inevitably—always—his hands would find your waist. He'd press his face against your stomach like he was trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you through your sleep shirt.

"I'm okay," he'd mumble into the fabric while you cleaned a gash on his shoulder.

"I know," you'd say, even when he wasn't. Even when his hands shook against your hips and his breath came too fast. "I've got you."

Those were the nights he'd kiss you like a drowning man, desperate and deep, mapping your mouth with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the geography of you. You'd discovered early on that he loved kissing—could spend hours just making out like teenagers, all wandering hands and bitten lips and breathless laughter when you had to come up for air.

"This okay?" he'd ask between kisses, even after months together, checking in like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this.

"More than okay," you'd assure him, and watch his pupils blow wide before diving back in.

He'd sit through terrible spy movies with you, the ones with ridiculous plots and worse dialogue, because he'd noticed your collection and drawn his own conclusions. You'd curl up on his couch while Hollywood's version of espionage played out in technicolor absurdity.

"That's not how any of that works," he'd mutter when the hero rappelled through a ventilation shaft.

"That's the point," you'd say, tucking your feet under his thigh. "If I wanted realism, I'd watch the news."

But he'd watch anyway, adding dry commentary that made you laugh harder than the intentional jokes. During the love scenes, he'd trace patterns on your ankle with his thumb, pretending he wasn't affected while his ears turned pink.

The moving in together had been gradual, then sudden. Your toothbrush at his place. His favorite mug at yours. Until one day he'd looked around your apartment—at his jacket on your coat rack, his books mixed with yours, his reading glasses on your nightstand—and said, "This is inefficient."

"What is?"

"Paying for two places when we're always together anyway."

Not the most romantic proposition, but the way he'd been fidgeting with his car keys, nervous energy radiating off him in waves, told a different story.

"James Buchanan Barnes," you'd said slowly, "are you asking me to move in with you?"

"Maybe. Yes. If you want." He'd run his flesh hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that made your chest tight. "I want to wake up with you every day. Not just sometimes. Every day."

You'd said yes, of course. How could you not, when he looked at you like that? Like you were his anchor in a storm he couldn't name.

But somewhere between then and now, something had shifted. The notes stopped appearing—or maybe you'd stopped looking for them. The movie nights became fewer, his commentary sharper when they did happen. He still kissed you like he was drowning, but now it felt like he was already too far underwater to save.

"Hey," his voice, rough with sleep, pulled you from your reverie. "You're thinking too loud."

"Just thinking," you said softly, not turning to face him.

"Yeah?" His lips found the spot where your neck met your shoulder, pressing a kiss there that felt like an apology. "What about?"

The way we used to be. When loving you felt like breathing instead of drowning.

"The Donovans," you said instead, nodding toward the wall. "They're at it again. Who starts rearranging furniture at six in the morning?"

He huffed a laugh against your skin, and you could feel him listening. Sure enough, the telltale scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor filtered through the thin walls, followed by muffled voices.

"Maybe they're trying to spice things up," he murmured. "New feng shui, new marriage."

"Is that what we need? Better feng shui?"

His arm tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest. "I don't think there's a furniture arrangement that fixes what I've mangled."

The honesty of it caught you off guard. For a moment, it felt like before. Like you were still those two people who'd found something unexpected in each other.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you felt him go still. The mission alert tone. Because of course it was.

"I know," you said before he could speak. "You have to go."

"I—" He paused, and you could feel the weight of words unsaid pressing against your spine. "Yeah. I do."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself, watching him dress in efficient movements. His tactical gear was kept in the closet now, easy access. When had that become normal? When had you stopped noticing the weapons hidden around your shared space like deadly décor?

At the door, he paused. "About last night—"

"Bucky." You finally looked at him, taking in the guilt etched into every line of his face. "Just... be careful, okay?"

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at the lack of accusation. "Always am."

"No," you said quietly. "You're really not."

He crossed back to you in three strides, cupping your face in his hands—both of them, metal and flesh—and kissed you like he used to. Like you were oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for too long. When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"I love you," he said, fierce and desperate. "Even when I'm shit at showing it. I love you."

"I know," you whispered. "That's what makes this so hard."

He left then, and you were alone with the ghost of his kiss still on your lips and the weight of everything unsaid settling into your bones. You made coffee, adding cinnamon like you always did when you were sad, and tried not to think about how he'd remember that detail but forget your anniversary.

Love was funny that way. It could be in the small notes scattered like breadcrumbs and still get lost in the larger leaving. It could be desperately real and still not be enough.

You found a piece of paper stuck to the coffee maker as you reached for a mug. His handwriting, clearly recent—the pen he'd used was still uncapped on the counter:

she only listens to Fleetwood Mac when she can't sleep. Dreams instead of Rumours = the bad kind of insomnia

You stared at it for a long time, remembering last Tuesday when you'd played "Dreams" on repeat at 3 AM, curled on the couch while he'd been supposedly asleep. He'd been listening. Taking notes. Still trying to decode you like you were a mission he could complete if he just gathered enough intel.

You carefully folded it and put it in the drawer where you'd hidden his anniversary gift. Another piece of evidence that you'd been loved by Bucky Barnes. Another reminder that sometimes love, no matter how real, wasn't enough to make someone stay.

The nightmare came a few weeks later, on a Tuesday.

You'd been having a good day, or at least good by recent standards. Bucky had been home for a full week—some kind of record lately. He'd even cooked dinner, that pasta dish his mother used to make, though he could never quite remember if it was oregano or basil she'd used. You'd eaten together at the actual table, phones face down, talking about nothing important in that comfortable way that made you ache for how things used to be.

Maybe that's why you'd let your guard down. Why you'd curled into him that night instead of maintaining the careful distance that had become your default. He'd seemed present, actually there with you instead of wherever his mind usually wandered. His arm had been warm around you, and you'd fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You woke to darkness and the sensation of being trapped.

At first, your sleep-addled brain couldn't process what was happening. The pressure around your throat was firm, mechanical, unforgiving. Metal fingers pressed against your windpipe with calculated precision, not quite cutting off air but making each breath a conscious effort. Your hands flew up instinctively, fingernails scraping against vibranium that wouldn't yield.

"Bucky." The word came out strangled, barely there.

His eyes were open but vacant, seeing something that wasn't you, wasn't this room, wasn't this year. In the dim light, you could see his face contorted with rage—no, not rage. Fear. Raw, primal terror that belonged to some other time, some other place where he wasn't safe, where he had to fight to survive.

"Soldat." The Russian fell from his lips like acid. More words followed, too quick and slurred with sleep for you to catch, but the tone was clear. Orders. He was following orders.

Your vision started to blur at the edges. Not from lack of air—not yet—but from the tears that came unbidden. This wasn't him. This wasn't your Bucky who kept notes about your coffee preferences and kissed you like you were precious. This was the Winter Soldier, and he was going to kill you in your own bed.

"James." You forced the word out, put every ounce of love you had into it. Your hand found his face, palm against stubble and scars. "Baby, please. It's me. You're home."

For a moment, nothing. The pressure continued, steady and sure. Then—a flicker. Something in his eyes shifted, pupils contracting as consciousness clawed its way back. You watched the exact second he came back to himself, watched the recognition slam into him like a physical blow.

The hand released so fast you gasped, air rushing back into your lungs in a painful burst. But the sound of your breathing—ragged, desperate—seemed to break something in him.

"No." The word ripped from his throat, raw and disbelieving. He scrambled backward so violently he fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard. "No, no, no. What did I—Oh god."

"I'm okay," you tried to say, but your voice came out wrecked, harsh. The sound of it—the damage he'd caused—made him flinch like you'd struck him.

He was on his knees now, staring at his metal hand like it was covered in blood. Maybe in his mind, it was. "I was—Jesus Christ, I was killing you. I was—" His breath came in sharp pants, heading toward hyperventilation. "Your neck. Let me see your neck."

"Bucky—"

"Let me see." It came out as almost a roar, desperate and wild.

You pushed yourself up, hand going unconsciously to your throat. Even that light touch made you wince, and you knew without looking that there would be marks. A perfect blueprint of his hand in bruises.

He saw your wince. Of course he did. And the look that crossed his face—you'd seen him shot, stabbed, thrown from buildings. You'd never seen him look like this. Like someone had reached inside and torn something vital loose.

"I… I put my hands on you. I tried to—" He couldn't finish, just stared at you like you were already dead, like he'd already lost you to his own monstrosity.

"You were asleep," you said, voice still rough but steadier now. "You were having a nightmare. You didn't know—"

"Does that matter?" He laughed, but it was a broken sound, closer to a sob. "Does it fucking matter that I was asleep when I'm strong enough to snap your neck without trying? When I—" He pressed his flesh hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking. "I could taste it. The mission. Kill the target, eliminate the witness. You were just—you were just a body to eliminate."

"But you stopped." You moved to the edge of the bed, needing to be closer even as he flinched away. "You heard me and you stopped."

"This time." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were wet, desperate. "What about next time? What happens when I don't wake up in time? When I squeeze just a little harder, hold on just a few seconds longer?" His voice broke completely. "I'll kill you, and I'll wake up with your body in our bed, and I'll have to live with that. I'll have to know that the last thing you felt was me hurting you."

"That won't happen."

"You don't know that!" He was on his feet now, backing toward the door. "Nobody knows that! I don't even know what's in my head, what they put there. Seventy years of programming, of turning me into a weapon, and you think—what? That love is enough to fix that? That I can just will myself better?"

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe it. But the words stuck in your throat—the throat that still ached from his grip.

"I'm sleeping on the couch," he said, and it sounded like a sentencing. Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.

"Bucky, please—"

"I can't." He stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he needed it to stay upright. "I can't lay next to you knowing what I'm capable of. I can't touch you with hands that—" He looked down at the metal arm, gleaming dully in the darkness. "I was okay with being a monster when it was just me. But I can't—I won't let you be collateral damage."

"You're not a monster."

He turned then, and the look he gave you was almost pitying. "Tell that to your neck."

You sat there, on the edge of the bed you'd shared for three months, and listened to him settle on the couch. Heard him punch a pillow, once, twice, muffling what sounded suspiciously like sobs. You wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him it wasn't his fault, that you weren't afraid.

But you were afraid. Not of him—never of him—but of the ghosts in his head that could turn him into someone else. Of the war between who he was and what they'd made him.

Your fingers found your throat again, tracing the shape of his hand in tender skin. Tomorrow, there would be bruises. Purple and blue and sickly yellow, a necklace of trauma you'd have to hide with scarves and makeup. But worse than the physical marks was the knowledge that he'd never forgive himself for this.

That he'd use it as evidence in the case he was always building against himself: why he didn't deserve love, why he couldn't have nice things, why James Buchanan Barnes was too broken to be saved.

You pulled his pillow against your chest—it still smelled like him, like cedar and something indefinably safe—and tried not to think about how this was the beginning of the end. How he'd pull away now, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but the empty space where love used to live.

In the living room, you could hear him moving restlessly, probably calculating the exact distance needed to keep you safe from him. Always the protector, even when the thing he was protecting you from was himself.

You wanted to tell him that the real damage wasn't the bruises that would fade in a week. It was this—the distance, the self-hatred, the way he was already grieving a relationship he'd decided was too dangerous to keep.

But your throat hurt, and your words weren't working right, and sometimes love wasn't enough to overcome seventy years of programming.

So you held his pillow and listened to him not sleeping on the couch, both of you alone in the dark, measuring the distance between what you had and what you were about to lose.

The bar was too loud and too warm, and you'd lost count of your drinks somewhere around the third toast to "getting the gang back together." Your college friends were all talking over each other, five conversations happening at once, and you were pretending to follow along while the room tilted gently to the left, then right, like a ship in uncertain waters.

Your phone sat face-up on the sticky table, silent. Three days. Seventy-two hours since the last check-in, which had been just one word: Alive. You'd stared at it for so long the letters had started to blur. Alive meant not dead. It didn't mean safe or whole or missing you or anything else your desperate brain wanted to read into it.

"Another round?" Derek—or was it Dylan?—appeared with a tray of shots that glowed an alarming shade of blue. He'd been in your International Relations class senior year, the guy who always sat too close during group projects and somehow never had his portion of the work done on time.

"I'm good," you said, but the words came out slurred, tongue thick in your mouth, and somehow there was already a shot glass being pressed into your hand. The glass was cold, wet with condensation, and your fingers felt clumsy around it.

"Come on," he said, sliding into the booth beside you. The vinyl squeaked under his weight, and suddenly the booth felt half its previous size. His thigh pressed against yours, heat seeping through your jeans. "Like old times."

Nothing about college had involved Derek-or-Dylan sitting this close, but your brain was too fuzzy to form the words. Thinking felt like trying to swim through honey. The shot burned going down, tasted like artificial raspberry and the kind of decision you'd regret in the morning. Your throat closed around it, body trying to reject what your mind had already accepted.

Someone was laughing too loud. Sarah? Stephanie? The girl who'd lived down the hall junior year. Her engagement ring caught the bar lights, throwing little rainbows across the table. Engaged. Normal. Safe. Her fiancé probably slept in their bed. Probably came home when he said he would.

Your phone buzzed. Your heart leaped—stupid, traitorous thing—but it was just your credit card app, politely informing you of suspicious activity at "O'Malley's Tavern." Yeah, you thought hazily, five rounds for people you haven't seen in years was pretty fucking suspicious.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over Bucky's contact. The little green dot that showed he was active had been gone for days. Off the grid. Radio silent. But that didn't stop you from opening the messages, from reading the last exchange from four days ago:

You: be safe Bucky: Always am.

Liar, you thought, and started typing.

You: hey

You stared at the word, deleted it, tried again. Your vision swam, letters doubling and tripling before reforming.

You: heyyyy. i miss u

Derek-or-Dylan was saying something about his job at a consulting firm, his hand gesturing wide enough to brush your shoulder, your arm, coming to rest on the back of the booth behind you. His cologne was too strong, something that probably had a name like "Masculine Musk" or "Power." It made your stomach roll. You shifted forward, but the room swayed with the movement, and you had to grab the edge of the table to steady yourself.

You: i know ur probly saving the world rn but i wanted u to know You: taht i love u You: that** You: even if ur being stupid lately

The words looked wrong on the screen, but you couldn't figure out how to fix them. Your fingers felt disconnected from your brain, moving of their own accord.

"You okay?" Derek-Dylan asked, and his hand was on your knee now, squeezing gently. His palm was damp through your jeans. "You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," you mumbled, trying to pull your leg away. But in the booth, trapped between him and the wall, there was nowhere to go. Your skin crawled where he touched you, but your body felt too heavy to properly react.

You: ur therapist called btw You: well not called but like. sent another email You: oh i hacked ur email. sry. You: i mean not rlly since u left it up on my laptop but whatever You: ur gonna get in troubel You: trouble* You: i dont want u to get in trouble

The shots were hitting harder now, making your thumbs clumsy on the screen. Everything felt like it was moving through water. Someone was telling a story about their promotion, their engagement, their perfect life that definitely didn't involve a boyfriend who slept on the couch and disappeared for days without warning.

Your chest felt tight. When was the last time you'd been able to breathe properly? When was the last time your lungs didn't feel like they were working at half capacity?

You: do u even miss me anymore You: or am i just another thing u have to manage You: like ur therapy u dont go to

Derek-Dylan's hand was back, higher this time, fingers pressing into your thigh. The pressure made bile rise in your throat. "You were always the quiet one," he was saying, voice low and too close to your ear. His breath was hot, smelled like beer and those terrible shots. "The mysterious one."

"Bathroom," you managed, practically falling out of the booth. The floor rushed up to meet you, and you caught yourself on the edge of the table, glasses rattling. Someone's drink sloshed over the rim, ice cubes scattering.

"Whoa there," he said, reaching for your elbow, fingers wrapping around your arm. "Let me help—"

You: i went out tonight You: trying to be normal You: but nothing feels normal without uYou: withuot You: without* You: fuck

The hallway to the bathroom was narrower than it should be, walls pressing in like they were trying to squeeze the air from your lungs. You leaned against the cool brick, phone bright in the darkness. The screen swam in and out of focus. More words pouring out now, without filter, without thought, like blood from a wound you couldn't stem.

You: dereks being creepy You: or dylan You: idk his name You: he keeps touching me You: i dont like it You: i want to come home but home doesnt feel like home when ur not there You: when ur on the couch You: when u wont even look at me

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

Your phone started buzzing. Not a text. A call.

Bucky's name filled the screen, and your heart lurched so hard you nearly dropped the phone. Your hands were shaking—when had they started shaking? You stared at it, paralyzed, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

[Missed call - 10:16 PM]

Immediately, it started again.

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

You should answer. Of course you should answer. But your hands were trembling and your throat felt thick with unshed tears and you were so fucking drunk and what if he was angry about the texts? What if he was calling to tell you to stop, to leave him alone, to finally say the words that would make this ending real?

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:17 PM]

The third call. This time, your trembling thumb hit decline.

The texts started immediately.

Bucky: Hey, sweetheart. You okay? Bucky: Can you pick up? Bucky: Please answer Bucky: I just need to know you're safe Bucky: Baby, please

That last one made your eyes burn, tears hot and sudden. When was the last time he'd called you baby? When was the last time his voice had sounded anything but carefully controlled? Your chest ached with missing him, a physical pain that made you press your hand against your sternum.

You stumbled out the back exit into an alley that smelled like garbage and rain and piss. The cold air hit your overheated skin like a slap, and you had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding down it. The brick was rough against your palms, grounding you even as the world spun.

Your phone rang again. This time, muscle memory had you answering before your brain could catch up.

"Hey." His voice filled your ear, warm and worried with something sharp underneath. Like honey poured over broken glass. "There you are. You okay?"

"Bucky?" Your own voice came out small, wobbly, and you hated how desperate you sounded.

"Yeah, sweetheart. It's me. Where are you?"

"I'm..." You looked around the alley like it might provide answers. Dumpster. Fire escape. Puddle of something you didn't want to identify. "I'm out. With friends. College people."

"Okay." He kept his tone gentle, but you could hear movement in the background—keys jingling, a door closing, footsteps on pavement. "You having fun?"

The question broke something in you. The tears you'd been holding back spilled over, hot on your cheeks. "No," you admitted, and then the words just tumbled out, sloppy and slurred. "No, 'm not having fun. I miss you and I'm tired and everyone's talking about their perfect lives and Derek won't stop touching me and I just want to come home but you're not even there, you're in Warsaw or wherever saving the world and—"

"Who's touching you?"

The words cut through your rambling like a blade. All the gentleness gone, replaced with something cold and dangerous that made your drunk brain struggle to catch up.

"What?" You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift through the fog of alcohol.

"You said someone's touching you. Who?"

"I—Derek. Or Dylan? From college. He's just... he kept putting his hand on my leg and I didn't..." You trailed off, some sober part of your brain finally catching up to what you were saying. To who you were saying it to. Your stomach dropped.

Silence. The kind that made your skin prickle with unease, that made you want to take the words back, swallow them down with the rest of your mistakes.

"I'm coming to get you," he said finally, and his voice was too calm, too controlled. The voice he used when he was trying very hard not to kill someone. "Tell me where you are."

"You're in Warsaw," you said, confused. Your brain felt like it was operating on a five-second delay.

Another pause. When he spoke again, something in his tone made your chest tight. "I've been back for three days. Debriefing at the Tower."

The words hit you like cold water. Three days. He'd been in New York for three days and hadn't come home. Hadn't even told you he was back. The pain of it was sharp, sudden, cutting through the alcohol fog.

"Oh." It came out small, pathetic. You pressed your free hand against the brick wall, needing something solid to hold onto.

"Send me your location," he said, and you could hear him moving faster now, the sound of a car door opening. "I'll be there in twenty."

"You don't have to—"

"Location. Now." Not harsh, but firm. The voice that brooked no argument.

You fumbled with your phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to share your location. The blue dot pulsing on the map looked lonely, lost. Like you felt.

"Good girl," he said, and the familiar endearment made your eyes burn fresh. "Now listen to me. You're gonna go wait out front where it's well-lit. You're not going back inside. You're not talking to Derek or Dylan or anyone else. You're just gonna wait for me. Understood?"

"Okay," you whispered.

"Say it back."

"Wait out front. Don't go inside. Don't talk to anyone."

"That's right. I'll be there soon."

"Bucky?" Your voice cracked. "I'm sorry. About the texts. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't." His voice softened, just slightly. "Don't apologize. Just... just wait for me, okay? We'll talk when you're safe."

Safe. Like you weren't safe now. Like you ever felt safe anymore, even in your own home, with him sleeping a room away like a stranger.

"Okay," you said again.

"Twenty minutes," he promised, and then he was gone.

You stared at your phone screen, at the string of messages you'd sent, each one more pathetic than the last. Your reflection in the dark screen looked distorted, wrong. Mascara smudged, lips still stained from whatever was in those shots, eyes too bright with tears and alcohol.

Twenty minutes. You could wait twenty minutes.

You pushed off the wall, the world tilting dangerously, and made your way to the front of the bar on unsteady legs. Each step required concentration, like walking a tightrope. Three days. He'd been home for three days.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly freezing despite the warm night. Your skin felt too tight, like it didn't fit right anymore. Everything felt wrong. The streetlight above flickered, casting strange shadows that made you dizzy.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Time moved strangely when you were drunk, too fast and too slow all at once. You watched cars pass, their headlights blurring into streaks of light. Counted them to keep your mind off the way your stomach churned.

"There you are."

You jumped, nearly losing your balance. Derek-or-Dylan stood there, that same too-wide smile on his face. Up close, you could see the flush on his cheeks, the slightly unfocused look in his eyes. He was drunk too, but not as far gone as you.

"Thought you got lost," he said, moving closer. "Come on, let's get you back inside."

"No." You shook your head, which was a mistake. The world spun harder. "I'm waiting for someone."

"In this state?" He laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. "You can barely stand. Here—"

He reached for you, and you tried to step back, but the wall was already against your spine. Nowhere to go. His hand wrapped around your upper arm, grip too tight, and you could smell his cologne again, that awful musky scent that made your stomach revolt.

"Stop." The word came out slurred, weak. "I said I'm waiting—"

"Don't be like that." He crowded closer, his other hand coming up to rest on the wall beside your head, caging you in. "We were having fun inside, weren't we?"

"No." You turned your head away, but that just exposed your neck. His breath was hot against your skin. "Please, just—"

The sound of tires squealing made both of you jump. A black car pulled up to the curb so fast it fishtailed slightly, leaving rubber on the asphalt. Your drunk brain took several seconds to process what was happening—car, familiar car, Bucky's car, Bucky—before he was already out, moving with the kind of purpose that made your foggy mind finally understand why people crossed the street when they saw him coming.

He didn't run. Didn't need to. He just strode forward with inevitable violence in every line of his body, and Derek-or-Dylan was already backing up, hands raised, mouth opening to form words that never made it past his lips—

The crack of bone was loud in the quiet street.

Derek-or-Dylan screamed, dropping to his knees like someone had cut his strings. His wrist—god, his wrist was bent like wrists weren't supposed to bend, and your stomach lurched hard enough that you had to swallow back bile. The world tilted sideways, and you gripped the brick wall harder, rough texture the only thing keeping you upright.

"Touch her again," Bucky said, voice conversational, almost pleasant, like he was discussing the weather, "and I'll break the other one. Then start on your legs."

He wasn't even breathing hard. Hadn't broken a sweat. Just stood there in dark jeans and that leather jacket you'd bought him for his birthday, looking like he'd done nothing more strenuous than walk across a room. But there was something in his stance, in the casual way he watched Derek-or-Dylan writhe on the ground, that made your drunk brain whisper dangerous even as your body sang safe.

"My wrist," Derek-or-Dylan moaned, high and panicked. "You broke my fucking wrist!"

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, matter-of-fact. "I did."

Then he turned to you, and it was like watching a storm clear. All that cold violence melted away, replaced with something soft, concerned, yours. His eyes tracked over you, cataloging damage—checking for hurt you couldn't even identify through the alcohol haze.

"Get in the car, baby," he said, voice gentle now. He held out his hand—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was being careful with you.

"Okay," you said stupidly, the word coming out slurred. You were still staring at Derek-or-Dylan clutching his wrist and moaning on the sidewalk. Your brain felt like it was operating on a ten-second delay, trying to connect crack with bone with Bucky did that with for you.

You pushed off the wall and immediately regretted it. The world spun violently, your legs deciding they were more suggestion than requirement. You would have fallen if Bucky hadn't been there, suddenly, impossibly fast, arm around your waist.

"Whoa," he murmured. "I've got you."

"'M really drunk," you informed him, like maybe he hadn't noticed. Your words mushed together at the edges. "Like... really, really drunk."

"I can see that." Was that fondness in his voice? You couldn't tell. Everything sounded underwater.

He guided you to the car like you were made of spun glass and bad decisions, opening the passenger door and basically pouring you into the seat. Your limbs felt disconnected, uncooperative. The leather was cool against your overheated skin, and it smelled like him—that mix of cedar and metal and something uniquely Bucky that made your chest ache even through the drunk fog.

He rounded the car, pausing to crouch beside Derek-or-Dylan. Through the windshield, you watched him say something that made all the color drain from Derek-or-Dylan's face. Even from here, even drunk, you could see the man nodding frantically, like a bobblehead having a panic attack.

Then Bucky was sliding into the driver's seat, the door closing with a solid thunk that felt like safety. Like coming home. Even though home didn't feel like home anymore and you were too drunk to remember why.

"Seatbelt," he said quietly.

You stared at the buckle like it was advanced calculus. Your fingers felt like they belonged to someone else, clumsy and too big. "Can't," you mumbled. "Fingers're drunk too."

He leaned over to help, and suddenly he was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could count his eyelashes if your vision would stop swimming. His hands—even the metal one—moved with perfect precision while yours fumbled uselessly in your lap.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, pulling back to look at you properly. His eyes were doing that thing where they went all intense and worried. "Did he—"

"No." You shook your head, which was a terrible idea. The car started spinning. Or maybe you were spinning. Hard to tell. "Jus'... grabbed my arm. Wanted to..." You frowned, trying to remember. "Something. Dunno. His breath smelled bad."

"I know." His hand came up like he was going to touch your face, then dropped. "I know."

The engine purred to life, and then you were moving. You pressed your forehead against the cool window because it felt nice and also because holding your head up was suddenly very difficult. The city lights blurred past in long streamers of color that made you dizzy.

"You've been back for three days," you said, though it came out more like "you've'n back fr'three days."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

"Were you gonna tell me?" The words were getting harder to form. Your tongue felt too big for your mouth.

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you almost forgot what you'd asked.

"I needed time," he said finally. "To think. To figure out how to..."

"How to what?"

"How to keep you safe." The words came out raw. "How to be near you without being a danger to you. How to—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching tightly.

You wanted to laugh, but it came out as more of a hiccup-sob hybrid. "You broke his wrist."

"He was touching you."

"Could've jus'... asked him to stop." The words kept sliding into each other.

"No," he said, and there was something final in it. "I couldn't have."

You turned to look at him, which required way more effort than it should have. The streetlights kept catching his face in flashes—sharp jaw, furrowed brow, eyes fixed on the road like it personally offended him. He looked tired. He looked dangerous. He looked like everything you wanted and couldn't have and your drunk brain couldn't remember why that was important.

"'M drunk," you announced, like maybe he'd forgotten in the last thirty seconds.

"I know."

"Really, really drunk."

"I know that too." His lips twitched, almost a smile. "The texts kind of gave it away."

Oh god. The texts. You groaned, trying to sink through the seat and into the road below. "Fuck. 'M sorry. Shouldn't have—they were so stupid—"

"I told you not to apologize."

"But 'm being stupid, and you were prob'ly busy with... with whatever, and I just—"

"Baby." He said it soft but firm, like punctuation. "The texts were fine. More than fine. They were..." He paused, and you watched him search for words through your blurry vision. "They were the first honest thing either of us has said in weeks."

That shut you up. You stared at him, trying to process his words, but thinking felt like trying to catch fish with your bare hands. Slippery. Impossible.

"We need to talk," he continued. "But not tonight. Tonight, you're drunk and I'm..." He trailed off.

"Angry?" you supplied, though it came out more like "ang-ry?"

"Yeah." He glanced at you, something soft flickering in his eyes. "But not at you. Never at you."

"He was jus'... just some guy from college," you said, words tumbling over each other. "He didn't... didn't matter."

"He put his hands on you." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "That matters."

You thought about arguing, but the thoughts kept sliding away before you could catch them. Something about hypocrisy and beds and sleeping alone, but it was all too muddy, too complicated for your drunk brain to sort through.

"Missed you," you said instead, small and honest and probably too raw. "Know 'm not s'posed to say that. Know we're... whatever we are. But missed you so much I couldn't—can't breathe sometimes."

His hand found yours across the center console, fingers interlacing. It was the first time he'd touched you voluntarily in weeks, and the simple contact made your eyes burn with tears you were too drunk to control.

"I know," he said quietly. "Me too."

You squeezed his hand, probably too hard, but he didn't pull away. "Feel sick," you admitted.

"I know, sweetheart. We're almost home."

"Not home," you mumbled, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "Just 'partment. Home's where you are, but you're never there."

You felt more than saw him flinch, but the world was getting fuzzy at the edges and spinning faster now, and you couldn't remember why that was important. His thumb rubbed circles on your hand, and you focused on that sensation, let it anchor you as the city lights blurred past.

You were drunk. Really, really drunk. But somehow, in the midst of all that spinning and blurring and too-much-ness, one thought stayed crystal clear:

He'd come for you. He'd been home for three days without telling you, but when you'd needed him—really needed him—he'd come.

You didn't know what that meant. Didn't know if it changed anything.

But for now, for this moment, with his hand in yours and the familiar streets leading back to whatever home was these days, it was enough.

The rest of the night exists in fragments. Snapshots through a drunk haze that would embarrass you later, when sobriety brought all the sharp edges back.

Bucky's hands, impossibly gentle as he helped you from the car. The way you'd swayed into him, and how he'd let you, just for a moment, before steadying you with careful touches. The elevator ride where you'd pressed your face into his chest and breathed him in like you'd been suffocating for weeks.

"Easy," he'd murmured when you stumbled over your own feet at the apartment door. "I've got you."

And he did. Those careful hands working the zipper of your jeans. Pulling your sweater from each arm. The fabric pooling at your feet while you stood there, too drunk to be self-conscious, too tired to pretend you didn't need him.

"Arms up," he'd said softly, and you'd complied, letting him pull one of his worn t-shirts over your head. It smelled like him. You might have cried about that, but the memories blur together, everything soft and underwater.

His boxers, rolled at the waist to fit. A glass of water pressed into your hands. "Drink all of it." Two ibuprofen. "These too."

And then—miracle of miracles—the bed. Not the couch. The bed, with its too-soft pillows and sheets that had forgotten the shape of him. You'd curled on your side, expecting him to retreat to his usual post in the living room.

Instead, the mattress dipped behind you. Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a chest you'd mapped with your fingers a hundred times but hadn't touched in weeks. His lips found the nape of your neck, pressing kisses there like prayers, like apologies, like promises he couldn't keep.

"I love you," whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I love you so fucking much."

You'd wanted to respond, to turn in his arms and demand he explain why love felt like leaving. But sleep was already pulling you under, and his warmth was the first comfort you'd felt in months, and so you'd let the darkness take you while he held on like you might disappear.

Consciousness returned like a slap.

Your mouth tasted like something had died in it. Your head pounded in rhythm with your heartbeat, each pulse sending spikes of pain behind your eyes. But worse than the hangover was the memory, creeping back in horrible HD clarity.

The texts. Oh god, the texts.

Derek's hand on your thigh.

Bucky breaking his wrist with the casual efficiency of someone opening a jar.

Three days. He'd been back for three days.

You opened your eyes carefully, squinting against the morning light that streamed through the curtains like an assault. The bed was empty beside you, but still warm. He hadn't been gone long. The indent of his body remained in the sheets, a ghost of pressure that made your chest constrict so suddenly you couldn't breathe.

Your ribs felt too tight, like someone had wrapped wire around them and was slowly twisting. Each inhale scraped against something raw inside you, something that had been bleeding quietly for months but suddenly felt fatal. You pressed your palm flat against your sternum, hard, trying to counter the implosion happening behind your bones.

From the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening. The clink of a pan. Coffee brewing—the smell both nauseating and necessary.

You sat up slowly, the room tilting slightly before settling. Your hands shook as you reached for the water on the nightstand, downing what was left and wishing it was enough to wash away everything about last night. But it wasn't. Nothing would be.

Because now, in the harsh light of sobriety, you could see everything clearly. The past six months stretched out behind you like a road map of small heartbreaks. The progression from sharing a bed to him sleeping on the couch. From daily texts to radio silence. From being partners to being strangers who happened to share a lease.

And last night—last night he'd held you like he used to. Kissed your neck. Whispered that he loved you.

After being home for three days without telling you.

After weeks of treating you like a roommate he was too polite to evict.

After, after, after.

Your chest felt hollow, carved out. Like someone had reached in and scooped out everything soft, leaving just the sharp edges behind. Your lungs forgot how to expand properly. The air felt too thick, too heavy, like breathing through water. You could feel your pulse everywhere—throat, wrists, behind your eyes—each beat a reminder that you were still here, still alive, still hurting.

"Hey." His voice from the doorway made you jump. He stood there in sleep pants and nothing else, hair mussed, looking unfairly good for someone who'd probably been up all night. "I'm making breakfast. Eggs and—"

"I can't do this anymore."

The words fell out of your mouth like stones. Heavy. Final. They surprised you as much as him, but once they were in the air, you couldn't take them back. Didn't want to.

His face did something complicated—a flash of confusion before understanding hit. You watched the color drain from his skin, leaving him gray as ash. The spatula in his hand clattered to the floor.

"What?" The word came out cracked.

You pulled your knees to your chest, made yourself small. Your body curled in on itself like it was trying to protect what was left of your heart, arms wrapped so tight around your shins you could feel your own bones. The hangover pounded behind your eyes, but this pain was worse. Necessary, but worse.

Your throat felt like it was closing, muscles constricting around words you'd swallowed for months. When you tried to speak, it came out raw, scraped: "I can't... I can't keep doing this, Bucky. I can't."

"Hold on." He moved into the room, movements jerky, uncoordinated in a way you'd never seen from him. "Just—wait. We can talk about this. We need to talk about this."

"Do we?" Your voice broke, tears already burning hot. They came sudden and violent, like your body had been storing them up for this exact moment. Your sinuses ached with the pressure of holding them back, but it was useless. They fell anyway, hot tracks down cheeks that felt numb with shock. "Because we haven't talked—really talked—in months. You sleep on the couch. You were home for three days without telling me. You can't even—"

A sob cut off the words, harsh and ugly. It ripped from somewhere deep in your chest, from that hollow place where your heart used to live. Your shoulders shook with the force of it, whole body trembling like it might fly apart.

"You can't even touch me unless I'm drunk and someone else tried to first."

"That's not—" He stopped himself, running both hands through his hair. The metal one caught the light, gleaming dully. "Fuck. Fuck, that's not fair."

"Isn't it?" The tears were falling freely now, hot and humiliating. Your nose ran, and you didn't care. Your face felt swollen already, eyes burning like someone had poured acid in them. "Tell me what's not fair about it. Tell me I'm wrong."

He couldn't. You both knew he couldn't.

"Please." The word ripped from him, raw and desperate. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, and seeing the Winter Soldier kneel like that should have meant something. Would have, once. "Baby, please. Don't do this. Not like this. Not when you're—"

"Hungover?" You laughed, but it came out like another sob, wet and broken. Your chest hitched with it, breath coming in sharp gasps that hurt. "When should I do it, then? When you're on another mission? When you're sleeping on the couch? When you're here but not really here at all?"

"I'm trying—"

"No." The word came out stronger than you felt. "You're not trying. You're hiding. You're running. You're doing everything except trying."

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. You could see the war in him—the need to reach for you battling the fear of what his hands could do. Had done. That eternal fight between who he was and what he'd been made into.

"I love you," he said, like it was an argument.

"I know." Your voice broke completely, dissolved into something unrecognizable. The words scraped your throat raw. "That's what makes this so fucking hard. Because I love you too. I love you so much I can't breathe sometimes."

Your hand pressed against your chest again, harder this time, because it felt like your ribs might crack open from the pressure building inside. Your heartbeat was all wrong—too fast, too hard, skipping beats like it was trying to escape.

"I love you so much I've been disappearing, piece by piece, waiting for you to see me. To come back to me."

"I'm right here—"

"No, you're not!" The words exploded out of you, ripping something on the way up. Your voice went hoarse with the force of it. "You haven't been here in months! Your body's here, but you—the real you—you're gone. And I can't..."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they leaked through your fingers anyway. Your whole face felt hot and tight, skin stretched too thin over too much pain.

"I can't compete with your ghosts anymore. I can't compete with your guilt. I can't love you hard enough to make you stop punishing yourself, and it's killing me to try."

When you lowered your hands, he was staring at you like you'd shot him. Like you'd reached into his chest and torn something vital loose. His face was wet—when had he started crying?

"I'll go back to therapy," he said desperately. "I'll—I'll sleep in the bed. I'll tell my therapist everything. I'll—"

"It's not about the bed." Your voice came out small, exhausted. Empty. Like you'd cried out everything inside you and now there was just echoing space. "It's not about the therapy or the missions or any of it. It's about the fact that you've already left me. You just forgot to take your body with you."

"No." He shook his head, frantic now. "No, that's not—I'm here. I'm right here. Please, sweetheart, please just—"

"You were home for three days." You said it quietly, but it hit him like a physical blow. You watched him flinch, watched his whole body recoil. "Three days, and you didn't come home. Because this isn't your home anymore, is it? It's just... a place you keep your things. A place you sometimes sleep."

"That's not true—"

"Then why didn't you come home?"

Silence.

The kind that said everything.

"I needed time," he said finally, voice wrecked. "To figure out how to fix this. How to be better. How to—"

"You can't fix this alone." The tears had slowed but not stopped, steady streams now instead of the flood. Your eyes felt raw, lids swollen. Everything hurt—face, chest, throat, heart. "That's what you've never understood. You keep trying to solve me like I'm a mission. Like if you just find the right approach, the right angle, you can complete the objective without any mess. But love is messy. It's supposed to be messy."

"I know that—"

"Do you?" You met his eyes, those blue eyes you'd fallen in love with, that still made your heart skip even now. Even through the wreckage. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been trying to love me without letting me love you back. And I can't... I can't do that anymore."

Something in him seemed to break then. Really break, not the careful controlled way he'd been falling apart for months. His shoulders shook, and when he reached for you, it was with both hands. Metal and flesh, no distinction, just desperate need.

"Please." His voice was raw, ruined. "Please don't leave me. I'll do anything. I'll—Christ, I'll quit the team. I'll tell everyone about us. I'll—"

"I don't want you to quit the team." You were both crying now, the space between you salt-soaked and aching. Your chest felt cracked open, everything spilling out. "I don't want you to change who you are. I just wanted... I wanted you to let me in. To trust me with more than just the good parts."

"I trust you—"

"With everything except yourself." You pulled back, even though it physically hurt to do it. Your skin felt too tight, like leaving his reach might tear you apart. "And I can't build a life with someone who treats me like I'm too fragile to handle their damage. I'm not... I'm not some civilian you need to protect, Bucky. I'm supposed to be your partner."

"You are—"

"No." You stood on shaking legs, needing distance. Needing air. Your knees almost buckled, muscles weak from crying, from hurting, from holding yourself together for so long. "I'm your secret. Your liability. Your guilt. I'm everything but your partner."

He was on his feet too now, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what to do."

"I can't." The words tasted like ash, like endings, like everything you never wanted to say. "Because you're asking the wrong question. It's not about what you do. It's about what we do. Together. And you can't... you won't let there be a together."

"That's not—"

"You sleep on the couch." Each word hurt to say, like coughing up broken glass. "You were home for three days. You missed our anniversary. You haven't touched me without apologizing in months. You love me, I know you love me, but you love me like I'm already gone. Like you're just waiting for me to figure it out too."

He stood there, chest heaving, and you could see it—the moment he realized you were right. The moment he understood that he'd been pushing you away so slowly, so carefully, that neither of you had noticed until there was nothing left to push.

"I don't know how to stop," he admitted, and it was the most honest thing he'd said in months. "I don't know how to be in love without being terrified. I don't know how to wake up next to you without checking to make sure I didn't hurt you in my sleep. I don't know how to come home without bringing the blood with me."

"I never asked you to be perfect—"

"I know." His voice broke. "I know, and that's... that's the worst part. You never asked for anything except me, and I couldn't even give you that."

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn't fix. Six months of small abandonments. Six months of loving each other wrong. Six months of him leaving without moving and you staying without being seen.

Your body felt strange, disconnected. Like you were floating above yourself, watching this happen to someone else. The tears had stopped but your face still felt wet, tacky. Your chest moved with breath but you couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything except the yawning void where your heart used to be.

"I need to pack," you said finally. The words came out robotic, empty.

"No." But there was no fight left in it. Just despair. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know." You couldn't look at him. Couldn't watch him realize this was really happening. "My sister's, maybe. Just... somewhere that isn't here."

"This is your home—"

"No." You turned to face him one last time, memorizing the way he looked in the morning light. Beautiful and broken and everything you'd ever wanted. "It was supposed to be. But homes are where you feel safe. Where you feel seen. And I haven't felt either of those things in months."

He made a sound then, wounded and raw, and it took everything in you not to go to him. Not to take it back. Not to settle for the half-life he was offering. Your body swayed toward him against your will, muscle memory overriding logic. But you locked your knees, clenched your fists, held yourself still through sheer force of will.

"I love you," you said, because it was true. Because it would always be true. "But I can't disappear anymore. Not even for you."

You made it to the doorway before his voice stopped you.

"What if I—" He swallowed, started again. "What if I go to therapy. Really go. What if I... what if I try?"

You paused, hand on the doorframe. The wood was smooth under your palm, solid. Real. An anchor in a world that felt like it was dissolving.

"Then try. But try for you, not for me. Because I can't... I can't wait anymore, Bucky. I can't put my life on hold hoping you'll decide you deserve to be happy."

"I don't know how to be happy," he admitted.

"I know," you said softly. "That's why I have to go."

You left him standing there in the bedroom you'd shared, in the home you'd built, in the life you'd tried so hard to make work. The sound of his grief followed you—not sobs, but something worse. The quiet, breathless keen of someone watching their world collapse and knowing they'd lit the match themselves.

You packed mechanically, throwing things into bags without thought or care. Your hands moved on autopilot while your mind went somewhere else, somewhere numb and far away. He didn't try to stop you. Didn't follow. Just stood frozen in the bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might shatter what little was left.

When you wheeled your suitcase to the door, he was there. Red-eyed, hollow, looking like a ghost of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it. For being too broken to love you right."

"You're not broken," you said, and meant it. "You're just... lost. And I can't be your map anymore."

The door closed behind you with a soft click that sounded like an ending.

You made it to the elevator before the sobs hit, great heaving things that made your whole body shake. Your knees gave out and you sank to the floor, suitcase abandoned, hands pressed over your mouth to muffle the sounds tearing from your throat. Your stomach cramped with the force of it, muscles seizing, lungs burning.

You'd done it. You'd left. You'd saved yourself from disappearing completely.

It was the right thing to do.

So why did it feel like dying?

read part two here!

[hyruling]

number 50 for the prompts! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

50. putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up

—

“You’re staring.”

He is. Has been, all night, and apparently finally been caught.

They’re in the kitchen, again, and Buck is watching him, flushed from the alcohol they’ve been drinking and the exertion of the game of charades that got a little too rowdy. Everyone else is in the living room, clustered around Bobby like a herd of elephants protecting their young, and when Buck got up to refill the snacks Eddie unfolded himself from the armchair and followed.

So yeah, he’s been staring. As if it’s his fault. Buck is wearing that cardigan that pulls tight across his chest and makes his eyes look stupidly blue. He’s forgone any hair product, curls bouncy and so touchable it’s been driving him crazy all night. And Bobby is in his house, something he thought he’d never get to see again. Chris is home, tucked away in his room with Denny and Mara and probably Jee, entertaining themselves away from the embarrassing adults. The world is right again, and pleasantly fuzzy from all the wine Karen’s been plying him with all night.

And Buck. He’s already mentioned the cardigan, and the hair, but Buck has been in his element tonight. Full of laughter, the spirit Eddie was worried had been broken forever repaired and thriving. He’s been fluttering around the house, refilling drinks and serving food with a bright smile that he can’t get enough of.

Buck’s glancing over at him now, hands busy with re-plating a charcuterie board. He has a soft smile just for Eddie, and it makes him a little nauseous with how painfully in love with him he is. How stupid he’s been to have wasted so much time pretending he wasn’t.

“Earth to Eddie?” Buck says, grin widening into something teasing.

“Hmm?” Eddie asks, settling against the counter behind him while Buck works at the island. He fiddles with his wineglass, nearly empty, and watches Buck cut up a block of gouda cheese. He’s pushed the sleeves of the cardigan to his elbows, forearms flexing, and Eddie can’t quite make himself look away.

“I said you’re staring,” Buck repeats with a little laugh. “Did you follow me in here just to watch, or are you gonna help?”

“I’m fine right here,” Eddie answers, delighting in Buck’s eye roll, the blush that creeps into his cheeks. “It’s a good view.”

Buck goes crimson, drops the block of cheddar he’d been about to slice. “Eddie. You can’t say that kind of shit when I have a knife in my hand.”

“Why?” Eddie teases, and the back of Buck’s neck turns red. Not for the first time, Eddie wonders how far it spreads. “Does it make you flustered, Buckley?”

He knows it does. But that certainty was hard earned, having spent weeks agonizing over living in such close quarters with Buck, telling himself all kinds of stories about why his heart raced when their hands brushed over the coffee pot, convinced Buck must not feel the same way. Until his tía had walloped him upside the head, metaphorically speaking, a few weeks in and told him to lock Buck down before it was too late.

In her own words, of course.

He suspects she had a similar conversation with Buck, given the way he’d come inside after seeing her to her car, red-faced and avoiding Eddie’s eyes. They’d stuttered and tiptoed around each other for a few days before settling back into their normal, which Eddie had finally come to realize was not most people’s normal.

“I—shut up,” Buck says, and picks up the cheese.

But now that he’s started, he can’t help himself. Fueled by three and a half glasses of wine, and the profound joy that’s bursting to spill out of his ribcage, he inches closer until his hip presses into the island right next to Buck.

Buck goes briefly rigid but recovers quickly — Eddie wouldn’t even have noticed the slip if he wasn’t watching him so closely. He keeps slicing cheese methodically, eyes fixed determinedly on his hands.

“Looking a little flushed there, bud,” Eddie says. “Too much wine?”

Buck huffs and flushes harder. “I only had two glasses. What’s that, your fourth?”

“You monitoring my drinking?” Eddie asks, and Buck chuckles.

“Only cause I know you’ll have a massive headache later,” Buck replies. “Good thing I stocked up on Excedrin last week.”

He finishes the cheese and starts in on some sausage, unwrapping it from the plastic, and Eddie can’t resist.

“Nice sausage you got there.”

Buck chokes on spit and drops the knife, turning to face Eddie at last. “Eddie. What is this?”

“What?” Eddie asks innocently. He’s too drunk to properly flirt, never flirted with a man before and is rusty nonetheless; but Buck is responding beautifully, in a way that he knows only he could tease out of him.

“You’re complimenting my sausage?”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s a nice one, that’s all. Thick, firm. I’d like to taste it—”

Buck’s hand covers his mouth, cutting him off, and his blood sings from the contact, from Buck flush against him, so close he could count his eyelashes. He barely resists the urge to lick his hand.

“Eddie,” Buck says in a low, plaintive voice that’s doing nothing to calm down his dick, which is not uninterested in the sudden lack of personal space. “You gotta—you know what you’re doing. Don’t—don’t be mean.”

And that—he knows then that they’re not on equal footing, that Buck is still operating under the illusion that Eddie’s not attainable, not already his. That the uptick in Eddie’s heated stares, his hand on Buck’s lower back while he’s cooking, the hip checks at the bathroom sink, have not communicated as clearly as he thought how much he wants this.

So Eddie nods, still silenced by Buck’s hand, and purses his lips until Buck can feel them against his palm. Buck snags it back like he’s been burned, eyes wide.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says softly. He picks up Buck’s hand and presses another kiss to his knuckles, keeping his eyes fixed on Buck’s. “I do know what I’m doing.”

Buck looks lost, staring at him the way he had when Eddie appeared amongst the rubble and dust weeks ago — like he’s a ghost, like he’d never seen him before.

“A-are you sure? Because Eddie, I can’t—”

Eddie closes the scant distance between them, catches Buck’s jaw in one hand, and kisses him.

Buck doesn’t kiss him back at first, frozen in Eddie’s gentle grip — and then he’s making a soft, hurt sound and pulling Eddie closer, hands immediately snaking under his shirt to find the skin of Eddie’s back. His head spins when Buck’s tongue teases at his lips, and he tastes like wine and salt and—

“Buckaroo, what’s the hold up—oh.”

Buck rips away, putting nearly a foot of space between them, and Eddie laughs, giddy. Chim looks like the cat who got the cream when he turns around, face split into a wide grin.

“Whatcha doing gentlemen?” he asks with a snap his gum, crossing his arms and tilting his head.

Buck sputters behind him, but Eddie just shrugs and leans back until he feels Buck’s chest pressed against his back.

“Nothing really. I was just asking Buck about his sausa—”

Buck’s hand slaps over Eddie’s mouth again, pulling him tighter against his chest with the move, and Chim howls out a laugh.

“I knew it!” he cries, clapping his hands together and spinning around. “Maddie! You owe me fifty bucks!”

“Hey!” Buck calls, but it’s too late — Chim’s gone.

Eddie does lick Buck’s hand then, and Buck releases him with a squeal. Eddie turns around and chuckles at Buck’s red face, staring at him helplessly. He can’t help but lean up to press a kiss to his flushed cheek, stroking over the other with a gentle thumb.

“We’re about to be swarmed,” Eddie says. He can already hear exclamations and shrieks coming from the living room and knows they have seconds before their little bubble is shattered. “I love you, and I mean it. And I really can’t wait to try your sausage.”

Buck snorts and drops his head to press against Eddie’s forehead, eyes brimming with what look like tears. Eddie thumbs a stray one away with the hand on his cheek. “Eddie, I—I love you so much, it’s—I—”

“What have we here?”

It’s Hen that breaks them apart this time. Buck’s smiling sheepishly over Eddie’s shoulder, and when Eddie turns, he sees at least four people trying to crowd in the doorway, the rest cloistered behind them in the dining room. Buck sighs, and drops a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head before beckoning them in.

“Alright. Get in here, you animals.”

Like a dam breaking their family descends, pouring into every nook and cranny, and Eddie swears his kitchen has never felt so warm.

—

prompts xo

[lieslab]

Where's my love?

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X afab reader

Summary: Unannounced and unplanned, you leave your boyfriend, but when he finds you again, things have changed drastically.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 2.7K

~ Part 2 ~

_ _ _

The sky grew dark again and that meant another night of suffocation for Chan. Another night of looking at the moon and hoping somewhere in the city of Seoul, you were looking at it too. In theory, the moon is all he has left of you. 

Every time he called your name, the quiet halls haunted him. Each time he dialed your number, the same automatic and robotic voice caused his heart to quiver; a threat to burst at the seams. The texts never fell through. You blocked his number weeks ago. No matter how hard he’d tried, he’d never get through. 

The worst thing about loving someone is putting your heart on a line. Handing someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to pull the trigger. The evenings used to fill with shared laughter. Your smile that he thought could harness his own happiness forever. 

As long as you stayed, his confidence grew. Those what-if thoughts turned into a reality. You provided a stable structure for the foundation of his heart. Any time he had doubts or the fears became too large, he found himself finding hope again between your hands. With his cheeks pressed against your hands, the reassuring sound of your voice, he never thought he’d have to live without it. 

He knew he had his flaws. Everyone had their flaws, but he never thought those flaws drove a wedge between the two of you. Life turned into a balancing act. Everything went well and when it fell apart, he thought you trusted him enough to open up. 

Whether that had been a lie or if he hurt you in a way that he couldn’t understand, he didn’t know. You didn’t give him a chance to explain. In the middle of a silent night, Chan stayed in the studio to finish up a beat. 

At your shared home, tears laced your eyes. In a panic and disbelief, you threw your clothes into an open suitcase. The clothes, the toiletries, and your favorite photo of the two of you. You snatched the small black frame and threw it into your suitcase, hoping it wouldn’t bend. 

Driving home from the studio, exhaustion laced Chan’s head. Purple bags smeared beneath his eyes. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a glimpse of your car. The first few numbers of the license plate matched yours, but exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. 

He didn’t realize your side of the closet turned empty. He didn’t take notice of your missing shoes. He went directly into your room, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep assuming you were in the bathroom. It wouldn’t be anything new for you. With a small bladder, you always had to go. 

The horrendous truth wouldn’t hit him until the next morning. _ _ _ 

In the morning, blue birds sang. The only woodpecker living in the backyard filed away at a tree with a sharp beak. A mirage of morning colors swept across the bustling city. Chan rolled over, expecting to get his hands on you, but you weren’t there. 

In a sleepy haze, his eyes half-opened and he glanced around the room. A faint light filtered through the laced curtains. He squinted, looking around trying to figure out where you were, wondering if you were up making breakfast. Sometimes you woke up early, but other times, you stayed in bed past noon. 

He never knew what the mornings would bring with you. Tender touches, quick kisses, and the rest unraveled into a mystery. Would the two of you argue over the simplicity of pancakes or waffles? The age old question that you always fought over. 

Perhaps, the morning would end with him wrapping you in his arms and refusing to let you go. He’d hold you hostage and appreciate you more than you’d ever know. While you swear, he’d laugh and squeeze you tighter. Promising, vowing, and praying that none of this would ever change. 

For a few more seconds, a few more minutes, another hour, the two of you would stay side-by-side. Two hearts beating for one another through thin, stretched skin. Two halves of a whole, being forced to separate for society’s standards, before the two of you could reunite again. 

He shoved himself up, ran a hand through his messy curls, and started to search for you. He called your name, rubbed his eyes, and padded out into the living room. The TV remained silent. Your shoes weren’t parked on the usual rug beside the door. The hooks holding your house and car keys remained empty. Two golden hooks without their usual objects. A house without a beating heart. He assumed you went out to get breakfast, but the messages remained unread. 

Having to go back to work, he sent you a final text. One final text that you didn’t gather the courage to read until hours later. Hours too late. You were already miles away. You whispered the words, pretended he was reading them off to you, but you never responded. Instead, you hit the block button. 

A heavy heart, eyes swollen with tears, maybe one day he’d understand, but you had to do what was best for the both of you. 

Even if it nearly killed you in the process. 

_ _ _ 

Four years, seven months, and two days. 

That’s how long it took before the two of you stumbled into each other again. The first months hurt and the wounds on each of your hearts grew raw. You bled endlessly, but what more could you do? Everything always fell apart before it could come back together again. 

You still kept up to date with Chan’s band. You bought every album and listened to every song. Woven through the lyrics of his song, a man mourned. He bled guilt. He pleaded for his lover’s return, but it never led to anything. 

Those first few weeks, he searched for you everywhere. With a photo of you, he went into your favorite places, desperately holding up your smiling face to employees, begging to know if they had seen you. Nobody ever did. You faded into the abyss, but his feelings for you never did. 

You vanished like a ghost. You haunted him at all the wrong times. Your missing presence caused the band to go on hiatus for three months. Nobody could make music when their leader was mourning. 

The guys tried to call you. They tried hunting you down. Chan even tried to contact your parents, but no matter what it did, it was a lost cause. The only thing that gave him hope was your best friend. 

At a loss, he appeared on their front doorstep in tears. Begging and pleading to know if you were okay. They promised you were, swore to him that it’d make sense one day, and shut the door. It never made any sense until today. 

The guys wanted his father’s lamb. His father was in Australia and he knew it’d never be as good as his father’s, but he tried to recreate it anyway. The guys had worked non-stop over the past six months. Their latest album sat at the top of the charts for seven weeks in a row and they were hoping it’d stay there for a while. 

Your disappearance caused his heart to ache, but it grew less now. Time heals all wounds and this one was no different. Deep down, he always hoped he’d be able to see you again, but he accepted that your disappearance was final. He’d never get the closure and that stung, but what else could he do?

In a face mask and a baseball hat hiding his face, he heard your voice first. A pack of raw lamb sat in his hand. Debating how many packs to buy, he thought he might have finally lost it. 

“No, no, no. What did I say? We can’t poke the raw meat’s plastic. If our fingers go through it, we can get sick. We don’t want that, do we?” 

Your voice wasn’t harsh, but rather a gentle compassion. He spun around to find you grabbing the hand of a small toddler and coaxing them away from the raw meat. His heart fluttered against the side of his chest. 

There you were. Your hair grew longer, but the bags beneath your eyes remained the same. Tucked in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, you chose your comfort over society’s peer pressure to look your best all the time. He thought he might drop to his knees. 

“Do you want to sit in the cart? We’re almost done and then we can go back home. Grandma is waiting for us. It’s supposed to snow later. We need to get back to her house before the storm starts.”

Your hands reached out, but their head shook. Black hair bobbed and sat in waves around her small shoulders. Dressed in a pink fluffy coat and fur-lined winter boots, her little foot stomped. “No!” 

“Come on, honey, let’s-” 

The little girl spun around and took off running. Not realizing how close the stranger was, she dashed into Chan’s legs. He gasped and reached down to steady her. 

Your eyes widen. “I’m so sorry! She can be a handful and-” Your cheeks went red as you hurried forward to grab her. 

The girl’s head tipped back, trying to see who she ran into. Chan reached up and gently pulled his mask down. The girl gasped and grinned. Two dimples and a mouthful of baby teeth. “Daddy!” 

“No, honey. This isn’t-” As your eyes met Chan’s, your world stopped. “Bang Chan?” 

“Daddy!” The little girl squealed again. Her tiny arms wrapped around one of his legs. 

He had so many questions for you, but they didn’t come out. Instead, his gaze fell onto the child at his feet. The same brown eyes as his. The same dimples. Looking at her reminded him of the childhood photos of himself. 

She had your smile, but from what he could see, everything else was from him. She cooed and pressed her head into his leg. “I like your music. Makes me dance.” 

“Honey,” you pleaded again quietly. “Come on, I’m sure he’s busy and-” 

“Is this why you left me?” The words fell out before he could stop them. “Is she really my daughter?” 

You blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. Coming back to Seoul had been a terrible idea, but your mother lived here. You couldn’t just stay away from her forever. You knew there was a chance you’d run into Chan when you were back, so you went to the places you thought he never visited. Apparently, times had changed over the years. 

“Can we talk about this somewhere else?” 

“So you can leave me again?” He asked. Sadness laced his voice and your heart squeezed with pain. You hadn’t meant to cause him any harm, but you knew you had. 

You glanced around, making sure the two of you weren’t being eavesdropped on. Realizing it, he tugged up his face mask again, so nobody could recognize him. Your eyes slipped shut and then they reopened. 

“I left you because I was pregnant. It was a stupid thing to do, I know. Deep down, I was terrified you’d want to stop making music. I couldn’t ask you to pick between leaving your band and being a father.” 

“So you just left without a good-bye?” 

“It was cowardly, but I was afraid. I was afraid of everything. I didn’t know if I was going to go through with the pregnancy. I didn’t know if you wanted me to keep the baby. I didn’t know a lot of things. By leaving, it was easier than forcing you to choose.” 

“I have a daughter?” 

“Her name is Odette.” You stepped around the grocery cart, bent down, and picked her up. “I know that I’ll never be able to-” 

“Odettie Berry!” Odette squealed. “That’s me!” 

“Berry?” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded. “You couldn’t be there when I named her. I felt awful when Berry died. I know how much you loved her, so I just…” 

The hurt grew indescribable. Your actions had been those of a coward, but knowing that you named your daughter after the dog he loved the most, it was touching. Odette Berry was perfect. 

He reached down and placed the grocery basket on the ground. “Can I hold her?” You nodded and gently handed her to him. 

She smelled like a faint mixture of baby powder and lavender. Her rounded head dipped forward. Her chin pressed against his shoulder and caused him to smile. A loud yawn pulled at her lips. You blinked rapidly, trying not to cry again. 

To her, her father was not a stranger. You let her watch every new Skzoo Code video. Every new song, the two of you listened to together. No matter the distance you put between you and Chan, you still made sure she knew who her father was. 

“Come back home,” Chan whispered pleadingly. “She’s my daughter, too.” 

“I don’t want to cause any issues.” 

“I still have the apartment. The spare bedroom is empty. I still have all of your stuff that you left behind. You can’t just keep her hidden away from me now that I know she exists.” 

“Wolf Chan,” Odette mumbled as her eyes drooped. 

“She knows about Wolf Chan?” 

“Daddy’s plushie.” 

You cursed softly beneath your breath and scrambled through the items in the cart. “He’s in here somewhere.” You pushed aside the bread and eggs. Digging through the cold meat, you finally found him. “She can’t sleep without him.” You held it out to Chan. 

He grabbed it and brought it towards your daughter. “Is this who you’re looking for? Wolf Chan?” 

“Mmhm.” 

He smiled at her sleepy voice and tucked it beneath her arm. “There you go. You can sleep tight now, little one. Wolf Chan is here to save the day. You’re safe in Daddy’s arms.” 

You sniffled and wiped at the tears, trying to stop them. He paused when he said you. “Sorry,” you whispered. “I’ve been hoping you’d accept her, but I-I didn’t know. She loves you and the guys so much.” 

“She knows about the guys?” 

“Of course, I’ve told her about her uncles. Do you really think I’d never tell her? She has all of their plushies too. They line her bed and she can’t sleep without them. I think she loves Seungmin and Felix the most.” 

“Seungmin?” 

“She finds his bullying funny.” 

“You’re raising our daughter to be a Seungmin junior?” 

“No!” Your head shook rapidly. “I said she likes Felix too. She loves to help me bake. Just you wait, she tries to make beats like you too. Back home, she’s constantly tapping away at the kitchen table. I think she’s like you more than you’ll ever know.” 

“Please come back home.” 

He reached an arm out towards you. Without hesitation, you hurried over and wrapped your arms around him. Your shoulder lightly pressed against your daughter. For a few moments, the world stopped, and the missing pieces realigned. 

Your cart of groceries sat abandoned behind you. Chan’s struggle for lamb seemed like a minor inconvenience more than anything. The guys wanting lamb brought him back together with you and his daughter. 

Odette Berry curled into his shoulder and cuddled a Wolf Chan plushie. This morning, his biggest challenge of the day was finding enough lamb. Now it was figuring out how to adjust to life with a child. 

No matter how upset your actions made him, no matter how much it hurt; he understood it now. No matter how much he wished you would have picked better choices, it was far too late. Things finally aligned in his favor and that was all that mattered now. 

Four years, seven months, and two days. That’s how long it took him to find you again. Despite that, a lifetime of memories now awaited him. New memories with his daughter. He’d have to figure out how to tell the guys that he had a kid. 

His ghost had finally been found and that was the best gift anyone could ever give him. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght

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Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

-> Part 2: Strikes to Die By

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved and the killer is behind bars, you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Agent Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

[alexthetrashyracoon]

Simon wants to marry you.

This fact was as clear as rain on his mind. You were the love of his life, he was ready to settle down with you and grow old.

So Simon prepared everything for that special day, it was your fourth year anniversary and Simon wants to ask you the biggest question someone could ask and he hoped, maybe even prayed despite not believing in any higher deity, that you would say 'yes' to his proposal.

He has planned out the whole day, from the moment you woke to the moment you would close your eyes for the night again, everything was supposed to be perfect.

Simon brings you breakfast in bed, watching your smile brighten when you see the freshly pressed orange juice and the fresh buns, still warm from the bakery. "Happy Anniversary." He whispers before slipping back into bed behind you, pulling you between his legs and stealing some of the freshly cut Mango from your plate.

When breakfast is over, you two made a mess out of each other while trying to feed each other, he scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, telling you to get ready and that he has a lot of plans for today which causes you to become perceptive. Immediately starting to question him about his plans, but he's still a trained soldier, he withstands your flow of questions.

Another plan of Simon for today was bringing you to a fair, the same one you two met four years ago.

Here he wanted to ask you to marry him, on top of the Ferris wheel where you two had been stuck together four years ago due to a technical issue with the electronic.

But after spending a few hours walking the fair ground, having to walk back to his car once to bring Lord Otto from Otterson, the plush Otter he won you at one of the stupid and usually very rigged fair games, to safety and out of the way. You make it to the Ferris wheel and Simon's face fell.

"Out of order..." He breathes and runs a hand through his short blonde hair, staring up at the still standing wheel and the dangling cable cars.

"Damn." You curse softly next to him and scratch your neck. "Well, maybe we can ride it another day, mhm?"

"Yeah, maybe. Well, we can't change anything now." He chuckles and squeezes the velvety box in his back pocket. Keeping it safe until you two would reach the next destination.

The small restaurant by the corner where you two lived was filled with loud voice, happy laughter, children running around, not that Simon minded, he knew you were a very outgoing person and enjoyed the social interactions from such evenings.

Simon had reserved a table a few weeks ago and the waiter brings you and him over, Simon shushing the poor man who just wants to help you sit.

He is your boyfriend, bloody hell, he can do something so simple as helping you get seated.

"I know it is our anniversary, Simon," You chuckle as you put down the glass of wine Simon has ordered for you and him, "But something feels different. I just don't know what. Special..."

"Four years is just a long time, love. Maybe your brain finally catches up with... wha-?" Simon wants to be cheesy with you before asking you the question of all questions when suddenly his feet feel wet and he looks down, seeing water come from the kitchen.

His second attempt of asking for your hand has been sabotaged by a broken water pipe.

Simon curses internally as he carries you back outside, not wanting to get your feet wet and cause you catching some flu.

Well, there is only the romantic walk through the nearby park which is empty around this time of the night, so you two can walk around the pond and watch the fireflies and swans before he can go down on one knee and finally ask.

But before he even get you through the sturdy iron gates that allowed entrance to the park, his phone rang, Prices' number on the screen and everything in Simon screams to ignore his Captain for the sake of your relationship and your future.

He apologizes and takes the call, listening to Price explaining that they've got information about a certain Russian Terrorist planning an attack and that they had to meet within the next hour.

"It's fine." You reassure him when he brings you back to your shared apartment, squeezing his hand with a gentle smile on your lips. "I had a lot of fun today with at my side. And saving the world is much more important. We can celebrate another time, Si."

"You're too forgiving." Simon replies and presses his chapped lips against your forehead. "But it's not fine. I had the whole day planned out. And the universe seems against me at all, bloody hell. All I wanted to do tonight was asking you to marry me. And everything I've tried blew. The Ferris Wheel, the restaurant, even the walk..."

You cut him off before he can talk himself into a frenzy by wrapping your arms around his neck, having to stand on your tiptoes and planting your lips on his.

"Yes." You grin when you pull back. "Yes, I will marry you, Simon Riley. I will marry you."

Maybe he should have simply asked you this morning during breakfast, might have saved him from getting another grey hair on his head. But sometimes the simple answer is hidden behind the complicated ideas.

[heavenlybodies333]

The House Always Wins -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Your fork clinks against the edge of the plate as you laugh—head thrown back, relaxed, entirely at home in his living room. It’s your weekly ritual, and you love it. Dinner at Spencer’s.

Sometimes you fuck.

Sometimes you don’t.

But either way, it’s your favorite night of the week.

Tonight’s dinner was pasta—your best attempt yet—and Spencer raved about it even though you forgot the basil. You’re curled up on his couch now, both of you warm and full, legs tangled lazily. Your head rests against his chest, and his fingers are gently toying with the bracelet on your wrist—slowly rolling the beads between his fingers as he speaks.

“Poker is essentially probability,” he’s explaining, eyes fixed somewhere above your head. “There’s the mechanics of betting, of course, but the psychological aspect—bluffing, reading, reaction time—is where it really becomes a game of people more than numbers.”

You smile. “So you're telling me I’d be better at poker than you?”

He snorts. “Statistically unlikely.”

“Ah, but I’m hot. People get distracted.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not a valid statistical advantage.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t work,” you hum, shifting your body a little. He keeps playing with the bracelet like it grounds him, his touch light and casual. Comforting.

Your other hand has been slowly inching across his stomach for the past several minutes. Inch by inch, over his Henley, fingers brushing barely-there circles, until you’re right over the waistband of his sweats. Your palm gently presses lower—just slightly. Just enough to graze the unmistakable shape of his growing hard-on.

He falters mid-sentence. You look up at him, your head still on his chest, lips curled into a barely-there smirk. “Something wrong, Doctor?”

He clears his throat, eyes flicking away. “You’re… you’re distracting.”

You raise an eyebrow, continuing your slow exploration. “I thought you were immune to distraction.”

“Not from you.”

Your fingers dip below the waistband, teasing along the ridge of him through his boxers. He inhales sharply.

“You were saying?” you ask sweetly, looking up at him through your lashes.

He glares—flustered, aroused, absolutely at your mercy.

“I was saying that poker is—fuck—about control,” he breathes as you wrap your fingers around him, slowly stroking through the thin fabric.

Your hand cups him properly now, palming him through the soft fabric, and he hisses between his teeth. His cock is already half-hard—hot and thick and twitching beneath your touch. You slide your palm up the length of him, teasingly slow.

His eyes cut to yours—dark, hungry, frustrated and fond all at once. “I thought you wanted to learn poker.”

You tug at the waistband of his sweats, dragging them down just enough to free him, thick and flushed and already dripping at the tip.

“I am learning,” you say innocently, brushing your lips against his inner thigh. “I’m learning that you’re incredibly easy to distract.”

He groans softly when you wrap your hand around him—slow strokes, base to tip, slick with his own arousal. “Fuck—”

“Call,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the length of him, “or fold.”

Spencer’s head tips back against the couch cushion, his hips rocking up into your touch.

“I fold,” he breathes. “I fucking fold.”

And just like that, you take him into your mouth.

Slow at first, building your rhythm like it’s part of the game—lips slick, jaw loose, hand wrapped tight at the base to keep him right on the edge. Spencer is wrecked in minutes, fingers twisted in the blanket, whispering curses into the air like he forgot you were Hotch’s daughter and not just the girl who’s been driving him insane every night this week.

“You’re gonna—” he warns, but you don’t let up.

You hum low around him instead.

His whole body jerks, and then he’s gone—coming hard down your throat, a sharp gasp cutting through the silence. You swallow every drop, pulling back slowly with a satisfied sigh.

Spencer slumps, totally boneless, head lolling against the couch.

You crawl back up his chest, straddling his hips now, heart pounding. He reaches up, cupping your cheek like he’s forgotten every reason he ever gave himself to keep this casual.

“You win,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You smile. “That was only the first round.”

a/n: slut for Spencer Reid <3

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[vivwritesfics]

Wallaby

Chapter One: Conception

You were just best friends, a friendship born from improper business practices. But Oscar's Japan win leads to celebrating. Celebrating leads to his bed. His bed leads to a baby.Oscar Piastri x Verstappen!ReaderWarnings: hints of abusive parenting, 18+ themes, smut, foreplay (fingering, fem!receiving), p in v, drunk sex, unprotected sex (let me know if i missed anything) 5.6K

Chapter Two

Red Bull cap pulled low on your head, you sat in the McLaren garage. The first few times you had done it, you looked so out of place. Pictures of you were plastered across social media; the mysterious Red Bull girl in the McLaren garage.

It wasn't your fault the McLaren garage had better coffee. 

With your iPad in your lap, you doodled. No, it wasn't a doodle. Once upon a time your dad called them doodles, but you'd turned those doodles into your career. 

“Wanna show?” 

You held your iPad against your chest, hiding your work from the prying eyes of the McLaren driver. 

“Nice try,” you mumbled and pressed the off button. Tucking your pen into its little case, you looked at him across the table. 

Him, with his coffee and his salmon with avocado on toast. Too healthy of a breakfast for your taste, but you knew he enjoyed it. 

Oscar held up his hands in defence before digging into his breakfast. “All right,” he said, using his knife and fork to cut through the salmon, avocado and toasted bread (not how you would have eaten it, but you didn't comment). 

“I don't even have anything interesting so far,’ you mumbled as you turned your iPad back on. “Just the outline of Rocky.” 

“Rocky?” His eyebrows went up. 

You rolled your eyes. “Of, come on, Osc! You know who Rocky is.” 

He looked around, as if looking for some sort of clue (the clue was on your head). “Pato O'Wards dog?”

“No!” But then you stopped. “Well, maybe. But that's not the Rocky I'm talking about.” Pulling the iPad pen from its little case, you tapped the brim of your hat. 

“Stop being cryptic,” Oscar said, grinning as he shook his head. 

God, you hated it when he did that. The way he looked down as he laughed slightly. That laugh alone was enough to have you growing… Shy wasn't the right word for it. But you did grow quiet, did take a moment to gather yourself. 

You shouldn't have needed that around your best friend. But you did. And part of you hated it. You just wanted to be normal around him. 

He was your best friend, after all. 

“When are you gonna get that hat fixed?” He asked as he finished off the salad on his plate. 

Pulling the hat from your head, you looked at it. “What's wrong with it?” You asked as you turned it over in your hands, trying to look for any issue with it. Nothing. Thank God, because you never would have heard the end of it from Max.

Oscar shrugged his shoulders. “Not an OP81 hat,” he mumbled and picked up his coffee. 

You waited for him to put his coffee mug down before you threw your hat at him. Oscar caught it like it was nothing, went to put it on his head, thought better of it, and placed it on the table. 

“I only wear hats with a number one on it,” you said, your voice smug. 

There was a second before Oscar replied. A second where he stared at you, where you still couldn't look at him. (You just hoped he didn't notice). 

“Gonna be me by the end of the season.”

A scoff left your lips, but you fully believed him. He would be world champion. If not this season, then some season soon.  

Finally, you met his eye. “Can you leave me to draw in peace, please?” You asked and picked up your coffee. 

Stacking his cup on his plate, Oscar stood up. He grabbed your hat and placed it on your head before he walked past you, leaving you to your work. 

***

You had always loved racing. The high adrenaline, the way your heart beat quicker as the cars went past. The sounds of the engine, the smell of the fuel, the shouts of the crowd. 

Racing had always called to you, like it was in your blood. Maybe because it was in your blood. Your mother had raced and your father had raced. It hadn't interested your sister, but it had consumed your brother, in the same way it had consumed you. 

Your brother was a natural talent when it came to racing. Actually, it was incredible. When he started out in Formula One, he struck fear into the hearts of his fellow drivers, those that had been into the sport for years by that point. Those with multiple championships under their belts feared him, though he'd never admit it. 

Just like your brother, you were obsessed with racing. Unlike your brother, you didn't drive. You had no desire to climb into a kart and zip around the track. You weren't destined for the highs and lows, the wins and crashes, of the track. 

You may have been a Verstappen, but you were never meant to drive.

Still, you loved it. You loved the world of racing. You loved the world of Formula One.

When your parents divorced, you and your brother went with your father. It wasn't the easiest time in either of your lives,  but you had Max's karting races to took forward to. Watching the races, socialising with other kids, when you felt up to it. 

You were a quiet child. It was behaviour you taught yourself to stay off your father's radar. If he forgot about you, you were safe. 

Your father didn't pay much attention to you. Why should he, when you had nothing to offer him? You weren't a racing prodigy, you didn't have world championships in your future. You were just you. 

You were an easy child. All you wanted was to watch your brother race. You were enthralled by it. In a way, doing one of the things that made you happy made up for the neglect. 

Racing seemed like the obvious career path. Not in the same way it was for Max, but it was still something you wanted to do. You just didn't understand what. What in racing called to you? 

At first, nothing. As a kid finishing school, trying to make a decision on university, you didn't know. But you couldn't think of any job role beside driver, engineer or team principle. 

It made you regret not listening more when you were a kid. Maybe then this decision wouldn't be so hard. 

But Max got you in talks with the Red Bull Racing team. Someone from each department walked you through what they did. 

You didn't find interest in any of the engineering departments. Nothing in management or support roles. 

It was the creative sectors that got you. Art had always been a passion, an outlet for when it got particularly rough at home. 

That was how you ended up doing graphic design at university. It was fun, but it was still hard work. Your presence at race weekends got less and less as your workload became larger and larger. 

But nothing beat sitting trackside as you did your work. 

During your third and final year at university you began attending more races once again. For mental health reasons, you know? You could complete your work in a quiet corner in the hours before the race. Somewhere you could be alone, somewhere Max couldn't disturb you. 

Your final year at university just so happened to coincide with Oscar’s first year as a Formula One driver. His first year in McLaren. You were aware of him, just as you were aware of other rookies, like Logan Sargeant. But you didn’t know him, had no interest in knowing him. 

You had university to graduate. 

But Oscar noticed you. Not right away, he didn’t see you and then birds started singing. He didn’t see you and the clouds parted to shine a light on you. No, he just saw you with your iPad, sitting alone. 

You had no team hat on, no affiliation to anybody. You almost looked like you didn’t care (in reality, you were too busy to care). You had to be there with someone. A driver, a team member, an engineer. 

The first couple of times Oscar saw you, he didn’t approach. You were busy, clearly, and he didn’t want to distract you. But he was so curious about you. 

Fuck it, he was gonna do it. He was gonna approach you, just to find out what your deal was. Why attend the pinnacle of motorsports just to sit on your iPad like a bored toddler? 

On this day, you wore a team hat. Not just a team hat, a Redbull Racing hat with a number one on it. Fuck, a Max Verstappen hat. But you couldn’t be a casual Max fan, not with the amount of access you had. 

So, he approached you. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked up to you. He had no idea what he was going to say to you, he just had to sate his curiosity. 

Standing in front of you, he blocked the sun. At the shadow cast over you in the shape of a twenty-two year old man, you looked up. 

Oscar Piastri stood in front of you, looking incredibly awkward. Putting your iPad pen down, you took pity on him. “Can I help you?” You asked him, iPad against your chest as you rested your chin in your hand. 

Yeah, who are you?

But Oscar didn’t ask you that. He rocked on the balls of his feet and asked, “What’re you working on?”

A simple question, one that made you sit back. You unlocked your iPad and showed him what you had been working on. “Uni work,” you said quickly as Oscar looked at your screen. 

He really looked at it. The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable you became. Not properly uncomfortable, but you hated showing people your work. People who would judge you in person, not just people hidden behind a screen. 

“That’s really cool,” he said as you took the iPad back. “You’re in uni for art?”

When you began replying, Oscar pulled out a seat to sit down. But you found you didn’t mind it. A bit of company, a bit of a distraction was welcome. “Graphic design,” you answered. “All my coursework is racing related.”

Oscar raised his eyebrow at you. “That’s really cool,” he said, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’d love to see more.”

Being brave, you turned on your iPad once again. You went to your drawing app and showed him all that you had done over the past three years. All the work that had been graded highly, all the work you were proud of. 

When Oscar got to the last of your work, he passed the iPad back to you. He wore a grin, one that had you looking away from him. “That’s all really good,” he said again. “Should be proud of yourself.”

You were. 

“If I asked you to design a special helmet for me, would you?” He asked.

Your eyes went wide. You’d never done something this public before, not even for Max. “Uhm, I suppose,” you said and opened a new document. 

He checked his watch. “Consider yourself commissioned,” he said and stood from his seat. 

Oscar walked away. You watched him go, your mouth wide open. “What?” You called after him, your voice rising in pitch and volume, like a teenaged boy.

Thus, through improper business practices, a beautiful friendship was born. 

***

You watched the race from the back of the Redbull garage. Oscar might have been your best friend, but you were still a Verstappen, still supported your brother over everything. You watched him, and you watched Oscar.

Max wasn’t in for a win, and he knew it. He had told you before the race that he knew he wasn’t going to win, but that he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind not winning anymore. Jesus, he’d grown up so much since the year before. After two seasons of being the majority winner, after getting his girlfriend pregnant, he had calmed down a lot. 

It was weird to see your brother like this, but it was nice. 

Max had never reminded you of your father. He wasn’t unnecessarily cruel or volatile. But he could get angry, he could easily become enraged. That side of Max had always scared you, was always something you’d stayed away from. 

The Max from two years ago would have become so angry if he’d lost in the way he was this season. Yes, some of his radios were still angry, but you could understand it. He didn’t hold that same anger when he climbed out of the car and wrapped his arms around you. 

An Oscar win. You loved an Oscar win. You loved getting to muss up his sweaty hair, making it messier than it already was. You loved watching him on the podiums, loved his calmer form of celebrations. 

It was a far cry from Max’s celebrations, if he celebrated at all. Max would drag you to the club and get wasted with his wins. The most celebrating you got out of Oscar was his arms around you for a total of five seconds. 

This race was an Oscar win. You were a Redbull cap in a sea of McLaren, cheering for him. 

Oscar looked down. You didn’t have the illusion that he could see you, even if he later told you that he could. It didn’t deter your cheering for him.

You would have cheered the same if Max was on the podium, you told yourself. 

His first win of the season. You had to celebrate, properly celebrate. As much as you enjoyed his quiet celebrations, you wanted something more for him. To go out, to explore the Japanese nightlife while you were here. Themed bars, karaoke, night clubs. You were going to drag him so far outside of his comfort zone and he was going to love it. 

“Congrats, champ,” you said as you wrapped your arms around him. He stank of sweat and champagne. It didn’t have you pulling away, didn’t have you withdrawing. If anything, the sweat and champagne pulled you closer. 

When the two of you let go of each other, Oscar started towards his driver's room. You followed him as he went. “I think you should get to celebrate this first one, properly,” you said.

Oscar stopped in his driver’s room doorway. There was nothing stopping you from going in there with him, but you never did. It felt like a boundary you didn’t want to cross, like stepping into the bathroom with him while he was in the shower. 

“Bad luck to celebrate the first win,” he said and pushed his fingers through his hair. Sweat dropped to the floor. “Won’t get another if we celebrate this one.” His voice was so serious, but his grin suggested his teasing. 

You pushed his shoulder. “What if I promise you’ll have fun?” You asked him, stepping closer. 

“You promise?” He echoed, eyebrows going up. When you held your hands up, as if in prayer, he grabbed them both. “Okay, we can celebrate,” he answered and you let out a little cheer. “But only because this is the first one of the season.”

You nodded in agreement, but you couldn’t stop grinning. 

You didn’t have an outfit for this. Nothing cute and classy you could wear to a nightclub. So, while Oscar did what he needed to do post race, you went shopping. 

Sent you an allowance

You rolled your eyes at the text from your brother. It wasn’t an allowance, it was just money Max sent you to allow you to live. Like how he let you live in his Monaco apartment. Just until you started making proper money. Just until your work wasn’t just from Redbull Racing

Asshole, you sent him. ILY.

You didn’t spend much, just what you needed to to get a cute outfit. A maroon top, a little black skirt and a pair of boots. The rest of the money you pocketed, saved to buy Oscar a drink.

Showered and dressed, you waited in the hotel lobby for Oscar. Makeup and jewellery kept simple, to not take away from the beauty of your outfit. Because it really was beautiful.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” Lando Norris said as he walked past you.

You stopped picking at your nails to glare at him. If you’d had the time and resources, you would have painted your nails to match your outfit. “Shut up,” you mumbled, staring up at him. “I’ve got somewhere to go.”

Lando frowned. “Thought Max was going back to Monaco,” he said, leaning against the handle of his suitcase.

“He is.” You crossed one leg over the other, chin raised as you looked down at your boots. “But I’m not going with him.”

There was a moment where Lando’s frown deepened. But then his eyes went wide. “How the fuck did you convince Oscar to go out with you?” He asked, leaning closer. 

You shrugged your shoulders. “Dunno,” you answered and leaned back on your palms. Almost as if you knew how good you looked and you were throwing it in his face that you didn’t want him.

Lando swallowed. He looked you over one last time and left the lobby. 

Alone, you sat there. You went back to playing with your nails as you waited for Oscar. Going out wasn’t really his thing, you knew, but he would pull through, right? He wouldn't just leave you here, sitting alone, right?

A relieved breath left you when the lift dinged and he stepped out. Dressed simply, a white shirt and black trousers, as if he didn't have an outfit, either. But he still looked good. 

“Jesus,” he breathed as he stepped towards you. 

Placing your bag on your shoulder, you stood. “Went shopping,” you mumbled and pulled down the black of your skirt. 

“Really?” He asked, voice full of sarcasm. “Looks good on you.” 

You looked down at yourself. “Really? Hadn't noticed,” you said and grinned, tongue between your teeth. 

Rolling his eyes, Oscar began walking. He held his hand out behind him, clenched it shut and then opening it again. Offering it to you, you realised. 

You did an almost jog to catch up to hum. Securing your little black bag on your shoulder, you placed your hand in his. Your mouth opened, but you couldn't bring to ask him. You just enjoyed it, the feeling of your hand in his. 

Oscar kept hold of your hand as you went from venue to venue. The two of you did almost everything, at your insistence. The only thing you couldn't convince him to do was karaoke. But Oscar was happy to indulge you on everything else. 

Several drinks in, after three themed bars and two nightclubs, Oscar dragged you back to the hotel. You didn't remember what the theme of the bars were, and you kept muttering the same thing over and over again. 

You were thoroughly drunk, and Oscar was giggling like a fool. You were both too drunk to be making good decisions. 

“Gonna be world champion,” you muttered for the fourth time in five minutes. 

“Yeah I am.” He stood so close to you, head ducked to look at you properly. “You'll wear my hat?” 

“I'd look so good in your hat.” You were on your tiptoes, your arms coming to wrap around his neck. 

His hands found your hips. The lift doors opened but neither of you realised. Too wrapped up in each other. Crossing a boundary that never should have been crossed. 

“Oscar,” you whispered as his fingers danced up your sides. You shivered and stepped close to him. 

“I think I want to kiss you,” he whispered. His stare was so intense but you couldn't look away. 

You blinked. Lashes thickened by mascara, but it made your eyes look so pretty. “Don't be a pussy,” you whispered and started giggling so hard you snorted. 

The lift doors slid shut as Oscar kissed you. He gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him as the lift travelled back down. 

He grunted as you stepped back. Following you, Oscar pressed you against the wall of the lift. His hands travelled lower, fingertips toying with the bottom of your skirt. 

Grabbing your hand, Oscar pulled you out of the lift. “Wait,” he mumbled as he looked around at the lobby. And then he pulled you back into the lift and pressed His lips were back on yours. But it was only for a moment before he pressed his forehead to yours. “Distracting me,” he whispered. You toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Always distracting me. My good luck charm, too.” 

“Your good luck charm?” You echoed, blinking at him. 

When he nodded, his nose bumped against his own. You couldn't explain it, but you wanted to bite it. Only gently, your teeth sinking in just until he pulled a face. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt. 

“Yeah,” he said as the lift doors opened. This time, the two of you stepped out onto the right floor. “Make me feel lucky, at least.” 

You kissed him again. Up against the wall of the corridor, you kissed him. Softly, gently, tugging at his hair until he groaned. You couldn't get enough of him. 

“Need to get you inside,” he mumbled as he pulled his key card from his pocket. “Knew that from the minute I saw you.” 

“Shut up,” you scoffed as he let you into his room. 

Holding his hand, you pulled him over to the bed. But then you laid back and pulled Oscar on top of you. The two of you began giggling again, seemingly uncontrollably. As if you couldn't hold yourselves back. You couldn't as you wrapped your legs around him. 

But that was enough to get Oscar to stop laughing. He dipped down and kissed you, stealing the very air from your lungs. As he kissed you, he moved his hips. Grinding them against your own. There was so little separating the two of you, his trousers and your underwear. 

You could feel him, every inch of him. Throwing your head back, you moaned as Oscar kissed down your neck. Even in his drunken state, Oscar only kissed. He didn't nibble, didn't bite, didn't suck. No marks, nothing that could get either of you into trouble. 

Even in his drunken state, Oscar was smart enough to be scared of Max. 

“Can I?” He asked, fingers fiddling with the material of your shirt. 

You sat up and let Oscar pull down the zip at the back. You pulled the rest of the top over your head and discarded it further into the room. 

With nothing on beneath, you were laid half naked before him. Oscar sucked in a breath, sitting back to look at you.

Under any other circumstances, you would've covered up, held your hands over your breasts until your partner busied himself with taking off his own clothes. But the way Oscar was looking at you, you left your hands tucked under your back. 

He touched you, fingers ghosting over your nipples. Almost like he was unsure. But, when you pulled your lip between your teeth, Oscar touched you properly. 

Hands firm but gentle all at the same time. His lips were against your collarbone, hips still rocking against your own. 

“Oscar,” you whispered. He pulled away to look at you. Still wearing a grin on your lips, he kissed you. Gently still, hands coming up to cradle your face. 

He pulled away to unbutton his shirt. Every popped button revealed more and more of him. All you had seen before, when he opened his driver's room for you when he knocked, when he was covered in champagne, shirt clinging to his muscled torso. You'd seen it before, but never like this. 

You didn't know what came over you. But you sat up, hands on his hips as you held him close. But then you licked his torso. Tongue running across his muscles in a such an obscene way, it had him groaning, holding your cheeks as you looked up at him. 

His thoughts strayed, cock throbbing at the thought of you on your knees, gagging around him. 

But that wasn't for tonight. 

Oscar didn’t know if he'd get another opportunity like this. But he couldn't push it, couldn’t push you. 

He didn't realise how badly you wanted him. It was maddening, how willing you were to sink to your knees before him and take him into your mouth. But, just like Oscar, you couldn't push it. You couldn't push him. 

As you laid back, you shimmied your skirt down your legs. Oscar pulled your boots from your feet and discarded them, throwing them over his shoulder. They thunder against the floor as they landed. 

Just in your underwear before him, you looked divine. His belt clinked as he fiddled with it, trying to undo it with tearing his eyes away from you. Hazel eyes staring into your own, until you threw your head back, exposing your throat to him. 

He hadn't touched you, yet he had you reacting like this. He let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, leaving himself just as exposed as you were. 

“We're doing this,” he said, like he was unsure. Fingers on the waistband of your underwear, just waiting for your signal. Your confirmation. That was all he needed. 

You. 

You wanted to beg him to touch you, moan and whine in such a pathetic way until he took pity on you and plunged his fingers into your underwear. 

But you didn't need to beg Oscar. Not when he pulled your underwear down your legs and took you in. 

Despite it all, his fingers seemed so steady as he touched you. No hesitation as he felt you, gathered you on his fingers. Already so wet, and what had he done? 

He plunged his fingers inside of you. Just one at first, moving slowly and carefully. Not too deep, not yet. But, with each curl and stroke of his finger, he seemed to get deeper. “Please,” you whined desperately, attempted to reach for his wrist. 

“Please?” He echoed, his other hand on your thigh. “Please what?” 

“More.”

One word, one single word. Oscar tightened his grip on your thigh, his touch bruising. But you didn't wince, not when you were loving it so much. 

He added another finger and watched your face twist. Eyes squeezed shut, but you let yourself smile, as if content. Not just content, you'd gotten exactly what you wanted. 

Oscar picked up the pace. Gentle pumps of his fingers became quicker, more intense. Your name left his lips, a breathy sound he could have listened to on replay.

“More?” 

It wasn't mocking, the way he said it. But you were almost sure it was meant to be. Still, you nodded your head. Another finger, faster, deeper. Another moan of his name. 

When you came, you looked as though you didn't realise it. But the way you squeezed him, walls clamped around his fingers, your own fingers squeezing his wrist. He felt your body shudder in a way you didn't seem to. 

“Easy,” he whispered, pulling his fingers out of you. Gentle, his touch and his voice. Gentle and grounding. “You okay?” 

You released his wrist. Stretching your fingers, you nodded. “I'm okay,” you mumbled and looked at him. Sweat clung to your skin as you blinked at him, as if coming back to yourself. You were okay. He pushed your hair back and kissed your head. 

But Oscar's tenderness was overshadowed. You didn't mean to distract from the sweet moment by reaching for his boxers, but you couldn't help yourself. The second your hand made contact with him, he bucked his hips towards you. 

“Easy, buster,” you said and giggled to yourself. 

Jesus fuck, he was hard. So damn hard beneath your fingers, and all because of you. He had seen you, all of you spread bare for him. It was only fair it was his turn. 

Hastily, Oscar pushed his boxers from his hips. 

Tall and proud. That was the only way you could describe it as you stared. And I mean stared. Unable to tear your eyes away from his tip, which already seemed to be weeping. 

It wasn't supposed to be pretty. In the few experiences you'd had, from the little bit of porn you'd stumbled across, you knew it wasn’t supposed to be pretty. But it was. If you were any other woman, your mouth would've watered. 

But you remained composed. Somehow. Maybe it was the knowledge that you couldn't push it that far with Oscar. Something in the back of your mind was telling you it was a bad idea. That taking the man who'd just had three of his fingers buried inside of you into your mouth was a bad idea. 

You listened to that small, annoying voice. But you still wrapped your hand around him, swiped your thumb over his tip. You gathered what was there and brought it up to your mouth, licking it off. 

His hips subconsciously rocked. “That was…” 

“Hot?” You asked. 

He nodded. 

Wrapping your fingers around him once again, you pumped him. Not enough to be considered foreplay, almost like you were getting him warmed up as you laid back and parted your legs. 

Oscar got the hint. He climbed in between them and his breath caught. For a moment, he laid there. Your arm was trapped between your bodies at an almost awkward angle as you held him, ready to guide him in. “Hey,” you said and he looked at you. 

You'd always found his eyes pretty. Even that day you'd met and he had been an unwanted distraction. Every part of him was pretty, you knew. Every. Single. Part. 

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he kissed you. You let go of him, brought your arm up from between you and wrapped them around his neck. “Gonna get on and fuck me or what?” You mumbled against his lips. 

He dragged your bottom lip between his teeth. Hips rutting against yours, the feeling of him nestled between your lips. Blunt head nudging you in all the right places, you just needed him to take that leap. 

And he did. Oscar sheathed himself inside of you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, mouth falling open in a mix between a gasp and a moan. 

At first, he was still. Mouth still against yours, but he seemed to be watching you carefully. Gauging your reaction to his every little movement.

“Move, Osc,” you had to whisper. 

He nodded his head rapidly, sweaty hair falling in front of his face. His eyes were closed, mouth open when he began to move, when he pushed himself further inside of you. There was a slight stretch, but you were loving it. The way he seemed to be just too big for you, even with the preparation he had put in.

He hissed through his teeth as he moved his hips. You couldn’t help but moan as you attempted to kiss him, to kiss any bit of skin you could get your lips on. When you kissed his neck, Oscar tipped his head to the side, gave you more room to work with. Clearly, neither of you cared as much about painting his neck in purple bruises. 

“Want,” he began, eyes still shut. “Want you on top.”

Oscar flipped you over. You went willingly and settled on top of him, your hands against his chest. He gave you all the time you needed to adjust to the feeling that came with the new position, like he was rearranging your guts. “Don’t know how the girls in the fantasy books do it,” you managed to say, 

Oscar laughed. Hands settling on your hips, he laughed. A beautiful, melodic sound that was cut off when you began moving. You lifted yourself up as best you could and sank back down onto his dick. It took more effort than you were expecting, giving up after doing it a few times.

But Oscar had you. He kept hold of you as he drew his knees up, feet on the bed to thrust into you. Again and again as you kept yourself braced on his chest. The noises you made spurred him on, along with the way you clenched around him. 

When you came around him, your eyes squeezed so tightly shut you looked as though you would never open them again, Oscar swore he saw stars. Just a few more thrust, just a few more until he came inside of you.

Breathing heavily, Oscar slipped out of you. “Holy,” he breathed, chest rising and falling. 

Your limbs shook as you laid down beside him. It wasn’t graceful, your body seeming to just fall beside him. “Can’t believe we did that,” he mumbled as you snuggled closer to him. 

Two sweaty bodies pressed together, you fell asleep. Neither of you were aware enough to regret it. Minds too tired, bodies too exhausted, and the alcohol still moving through your veins. 

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