#YEA!! i look at my ao3 numbers MULTIPLE TIMES A DAY

[whirlybirbs]

          (  this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan​ from this beautiful set !  )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

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You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

                                      ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, “You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness.  

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, “Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

[obito76]

Chapter 37 : Only You

You can read my full work here on AO3.

---

He decided falling asleep in the bed in his room again, it was easier than fucking her. His girlfriend came in, checked in ever so often and gave him his food. Then days passed, they faught battles and he was doing absolutely fine, her healing helped him overall as usual but they still went along like nothing happened. She didn’t come to his room in the middle of the night nor did he knock on hers after she turned off the shower water, maybe this time she really did want to stop. Secretly he hoped not, he hoped she would get horny again and snap open the door, straddle him like that night before, but it didn’t happen.

By the end of the week surprisingly his sex drive was higher then it had ever been, he was used to getting laid like that and then it stopped. He needed someone, and that someone wasn’t going to be her. Don’t get him wrong he wouldn’t be mad if it was, hell he would much rather kiss down her stomach then walk into a bar and find the Titans East leader, Bumblebee who looked him up and down with a smirk on her face. But he took it, he rammed her against the brick wall in the back of the club, hiked up her skirt and worshipped her dark skin, her dark hair and her gorgeous chocolate tits. He took her, fucked her and she promised to call him again when her boyfriend was not around. Of course her pussy was tight and it also didn’t hurt to get other chicks number, even if the only way he remembered her name was checking the contact.

She watched him stumble in but didn’t smell the usual sweat and musk on him it was more feminine. She thought he would be miserable but instead he looked even more fine than before. Rolling her eyes she decided not to care and shut the refrigerator, she had her tea and apple, she was content. It’s not like he watched her go and she felt her body twitch at the thought of him, or that she secretly wanted to walk to his room in the middle of the night for the past week multiple times. Still it didn’t matter what she wanted, he annoyed her to death and made her want to strangle him more then once. He wasn’t anything more then an easy fuck. Still the days went on and he came back to the tower different times, some smirking, others just with no emotion as he grabbed something from the fridge. Going back to her book she didn’t care, she didn’t care about him.

A week had passed. Dick had been getting texts from Bee every once in a while, coming back after an hour or two. No one paid much attention, Starfire didn’t seem to care as long as he took her shopping, taste her food or give her some gifts, she was too naive in her own way. He was sitting on the couch, a documention lazily in his hand as his body laid fully out. He looked over and saw her reading, sighing he shut the file and fell back on the couch as sleep took over and the last thing he remembered was the smell of her shampoo.

She noticed him sleeping and simply rolled her eyes, he really didn’t even seem to care about her anymore. Still she continued to read her book until a phone buzzing snapped her out on the words on the page. Looking around she saw his phone face up, the name ‘Bumblebee’ flashing. Scrunching her eyebrows together she picked up the phone and looked over, he was still completely passed out. Sighing she poked up awake and held the phone up to his ear.

“Huh-Wha- Karen? Oh hey… Yea yea, okay I’ll be there.” Taking the phone his hands brushed hers and he looked over, he saw she was confused and he was still semi asleep but heard the address of the motel she gave him and hung up just as fast. They never talked for long, it was just one call and her spreading her pussy in front of him. “Thanks.” He quickly replied before rushing over to grab a jacket.

“Where to?” She asked, beginning to get up and follow as he tried to rush out the door.

“Why do you care?” He shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t.” Crossing her arms she watched him shrug his shoulders and leave without another word. She stared at the door for what seemed like an hour although not even 5 minutes had passed before realizing he had left his phone. She knew she shouldn’t go through it, it wasn’t her place nor would it ever be.

He quickly put on the coat and began walking down the streets, checking his pockets. He felt them empty and groaned, he forgot his phone. Shaking his head he began jogging over to the address, some cheap motel in what seemed to be the criminal part of Jump City.

She walked over and picked up his phone with her delicate hands, pale fingers holding it as the thumb pressed the home screen. Soon enough it unlocked with ease, she forgot exactly how he had given her the passcode but didn’t care. Instead she pressed into messages and saw Bumblebee as the first contact. She shouldn’t go in it, she really really shouldn’t.

Dick knocked twice on the apartment door before it opened and a bombshell stared back at him. In nothing but a shirt and underwear. He smiled and she grabbed him but his jacket lapels, lips smashing as he tasted her tongue while she tugged him into the room. All thoughts of Raven left, for now at least.

He went to fuck her again. It wasn’t hard to tell and she had absolutely no idea how Starfire haven't caught them or even her. She didn’t give a fuck, it didn’t matter to her, why would it? She shouldn’t be mad about it or want to call him despite the missing phone, she didn’t want to call him out for it or anything in between because she didn’t have to it was good they stopped at least she would be avoiding Starfire catching them. Instead she went back to reading her book. Even though she only got through two pages by the time he came back into the living room to retrieve the phone.

“How was Bee?” She couldn’t help the venom spitting through her voice as she felt her eyes trained on the book and not him.

“So you went through my phone, huh?” He asked, taken back as he stood up straight.

“So was she any good?” She chilled back.

“Wow.” He scoffed, smiling as she looked up and tinted her head to the side. “You’re jealous aren’t you?”

“What? No.” Shooting up she tried to deny it as much as possible, but it didn’t in the least bit work.

“Fuck! You are!” Pointing a finger he took a couple steps forward. “Your mad I’m fucking someone else huh?” Playing a finger under her chin he tilted it up as a smirk crossed his face.

“Why would I be?” She laughed back, smiling devilishly. “You're not my boyfriend.” Pushing his hand away she walked off, anger burning off of both of them. She didn’t need him, she needed a really hot shower.

Staring at the ground as she left he curled his fists together, slamming his foot into the bottom of the couch he threw his phone as well, then he heard the water turn on and got an idea.

She felt the water burn her skin, it reminded her of home. Then a door began to open and she covered herself quickly, but she was too slow. Dick had already stepped in and how he had gotten undressed was the last thing she was thinking of, or cared about.

His fingers ghosted over her body, moving from her waist up to her shoulders, prickling over her neck before one harshly gripped her actual neck as he brought his mouth to her ear.

“You’re jealous..” His fingers traveled down to her lower half as he began to dance over the top of her pussy. “Admit it Raven, just do it.”

“When i said my pussy belongs to you…” Grabbing his hand she pushed him into the shower wall as water fell on them both, water dripping from his hair onto his face. “The same rule applies to you.” A hand gripped his member, his face clearly showed he was angry, but he was smirking. She began to move her hand up and down vigorously, watching him let out a dark laugh. “You’re fucking mine Dick, just mine.” Biting his lip she pulled it out slightly before latching her lips to his. “Say it.”

“Fucking No, bitch!” He said as she jerked him off faster until white cum splattered on her hand. He watched as she licked it off like she was having a delicious meal and smirked at the sight. Changing positions he forced her back to the wall and put a hand on her throat.

“The fuck are you doing?” Raven demanded, her limbs falling limp. “Dick-“

“Let me show you your place.” He saw her eyes shoot open and hit his lip right before kneeling down. Lips hovering over her own.

He licked a strip up her pussy and knew it was already wet. Even as she moaned it only stuck his tongue further into her, his fingers greedily running over every inch of her body as she shuttered and squirmed. Soon enough she began to stutter his name before her hips squeezed around his face, still Dick did nothing but dig his fingers into her ass as his tongue continued to make her come.

“I want you.” She breathed, shutting the water off and gripping his hair. Her plan was to make it to the bed but his hands grabbed her waist and he forced her in front of the semi foggy mirror. “Dick-“

“Mhm?” Swaying her hips he looked in the mirror at her face before he began to run his hands over her once more. This time he looked into the mirror as she closed her eyes, his hands moved over to cup her breasts as his other hand rubbed her pussy like before. “Beg..”

“No,-”

“I said Beg for my cock.” He yelled and shoved his fingers further in her pussy. Raven trembled and shivered at his voice.

“Please fuck me, fuck me with your cock please.” She whined right before he slipped into her pussy and she instantly moaned. “Oh fuck.” Posting both hands on the bathroom counter she looked into the mirror to stare back at him as her mouth opened and she let out a low moan. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“I won’t, if you say 'I'm Yours'.” He knew she would, even when he teased her before and she smacked his head with her book but now, it was different. Now she needed him, no matter how much she denied it. So he grabbed her hair and pulled her to his chest, thrusting harder. “Say it, say what you felt when you saw her name on my phone, just fucking say it.”

She leaned her head onto his chest and bit her lip until she felt blood. He must have seen it because soon enough his lips were licking it off all while she felt him slow down. “W-wait! Don't stop! I'm fucking yours! My pussy need only your cock and..and no one else can fuck me, not like this.” She held her hands on the back of his head while keeping her back to him.

He smiled at her, really smiled. Keeling a hand on her breast he twisted the nipple before keeping it moving down her stomach, gripping the side of her thigh he started to move slowly in and out.

“Fuck, i love when you beg, you fucking whore...” Letting his hands grab the side of her waist he pushed himself harder, not bothering to listen to her moans or screams.

“YES! only for you... You are my 'Man' Dick, fuck me like a bitch in heat.” She moaned loudly, he was too focused on making himself come again, his dick slapped against her while she screwed her eyes shut and shouted.

“Dick I’m gonna fucking cum!” Falling limp after her orgasm washed through her she ended up falling to her knees.

Dick smirked and looked down at her, picking up a towel he wrapped her up and walked into her room, putting clothes on him he noticed she was still in and shower was still running.

He smirked. And picked up his phone before leaving the room without another word.

[deafwestnewsies]

be my first last kiss

You can plan on a change in the weather or time, but you'd never planned on him changing his mind.

jack kelly x davey jacobs

read it on my ao3!

Earnest to goodness, Jack Kelly was going to murder Racetrack Higgins.

No, Anthony Higgins, this was the sort of thing that makes you pull out the tarnished christian name of a friend (or so you thought) you’ve known since he was toppling over on baby-fattened legs. Anthony Higgins would die by the sword of Jack Kelly.

He just had to get this godforsaken Youtube video filmed first.

You’re doing this for the cash, Jack grumbled to himself as he passed through the metal doors of a nondescript building on the Lower East Side- it was the kind of place being slowly taken over by hip and fun corporations promising Asian-fusion bars and eco-friendly thrift stores while edging out the relic businesses built on the backs of immigrant dreams. Jack couldn’t stand areas like this, the air thick with wasted luxury, so he rarely left the barrio. Why would he? Spot Conlon slept in the bedroom next to his. Katherine Plumber and Sarah Jacobs ran the bookstore that bought his baked goods and sold them for decent money. Medda lived down the street with her plethora of children, and Racetrack still beat the known path, doing tricks on the street corner for spare change and internet views. Davey- David. David Jacobs wasn’t there. It was right where Jack wanted to be.

Much unlike the dim studio where he now shuffled his feet, waiting for the perky young PA with bright red streaks in her hair to come back with further information about the video he would be shooting. Jack wasn’t a stranger to this small production company; He participated in a few Youtube videos back before they had millions of subscribers, he played truth or dare with lots of liquor and a complete stranger, he confessed about the first time he fell in love so it could be put to pathetic music.

Cash where you could get it, right?

“Kelly, right?” Cherry Streaks was back with a vengeance.

“Jack, actually,” he corrected.

“So you’re going to stand over there where the little blue X marks the spot and wait until the producer, Adam, starts asking you a few questions. The first one might be a test for our boom guy. Answer honestly, we can pretty much tell when you’re making up a story by this point. After that, the main part of the video will begin. Got it?” She was pointing wildly with a Number 2 pencil that had previously been stuck through her ponytail, and she smelled faintly of jasmine. Jack felt dizzy.

“Wait, I thought this was one of those ‘Choose who’s the best kisser out of ten strangers’ type of deal?” I mean, that’s what Race told me- oh God. Oh Santa Maria. Oh Saint Francis.

The young woman smiled like she was keeping an excellent secret. “Have fun, Jack Kelly.”

Walking off at her ominous dismissal, Jack stood where he was directed. The fluorescent lighting made him sweat under the knowledge that he had virtually no idea what he was doing there, Race had lied to him so that he would participate in some sort of sick, horrible scheme, and for all he knew, behind door number three could be his third grade teacher with a baseball bat and a basic multiplication grudge.

“Jack! It’s nice to see you again.”

Romeo was walking towards him with that easy gait Jack had memorized so long ago- Romeo had shot the original videos on an Amazon tripod and the unfounded hope of human connection, and now he owned the entire shebang. Jack dropped his tense shoulders to give him a warm smile. “Romeo. Boy, am I glad to see a friendly face.” Jack lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You’ve got a production assistant who actually does work, so I’m assuming we’ve died and you earned a really nice deal in Heaven?”

Romeo barked out a laugh. “If I’ve died, do not resuscitate. I’ll never be able to look at another bodega meatball sub after cooking food bought in a real grocery store.”

“Rub it in, why don’tcha?” Jack punched the shorter man on the shoulder. “Listen, Romeo, you gotta tell me what I’m in for, a buddy totally sold me out for the cash and I have no clue what this project is gonna be like.”

Before Romeo could respond, a tall, lofty man behind the camera cleared his throat. “Darling? We’re ready to begin when you are.”

“Jack, meet Specs. Or Adam, but we all know how well nicknames stick. Specs, this is the old friend I was telling you about.” Romeo ended right above Specs’ elbow, and it was all Jack could do not to laugh.

The man fixed his thoughtful gaze on him. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack. You’ve got a real presence on the camera. Have you ever considered acting?”

“I’m afraid I’m, uh,” Jack flexed a paint-stained hand. “Strictly canvas, as they say.”

Nodding as if that was a phrase people commonly used and not something Jack invented on the fly, Specs then clapped his hands together. “Folks, let’s film this sonofabitch.”

---

“I’m Jack, and I’m a twenty-four year old artist living in New York City.”

“Have you ever been in a relationship?” Specs questioned from behind the camera.

Jack blinked in surprise. “Sure. One throughout high school, another in college and a little bit beyond. I wouldn’t call myself a heartbreaker or anything.”

“Do you stay friends with your exes?”

“One of ‘em, yea. It was more of an amicable thing, you know. She ended up being a lesbian. And I am… not.” His clumsy fingers tugged at a constricting collar.

“And the other?”

“Just because I’m not a heartbreaker doesn’t mean I can’t be a real asshole sometimes,” Jack nervously chuckled. (Davey had laid out rose petals, for God’s sake. Rose petals.)

“Was this girl the high school girlfriend, or the college one?”

“Boy,” Jack quickly corrected. “Man. I guess. He was in college- four and a half years.” (It took him four days to clear away the rotting flowers, the bleeding color slowly seeping into his carpet. Katherine found him delirious with whiskey on the bathroom floor; Sarah couldn’t bear to walk through his front door.)

“How’d you meet him?”

(He twisted in his high-backed blue chair. “It’s habláis in el presente.”) “Freshman year of high school actually. Spanish class. Funny story, actually, that other girl I dated? His sister. Broke her heart for his. He was so mad at me that we didn’t talk for like, months after.”

“It was six and a half months, actually.”

Of things Jack was expecting to see today, Spiderman was more likely than David. A flash mob singing death metal, maybe. Pigs flying through the polluted air.

“I was told to come in. I now see why.” David’s eyes narrowed behind his thin wire frames, different from the heavy Ray-Bans that he had dedicated himself to sophomore year of high school. Jack hated that he looked older, wiser, and all around… better.

Specs cleared his throat before the bewildered set of men (one more angry than the other, both desperately avoiding eye contact) could demand what sort of sick joke this was. “Can you introduce yourself?”

They broke up on a Tuesday, an insignificant, momentary Tuesday. Fourteen months ago. (Yes, fourteen months, like their terrible split was a baby that Jack was nurturing bit by bit. He refused to round down- fourteen months ago, he left David Jacobs.) So when David ran his thumb across his jawline, a nervous tick older than his younger brother, Jack couldn’t fathom why he felt so relieved. Some things never did change. “David. Jacobs.” David’s jaw flexed as he looked into the camera. “I dated Jack for almost five years.”

“Tell us about your other relationships.”

“Unfortunately, I spent the better part of high school and college pining after a total cocksock. Not a whole lot of time for casual dating in between.”

A deep silence permeated the studio as two boom mic operators swapped awkward glances. Jack didn’t attempt to defend himself- he was sort of a cocksock. David Jacobs had asked him to uproot what little life he had in New York and move to Santa Fe for a prestigious, so-accolated-you-could-cry medical school, and Jack Kelly broke up with him over containers of kung pao chicken and scattered rose petals. He was a cocksock, a dickhead, and complete asshole. An ex-boyfriend of mass proportions.

“Okay, so.” Specs was wiping at his glasses with the tail of his shirt. Jack wanted to snap them in half. “Today’s video is entitled ‘Exes kiss for the first time since their breakup’. If you need more explanation…”

“I think we’ve got it.” David snapped, clenching his fists rapidly.

Jack stepped half an inch closer to David and began murmuring under his breath. “Davey, if you don’t want-”

“Don’t call me Davey.” His eyes were alight with flame- Jack’s chest caught fire.

Of all the things that felt domestic when dating Davey Jacobs, kissing him never managed to become routine. Davey kissed like he earnestly meant it. The gears in his brilliant mind would grind to a halt so he could dedicate himself to the lilting curve of Jack’s mouth, a gentle sweep of warmth when the artist’s mouth was otherwise preoccupied with his needless words, and the world would spin on a delicate axis. (Jack’s shoulders rose to meet Davey, the physical ache of being someone’s other half drawing him forward. Davey had avoided him for so long, Jack living on a diet of lingering stares and a brief touch of the hand, that kissing him felt like a dying man knelt at a replenished well. How did they exist for so long without this innate knowledge of the universe? Could he stand to go on a single second longer without the praise of Davey Jacob’s lips?) Of all the things Jack missed about spending his life with Davey Jacobs, kissing him was certainly one of them.

There was a moment where the pads of Jack’s fingertips brushed the nape of David’s neck, a habit borne from the small noise it would draw from the back of his throat, and the steely corporate floor felt more like the worn carpet in the old thirty-second street apartment. Jack could feel his thready pulse with the gentle press of a thumb.

Davey was a fan of the dramatics- he would pull away from a passionate kiss in the middle of a busy New York street to stare into Jack’s eyes, foreheads gently touching and cheeks furiously blushing. Now, he simply drew back. Took a step away. Swiped at his lips with the back of his hand.

Jack felt like he was falling. (“If you ever break up with me,” Jack began. He laughed at Davey’s unexpected shudder, the honest and visceral kind. “Make it quick.”

“What about when you break up with me?” Davey peered over his glasses.

Crinkling his nose, Jack quickly answered before the other boy could detail any breakup preferences. “I’m not an idiot, Dave. ‘M not going anywhere.”)

---

He stared at the limp fifty dollars in his hand. Romeo had apologized, explaining that the people who had organized this got half the cut, and handed them both an envelope- Jack, one with “Tony Higgins” that he planned to run through his shredder, and David, one with “Sarah Jacobs,” which made Jack gawk in disbelief.

Jack didn’t want to walk away; David’s feet were shuffling against the worn pavement.

“It’s funny,” David started. “I listened to a lot of Taylor Swift to get over you.”

He winced. “Sorry?”

“Please. I know she’s been your top artist since 2013.”

(Katherine walked through a worryingly unlocked apartment door. “Is that... Begin Again? Jack, what the fuck are you doing?” She had seconds to worry about the cluster of wilted flower petals her heel had put a hole through before Sarah pointed at the pair of legs sticking out of the bathroom’s entrance.) “Yeah, okay. Fair. But… funny? Did I miss a joke?”

David closed his eyes to roll them, as he so often did when he was trying to be polite, and it hurt to be on the receiving end. “We just had our last kiss. You know, like-”

“I’m Joe Jonas?” Jack interrupted, bewildered. The semi-glare he received in return was all he needed to know- “Right. Dickhead. Listen, Dave- David, why didn’t you tell me you were back in town?”

There was a brief moment where something unrecognizable flashed over David’s face- pity? Regret? Dejection? It was quickly replaced by a soft smile tugging at the edge of his lips, his eyes glazed over with a practiced professionalism. “I’ll see you around, Jack. Have a good day.”

David turned and walked down the street, and Jack just missed the passing moment he chose to look back.

---

Comment on EXES KISS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THEIR BREAKUP by IncredibleKinsey: those two dudes are all mad and then just make out like that????? yeah okay call me when the wedding happens

[xplrvibes]

Sprung | Sam and Colby Story

Title: Sprung

Summary: They had never been torn apart like that before.  Nobody had ever dared try it. 

Pairing: None 

Warnings: Sam and Colby’s arrest rehashed, brief talk of the jail system, mentions of anxiety 

Author’s Note: This is based on an ask someone sent me last night, about how Sam being one who bottles his emotions up until they explode in these sweeping declarations of love and tears.  Also, since it’s the jailaversary, and I always wanted to hear more about that saga from Sam’s POV, I just went ahead and did...this. I’m not a writer, so don’t judge me too harshly-but I’d love to know if you liked!

A/N 2: Now on AO3!

***

Sam has never seen a better sight than a disheveled, tired Colby Brock waiting for him outside of the police station.

The preceding 14 hours since Sam had last watched Colby disappear behind an ominous steel door with a painful smirk forced across his face and a tremor in his handcuffed hands had been some of the worst he had ever experienced in his life.  He had stood outside the police station in the muggy Florida air with no cell phone, no car, no idea of where he was or how to get to where he needed to be.

No Colby at his side.

They had never been torn apart like that before.  Nobody had ever dared try it.  Sam felt like a piece of him had been taken; a fundamental piece, like his liver or some shit.  He felt wrong in his skin without Colby by his side; especially knowing where he had left him, and that all of the responsibility of getting him out of there rested on his shoulders.

To say Sam was stressed, would be an understatement.

But Sam was nothing if not determined, and he made it work.  He sucked in a breath, steeled his spine, and made his way to a gas station pay phone to call the Irelands.

He had work to do.

***

Fourteen hours and multiple phone calls to worried parents and terrified friends and one extremely exasperated lawyer (”On a construction site in Florida? Sam...”) and management team later, Sam was finally told that Colby’s bail had been posted and he was being released.  Sam could go and get him.

He was never planning on letting anyone separate them like that again.

“Hey,” Colby muttered as Sam walked up to where he sat with a couple of fans outside the doors to the precinct, bail paperwork and a bag of his possessions in his shaking hand.  He looked distinctly un-Colby like at the moment; rattled, definitely and it showed.  He was pale, his hair was in a state of disarray, his Justin Bieber shirt-and God, who else but Colby would go to jail in a Justin Bieber fit?-was wrinkled and stretched at the collar.  He had a smile plastered to his face, but his eyes were shining bright with barely concealed anxiety.  He wanted out of this place, asap.

Sam let out the breath he had been holding since Colby had first been walked away from him by those damn guards.  He felt the missing piece of his soul settle back in to place.  His world realigned itself. 

Colby was back with him.

“Hey,” he responded back, and held out a hand to take Colby’s possession bag for him.  “Ready to head out?”

“Totally.”

***

After saying goodbye and taking a photo with the fans who had waited outside the police station with Colby, they got back in the rental car that Sam had gone to pick up from the abandoned school a few hours earlier and headed back towards the hotel.

“So, the fans said that everyone knows?” Colby asked quietly from the passenger seat.  His ring-less hands were flexing in his lap.  His voice was shaking.

Sam gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and cleared his throat.  “Um, yea,” he responded slowly.  “Yea, they found out and made it trend on twitter for like, a whole day.  Number one trending topic,” he added.

Colby whistled.  “Shit.”  He reached up to play with his earring-a nervous habit he had developed since getting his ears pierced the year prior-and winced when he realized the earring was no longer there.  His hand fell back to his lap, trembling.

“Yea,” Sam replied.  “By the time I got out last night, word was already everywhere.”  He swallowed and briefly glanced over at Colby.  “Our parents already knew.”

Colby glanced back.  “Did you talk to them?” He whispered.

Sam nodded.  “I talked to your mom, too.  Told her I wasn’t gonna let you rot in a jail cell.  She made me promise to get you out,” he smiled.  Colby didn’t smile back. “Dude, she’s ok, I promise.  Just worried about you.”

“She’s not mad?” Colby asked in a small voice.

“I mean, probably, but...” Sam shrugged.  Colby said nothing else.  What else was there to say?

The rest of the drive was in silence.

***

Although Sam had stayed with the Irelands while working tirelessly on getting Colby back, he didn’t think Colby would be up to going there and seeing everyone right now.  So, he took them back to their original hotel, which had thankfully been paid up for another day before the arrest.

Colby hadn’t questioned it.  He walked into their room and looked around at the mess they had left behind 30 hours prior before dropping his jail paperwork in a heap on the hotel table and heading over to his bed.  He slumped down on the bed with a tired sigh, turning to lean himself against the headboard and drawing his knees up in front of him. 

Sam sighed, and came to sit down next to Colby.  He bumped his shoulder into Colby’s in solidarity, and Colby huffed and leaned his head onto Sam’s shoulder.

The silence stretched out between them for a moment, comfortable and sure.  They didn’t need words.  They both always just knew.  It was a thing that their friends and even family would tease them for sometimes, their ability to just sit and be together, with no words, and draw some kind of silent strength from one another.  They didn’t care what anyone had to say about it, really.  It gave them both peace and reassurance, and that was what mattered.

“What do we do now?” Colby asked after a moment, exhaustion threaded in his voice.

Sam shifted slightly, and bumped his knee again Colby’s.  “Our lawyer’s working on it,” he replied quietly.  “She yelled at me for a while, but she’s gonna make it so we can go back home until the court date.”

“Oh, good,” Colby responded.  “Cause like, I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

Sam reached out a hand, and clasped Colby’s shaking one in his.  “You’re ok, though...right?” He asked in a quiet voice.

Colby nodded.  “Just like, it was scary, you know?” He responded.  “I didn’t like being alone, and everyone in there was nice to me and shit, but...”

Sam smiled.  Trust Colby to declare that everyone he shared jail space with was nice.  

“Dude, you are never allowed to go to jail without me again,” Sam declared, squeezing Colby’s hand.

Colby squeezed back.  “Don’t pay your bail next time, and join me,” he responded.  

He was joking, Sam knew, but he felt the panic and fear and guilt of the last 14 hours bubble up his throat anyway, and tears began to prick at his eyes. “Dude,” he gasped, “I’m never going to let anyone separate us like that ever again.”

Colby lifted his head to look in Sam’s eyes.  “I know, brother,” he replied slowly.

Sam shook his head.  The tears were brimming now, he could feel it.  The dam was bursting.  “No,” he sniffled, “Like, they walked you into the back and I saw how scared you were, brother, like I felt it and there was nothing I could do about it!  And then I had to go out there, alone, and leave you there!  Like, I never wanted that-”

“I know, Sam-”

“-Like, leaving you behind, or losing you, is my worst nightmare, dude!  Like, I can’t do it again, I don’t ever want anyone to do that to us again-”

“-Sam, they won’t-”

“-And like, I just love you so much, brother, you know that, right?”  Sam’s mini-tirade ended on a sob, as Sam turned and pulled Colby into his arms.  He didn’t hug Colby near enough, or articulate into words how much he loved him.  It wasn’t Sam’s style; he was never good with outward displays of emotions.  Of the two of them, Colby was always the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, and did so effortlessly.  Sam struggled with displays of affection and emotion.

He knew, in his more rational moments, that Colby knew him better than anyone else on the planet.  That Colby understand how much he meant to Sam, that Colby knew how much Sam loved him.  That words weren’t needed between them; that his actions were felt and deciphered and understood. 

But sometimes, it all just came bubbling out, spilling all over the place like a volcano.  When Sam got emotional, he went all in with said emotion, and Colby understood that, too.

Colby understood everything, when it came to Sam.

“I know, Sam,” Colby responded, arms wrapped tightly around Sam’s shoulders.  Sam turned his head into Colby’s neck and breathed deep.  He smelled like sweat, and jail, and fear...but underneath all of that was the distinctive smell of Colby Brock.  The smell Sam had come to associate with home, many years ago.

“They’ll never take you away from me again,” Sam whispered, and Colby chuckled.

“I’d like to see ‘em try,” He responded.

[purple-scarf-mistress]

Dark Truths

A Criminal Minds FanFic. 

Summary:  Jamie has been missing for a year, subjected to horrible torture. Her friends/team/family aka the BAU team scramble to find her.  Multiple Chapters to this story.  Master List (multi chapter)  Pairing:  

ReidxJamie (OC) Warnings: This story has themes of sexual assault and psychological torture. I will mark which chapters are explicit, and five warns before the content starts and have pick up places to skip over it. Please mind the warning! Jamie sat huddled in a corner. Freezing. Tired. Hungry. Sick. Hurt. Drugged. She had long given up hope that the team she once considered family would save her. She begun to realize that her makeshift father, Aaron Hotchner, along with the rest of the team had long since forgotten her. They had abandoned her…after all if they were going to find her in the last year, they would have done so already. The one thing Jamie knew was not true, or at least tried not to believe, was that her team, her family, were the ones behind all this. Were the ones that were causing her this pain, but she was slowly caving into the idea. She couldn't remember the last time she ate, the last time she slept longer then three hours, the last time she had any say over herself. She couldn't remember how it felt to smile or laugh, to act with out fear, to live…

Spencer Reid sat staring at the desk next to him, the one where his best friend use to sit at a year ago. In his mind he replayed the video of her being kidnaped, reviewed every piece of evidence they had, and replayed there last conversation together. In truth Jamie was more then his best friend, she was the love of his life, Jamie just didn't know it yet. Spencer was going to ask her out on a date that night; he was going to walk her to her car, like he did every night after work. Except that night. That night as they were on their way out, his desk phone had started ringing, he was off the clock and chose to ignore it but as he was getting in the elevator it started ringing again and he went to answer it after asking Jamie to wait for him downstairs.

Reid pulled out his phone going to the last message from his friend.

Txt: Fr: Jamie : will wait for you at my car, these files are heavy!

Cursing himself for answering the phone and not going with her, Reid had appointed himself the responsible party for Jamie going missing. Replaying the scene in his mind as clear as the day it happened, his stomach churning as he listened to the man on the other end of the phone who must have called the wrong number. He got off the phone and headed down; cleaning him self up as the elevator reached the ground floor. Reid was feeling sick remembering this part, in fact that night when he walked to her car seeing her door wide open, engine and lights on files and purse dropped on the ground, her gun in the passenger seat and drops of blood smeared against the white paint of her GMC Terrain, Reid had been sick.

He recalled it ever so clearly. It was times like this where he truly did hate that he had an eidetic memory. He remembered numbly pulling out his gun and looking around not seeing her anywhere. He remembered calling Hotch, who always worked the latest, to tell him that his daughter, for all intents and purposes, was missing.

Reid was so engulfed in his memory that he hadn't heard his phone, Morgan walked over to him placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Reid" Morgan gave him a slight shake "Reid the phone"

Reid shook his head before looking at the phone. "the phone"

"yea man the phone, you’re about to miss the call" said Morgan feeling bad for Spencer. He knew exactly where his mind was. It wasn't here in the BAU office, it was lost in a horrible memory that had taken place a year ago this very day. It was in the same place that everyone's mind was at. "Reid, the ph…"

"The Phone!" Reid quickly got up running to Penelope Garcia's office with Morgan close behind him. "Garcia! Do you have access to the phone records from last year?"

"I have access to everything Mr. Smarty-pants" quipped Penelope who was doing her best to pretend like she wasn't crying before the two men had barged into her office, trying to accept the fact that Jamie was still not home. She quickly typed in getting the records up. "What am I looking for?"

"go to my office phone, on June 28th and find the calls that came in at 8:37 and 8:40." Reid nervously twisted the watch on his wrist that he always kept off his skin, clasping it above his sleeve.

"Reid?" Morgan asked as Penelope pulled up the record "what's going on?"

"That call, it was the kidnappers I'm sure of it! Who ever called me that night had to have been working with the people that too Jamie!" Reid said almost panicked. "god I'm so stupid I should have seen that!"

Penelope looked up at Reid, then to Morgan, frowning "Reid, you cant know that for sure…" reaching out taking his hand "we all want her back Reid, but…"

"No. Don't you dare finish that!" Reid's voice cracked "But nothing! We all want her back AND we will get her back!"

"Okay Reid, okay…" taking a deep breath Morgan nodded to Garcia to find out everything she could on the number before pulling Reid out of her office. "take a breath Reid, take a breath and lets go tell Hotch…" Morgan wasn't sure who was having a harder time accepting that Jamie was gone, he wasn't willing to give up looking himself and neither was the rest of the team, but they all knew the statistics, they also knew Reid and Hotch were in denial. ~Can also be read on AO3 and Fanfic by anonymouslymine ~

[corescorner]

Deadicated Chapter One.

A dark comedy zombie apocalypse Sanders Sides fic.

AO3

Word count: 2100

The outbreak started in the middle of winter. It was an icy day outside, too much so that Remus almost breaks his neck multiple times while running to his apartment. But run he had to; zombies littered the streets.

Getting into his apartment foyer and unlocking the door into the main hall to get to the elevator was an ordeal.

The ice might have sucked for him to run on, but it at least didn’t make things easy for the zombies either.

He paces in the elevator as it ascends to the top floor where he lives with his brother and his brothers boyfriend/his best friend.

The elevator door opens and Remus steps out slowly looking both ways before rushing to his door, then stops.

What if they’re zombies? He’s going to have to kill his brother and best friend!

He slowly turns the handle and peeks inside, the television is playing some Disney movie, Roman and Damien are seemingly asleep on the couch.

Remus slowly and silently creeps into the room and then hurriedly goes into hisroom to get his morning star (he got it at a ren fair a couple years ago to everyone’s dismay, but who’s gonna be laughing now when he beats zombie ass with it huh?)

He sneaks back into the living room, morning star at the ready. He whistles loudly to get the two (hopefully not zombies) to wake up.

Both jump awake, Roman falling to the floor with a squawk.

“What the hell Re?!” Roman shouts rubbing his nose in pain.

Dee is staring at him, wary and amused.

“I think your brother has finally snapped.”

Roman looks at his boyfriend “what are you talking-“ he looks at Remus “-abOUT REMUS WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“Oh good” Remus sighs and lowers his weapon “you’re not zombies.”

The boyfriends look at each other with twin looks of confusion then to Remus in concern.

Roman gets up slowly, walking towards Remus like he’s a startled animal, they don’t have time for this they need to make plans and think about the freakin zombie apocalypse!

“Remus, are you alright?” Roman slowly asks, Remus rolls his eyes.

“Uh, yea but we won’t be soon” he gestures to the window.

“What do you mean by that?” Dee asks.

“Zombies! Why do you think I have my morning star? I was making sure you’re not zombies!” He throws his hands up in the air, taking the morning star with the motion and making the other two flinch away.

“Okay, okay just be carful with that thing!” Roman shouts.

Dee gets up and moves to the window, Roman puts his hands on his hips.

“You’re seriously not going to entertain the idea of this zombie thing are you?” He directs at his boyfriend.

Dee just stares wide eyed at the scene before him.

It’s a ridiculous notion, that zombies would actually exist, and yet here Damien is staring out of his fourth floor apartment at a small cluster of what has to be zombies (cause what else would they be?)slip on the icy road outside.

Roman and Remus are arguing in the background.

“Seriously, put that thing away before you hurt someone!”

“Um! I’m gonna be hurting zombies!”

“Zombies do not exist!”

“Look outside dipshit!”

“I’m not going to be fooled into one of you’re tricks.”

“Roman” Dee whispers, neither brother hears.

“Uuugh! I’m not fucking with you this time!”

“Okay sure, you just want me to believe that zombies are roaming the streets right now?”

“Yes! Cause it’s true!”

“Roman!” Dee says louder and both brothers look towards him. His face must convey the horror he feels cause Roman falls silent, his own face contorts to something Remus can’t put an emotion to.

Roman slowly walks to the window to stare out at the chaos. He shakes his head wildly, backing up and bumping into Remus, he jumps in fright and whirls on his twin with a manic look in his eyes.

He’s speechless, what is there to say about this situation?

Dee comes up to him slowly and wraps Roman in a hug.

“Don’t wanna say I told ya so, buuuuut like” Remus shrugs and motions to the window again.

“No, no no, this is a bad dream. This can not be happening, zombies aren’t a thing!”

Dee hums a soothing tone in Roman’s ear, Roman doesn’t take kindly to it.

He breaks himself out of the embrace, starts to pace and then turns to the other two, he feels like he’s about to explode! How are they so calm about this? Their world just changed! There are zombies for fucks sake!

“Why are you not freaking out with me?!” Roman yells.

Remus scowls, Dee just sighs.

“Roman, Starlight, Darling-” Dee starts as he walks towards a shaking Roman “-there’s nothing to do about it, yes it’s more than not ideal, but it’s a thing that has now happened and we need to deal with it as such.”

Roman scoffs “Yes, Okay sure! But can we not have a little freak out moment here! Everything has just changed and I don’t know if we can survive something like this!”

Remus has had enough of this, he goes to his room and rummages through his closet, he pulls out his large camping backpack and gets to work on making a getaway bag.

He moves around the apartment to gather up supplies, when he passes the living room to get to the kitchen he sees Roman shaking in Dee’s arms, he stops and rustles his bag.

“I suggest you two do the same thing, we have enough to survive here for a little while longer and we can go on runs to the store down the street if we absolutely need to but we should all have a getaway bag just in case.”

Dee nods while rubbing Roman’s back, the actor isn’t crying but he is shaking violently.

Roman stares at Remus like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Re, how can you be so nonchalant about this?”

Remus sighs, moving towards his brother and hugging him.

“Look, Ro. Do you remember when we were kids and we were playing that silly game and you insisted you wanted to be the prince and since you were older you got to have the title?”

Roman nods, so Remus continues.

“Well, I said if I can’t be the prince I’ll just be your knight instead? Even though I so totally could have just as well stayed as duke?”

Roman nods again.

“That’s what I’m doing here, I’m stepping down a rank to be the knight until you can get your shit together.”

Roman lets out a small laugh “yea, okay. I’ll be back as the prince soon enough... just let me process a little longer?”

Remus nods “yea sure, we’ll rule again once you feel up for it Broman.”

“It’s a good thing we’re on the top floor” Dee points out.

The brothers look at him.

“What? I’m just saying, the poor shmucks on the bottom floor must be having a really bad time right about now.”

Remus laughs at that and Roman just scrunches his face a bit.

“Should we check the floor?” Roman asks in a whisper.

Remus hums “mmm, probably, we might get some supplies from looting” he says offhandedly then perks up a little bit, in a more joyful tone he says: “looting! I’ve always wanted to loot things in an apocalypse scenario!”

Dee chuckles “silver linings I suppose.”

~

As Dee gets together his bag, Roman following his lead, he jerks up like he just remembered something.

“I have to call our father!” Roman yells.

Remus, from the other room groans.

They haven’t spoken to Romulus in years, he doesn’t see why this should be any different, it’s not like they can get to him from where he’s probably all the way at the other end of the earth doing who knows what.

“No point Ro, he’s probably on some secluded island right now!” Remus yells.

Roman sighs, he supposes Remus is right. It’s not like he’d do the same for them. He hasn’t really been there for them much.

Dee picks up his own phone with a sick look on his face.

“Oh god, I hope Thomas is okay” he says lowly dialling his brothers number.

It rings once. Twice. Three times. Come on Thomas! Four times, the line picks up before Dee can hurl his phone across the room.

“Heya short stuff! Thomas is in the shower what can I do ya for?”

Dee sighs in relief.

“Remy, you and my brother need to not go outside, but scope out your place, please just trust me when I tell you the next thing I know it’s going to sound crazy but you need to trust me okay?” He rushes out.

“Sure thing Dee, what’s wrong?”

“Well, there’s no easy way to say this... the zombie apocalypse has come” he waits a beat for a response, but none comes. “Rem? Are you there?”

“Listen, that is like, super not cool to spring on a guy.”

“Remy, please you have to believe me” He pleas with his brother in law.

He hears noise on the other side, a sliding door opening he realizes.

“Remington! I swear to god if you become a zombie and kill my brother I’m going to find a way to bring you back and kill you myself!”

Remy laughs a little bit “chill babe, there’s a fence around the house.”

He hears Thomas’ voice faintly “who you calling babe on myphone?”

“Just your little bro” Remy answers and he hears Thomas fake gasp in shock.

“You’re cheating on me with my brother! Well, I’m sure Roman would gladly take me instead after both of us gets our hearts broken.”

Dee sighs, as much as he enjoys these moments and who knows when they’ll get more like this he needs them to take this seriously right now.

“Remy! Zombie! Apocalypse! Happening right now!” He shouts.

“Oh, right. Sure. Thomas your brother says a zombie apocalypse is happening.”

Good, Thomas will believe him.

He hears scuffling then the phone jostles and Thomas is on the line.

“Dee, are you sure?” He asks

“Yes” he hisses “of course I am, I’m watching them fumble around on the ice as we speak!”

When they were younger, they had a zombie movie marathon, both of them got unabashedly terrified of the prospect of it actually happening so they made a secret pact with each other, if one ever actually happens they have to tell the other and they’d believe them no matter what. It was a silly promise between children but both of them took it seriously, even in adulthood.

“Damien you have to come to Florida. I have a bunker we can stay there for however long we need, bring Roman and his brother too!”

Dee laughs out loud “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. But you have a bunker? Since when?”

“We have a bunker?” He hears Remy exclaim in the background.

“Uh, yea my paranoia got the best of me there, but! It’s a good thing it did cause I can sustain at least ten people for about five years in that thing!”

“I’ll talk to the twins” he says, Thomas let’s out a sigh of relief.

“Okay, I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay in touch for. Please be carful Damien, I cant loose you.”

“Nor I you” Dee says back, both brothers hang up at the same time.

Thomas starts to gather up all that he can to bring it to the shed out back, which houses the bunkers secret entryway.

Remy follows his instructions without complaint, he kinda enjoys when Thomas gets all authoritative anyway.

When Dee turns around after his call, he sees Roman and Remus staring at him.

“We’re going to Florida” he simply says.

“I’m guessing Thomas is okay then?” Roman asks.

“Yes, and crazy as it may be he has a pretty well stocked bunker.”

“Sweet.” Remus comments.

“It’s not going to be easy to get to Florida” Roman says.

“No, but I’m sure we can do it” Dee says, semi lying. He does think it will be hard to do and he’s not sure that they’re going to be able to do it unscathed, but they have to try and they need their spirits up, so Dee will lie as much as he can to make them not loose hope. Cause really, all they have right now is hope.

[yodawgiherd]

Be My Valentine

Rating: T

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Originally I had no plans on doing a Valentine's chapter, but then certain someone wrote to me on tumblr, asking for one. I just couldn’t let the person down. So, I cooked something fast up, and I certainly do hope that you all will like it.

Enjoy!

It was a morning same as any other. Mikasa woke up, and still in half-sleep turned to run her hand over the other part of the bed, finding it exactly as empty as she expected. With a sigh, she got up, doing her morning hygiene routines with a tinge of sadness under her skin. Sure, she knew that Eren was more than busy lately, but still, a little part of her expected something from him, at least today. Nothing grand mind you, the greatest gift would be if he just took a day off, and spent it with her, not at work..

To uplift her mindset, Mikasa sang a happy birthday to herself in the shower. It helped. A little bit.

In the kitchen, there was a pot of coffee and some breakfast waiting for her, alongside scribbled note from Eren, which said that he’ll probably remain in the hospital overnight, as surgeries were piling up, so Mikasa shouldn’t wait for him to come back home. Wasn’t the first time in recent weeks, and probably not the last either. Crumpling the paper in her fist, she didn’t even realize how hard she gripped it until her knuckles started bleeding white. Ah well, no reason to dwell on it.

It felt good to immerse herself in work too, forgetting about her birthday altogether, and the reaction, or well, rather lack of one, from her boyfriend. The photoshoot was exactly as taxing as she needed, taking her mind off everything she didn’t want to think about. Dot controlled the scene with his usual calmness and experienced hand, moving around models, objects and props with the sureness of someone who spent over a decade in the business. Everything went smoothly, or Mikasa thought so, which only made her more surprised when Dot called her over at the end of the scene. Did she fuck something up?

“What’s up?”, she asked as she came close, nervously adjusting the red dress she was wearing for the shoot.

“Should something be?”, he raised a bushy eyebrow at her.

“Well, you called me here so..”, Mikasa shrugged, “what did I do wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing of course, you were amazing as usual. I just wanted to wish you happy birthday, that’s all.”, seeing her surprised face, he grinned, “You didn’t think I’d remember, did you?”

“Well, kind of, yea.. Don’t take it personally Dot, but we don’t know each other so well.”

“Oh, you’re right my girl, but,”, he puffed out his chest a bit, “I do take certain pride in knowing at least the birthdays of my favorite models. And you qualify for that category. 100% “

Mikasa was happy, of course she was, but it did put certain things in perspective. For example, the fact that the man she was working with for just a few months remembered her birthday, while her fiancé didn’t. Bittersweet.

“I got you little something. “the old man continued, pointing at the gown she was wearing, “This dress! You can keep it!”

“I can’t take that, It’s…”

But he was already shaking his head.

“It’s for you, and I won’t change my mind. It looks amazing on you anyway.”

Lacking the words to reply, Mikasa hugged him, whispering a thank you into his ear.

“You know,”, he chuckled, “If I was thirty years younger, I’d totally take this opportunity to drop my hands down below your waist my dear.”

She pinched him.

“Pervert.”

“Just saying how it is.”, taking a step back, Dot looked her up and down, nodding to himself, “But it really does look great on you. Your boyfriend is very lucky, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The answering smile that appeared on Mikasa’s lips was forced. She could look as amazing as she physically could, but if Eren was never home to see her…. then what was the point?

It was rather dark when she left the building, jumping on her bike to take her to the gym. With Eren spending the night at work, again, she really had no reason to just sit home and stare at the wall. Plus, she could buy herself a cake on the way back. Everybody loves cake. The gym was eerily dark as she pulled near, making her wonder if Levi didn’t close it down for the night, but then again, what would he be doing? With a frown, she pushed the door open, her confusion only increasing because it wasn’t locked. And then….

“Surprise!”

A loud cheerful roar from multiple throats and a full-on explosion of light, as someone switched them on, hit her right in the face, making her jump back and take a defensive stance until she realized what was happening. A surprise party. For her birthday. Despite her usual lack of emotion, Mikasa could feel her eyes getting wetter. They remembered after all. Almost everyone was there. Levi, Hange, Ymir, Krista, Armin, Sasha, Connie, even Jean and Hitch. However, a quick look around confirmed her suspicion that the one person she was looking forward the most didn’t make it. Armin must have sensed her slight disappointment, because he stepped forward, looking a bit guilty.

“I called him a few times, but he didn’t pick up. Ymir said that he has a lot of surgeries today, so he’s probably not even checking his phone.”, he looked down at his feet, “I’m sorry, I should have told him earlier. It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not.”, Ymir stepped him, frowning, “For starters, the stupid workaholic should know himself when his girlfriend’s birthday is, no? And not picking up his phone for the whole day….”, she looked at Mikasa, shrugging, ‘Don’t take it bad, I know that he’s a great guy, but sometimes he’s just.... dumb, really. No other word to describe it.”

“It’s fine, we don’t need Eren to have fun!”, Sasha spoke up, holding up a box. “I made cake!”

The whole gym cheered to that, confirming Mikasa’s musing from earlier. Everybody really did love cake. The party was, in one word, amazing. Sasha really outdid herself, baking not only the prodigious cake but a number of other delicacies, satisfying all kinds of hunger. Drinks were also plentiful, Connie took care of that, and Mikasa didn’t forget to thank him for it. He smiled, and for the rest of the evening looked a tad bit less grumpy than usual. But before Sasha let anyone touch her food, they had to give Mikasa the presents, and she had to unbox them, with her friend right next to her, peering over her shoulder. She got some useful things, like a bottle of cleaning agent from Levi, some stupid things, like a pair of party glasses from Sasha, and even some stuff that made her question if the gifter was serious or not. The bottle of cherry scented lube from Hange made everyone look at her, but all the scientist did was shrug.

“What? It’s useful!”

After this humiliating experience, Sasha finally broke out the food, and the party really began. And yes, she surely didn’t need Eren to have fun, and promptly forgot that he wasn’t even there. Taking a break from all the talking inside, she stepped out for a minute, breathing in the cold night air. After a few seconds, the door opened again, and Jean stepped out, joining her. Rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out a box of cigarettes, offering it to her.

“Want one?”

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”

“Well, me neither.”, taking one, he put it in his mouth chewing, “It’s gum, I just figured it would be a good icebreaker.”

Giggling, Mikasa did take one, and for some time they just stood next to each other, trying to triumph over the other by creating a bigger bubble.

“I have a question.”, he started, watching her try and fail to make one, “I watched some of your fights on YouTube, but I couldn’t recognize the style you do. What is it?”

“It’s a mix of different stuff. Levi taught it to me, and I made some changes for it to fit me better over the years.”, Mikasa looked up at him, “I didn’t know that you were into fighting sports.”

“Yea, I don’t like to brag, but I did some Krav Maga during my younger years.”

“That’s good to know. We can spar sometime, if you want to.”

“Let me think about it.”, Jean said out loud, while being quite sure he’s never going to take her up on that offer. Their skill levels were miles apart, and he didn’t really feel like getting beaten to a pulp by his crush.

“Here,”, Jean said after Mikasa did a bubble so big, he was sure he can’t win anymore, “I got you something small too.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny box, presenting it to her. When she opened it, it revealed a bracelet, and upon closer inspection Mikasa noticed that it was made by a number of interlocked metal horse heads and horseshoes.

“Just a little something to remember me by.”, he said with a half-smile.

“It’s amazing, thank you.”

It looked good on her wrist too, jingling slightly when she shook her hand.

“I tried to stalk you on social media to figure out what you would like, but you don’t have any presence there at all. There is a Facebook account which is yours, but nothing on Instagram, or snapchat. Why’s that?”

“I never really had the need to accumulate internet likes by showing my butt online.”

He grinned.

“Understandable. But some online stuff would help the gym, make it more popular. I could talk to Levi about it if you want.”

“That sounds great, but what would It cost us?”

“Eh, don’t mention it. Think about it as another birthday present.”

The hug he got, that was more than enough for a payment.

Working his jaw, Eren tried hard to focus on the lines of tiny black text in front of him, information about his next patient, the first of today. The nights at the hospital were always something he didn’t really look forward to, but it allowed him to just go back to work first thing in the morning, so he suffered in silence. Yet something was buzzing in his ears, annoying enough for him to look up, only to see that it was Ymir, talking as usual. Well, deciding that he couldn’t get any work done with her around, he put the file down, trying to focus on what she was saying.

“I was thinking like, handcuffs? Maybe a riding crop even. Hell, I don’t know what those people use, and…”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ymir looked down at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Valentine’s! What else? With Krista talking about some rough stuff, I was just thinking that I might as well deliver if she wants it so…”

“Wait, wait, wait. Valentine’s day? When is it?”

“Ehm… Today? Hello?”

Slowly, surely, the facts connected in Eren’s head, making his eyes widen.

“It can’t be.”

“Check the calendar if you don’t trust me, but I assure you that it is. What, why are you so surprised?”

“It can’t be Valentine’s.”, he repeated stubbornly, frowning at his colleague.

It couldn’t be. Because if she was right that meant… that meant…

“I missed Miki’s birthday.”

Ymir shook her head in despair.

“Of course you did, I told you! We had a surprise party four days ago for her, one you were too busy to attend.”

Fuck, he wasn’t paying attention to anything Ymir said lately, doing his best to focus at work. But how could he miss such an important event? Well, the answer was rather easy to figure out. Work. Four days ago, he was here, at the hospital, overnight. Then he came home, only to collapse and fall asleep immediately. When he woke up, Mikasa was still sleeping next to him, and he didn’t feel like waking her , so he left quietly for another two-day shift right here. Dropping his head to his hands, he sighed.

“Fucking hell, I’m so stupid.”

“Yup.”

He looked up, glaring at Ymir.

“How about some emotional support?”

“Why? No one but you is forcing those ungodly hours at you. This shit you’re pulling isn’t going to end well.”

Thanks for nothing Ymir. Hell, now he wanted nothing more than to go and apologize to Mikasa, and spend at least the evening with her, but he was already prepared for the surgery. Damn it.

“I’ll go and tell Erwin I need to leave after this one.”, he declared, standing up.

It made Ymir smirk.

“I’m sure that he’s going to be soooo surprised.”, the irony was thick in her reply.

Eren ignored her.

Mikasa was greatly surprised when he appeared home, in a good way, returning Eren’s kiss with a burning passion, holding him close even when they separated.

“Look,”, he murmured, “I just want to say that I’m sorry for missing your birthday, I really am. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s okay,”, she whispered, reaching up and running her hand down his cheek. It jingled. Curious as to see why, Eren caught her palm, pulling it closer to his face. Mikasa had a new bracelet, he noticed, pretty thing of connected metal parts, which upon closer inspection showed to be horse heads and shoes.

“What’s this?”

“A gift from Jean.”, she jingled it again, smiling, “It’s pretty isn’t it?”

Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe the long working hours without seeing her made him paranoid. Maybe he was just having a bad day. But instead of agreeing, he felt a wave of jealousy hit him, right in the face.

“So, Jean’s giving you gifts now.”, he said, the words carrying even more acid than he intended. Mikasa pulled back, confused expression on her face.

“Well, it was my birthday…”

He interrupted her.

“You do realize that only thing that guy want is to get inside your pants, don’t you?”

“Eren! What the fuck?!”, she looked downright angry now, glaring at him, “I had a birthday, so my friends threw a party for me, one you were too busy to attend I might add. And yes, I got some gifts there, as it usually goes.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry for working!”, he was shouting now, the irrational feelings in his chest swelling, as he gestured around himself, “This doesn’t come from nothing, you know?”

“You’re going to pull that card? Really?”

“I just…”

Looking at her, at the tight line of her lips, at the way her eyebrows were furrowed, her beautiful face so twisted in rage, Eren had a sudden burst of clarity. He was really acting like an asshole. Taking a step back, he shook his head, sighing.

“I need to take a breather. Outside.”

Hearing the door open and close again, Mikasa sat on the couch, putting her head in her hands. So far, this was one hell of a Valentine’s day.

Eren came back about two hours later, finding her still on the couch, idly scratching the tattoo on her wrist. She jumped up when he appeared, opening her mouth, but he held up a hand to silence her.

“First of all, I want to say sorry. For everything. The missed birthday, me lashing out at you for no reason… I’m a dick. Next, I want you to know…”, he scratched the back of his neck, looking away, a bit embarrassed. He was not good at this. “that I love you, and appreciate you, and even with us being together for a very long time.”, manning up, he looked her right in the eyes, a certain intensity in his glare, “I never take you for granted. Every day I wake up next to you is a blessing.”

Mikasa didn’t know how to answer that. So, she kissed him, pouring all her feelings and words into the frantic movements of her lips instead, clutching to Eren’s neck like a lifeline. To her surprise, he pulled back first, pulling a small package out of somewhere in his coat, offering it to her. Sitting on the sofa with the thing in her lap, she slowly opened it, spilling red fabric all over her thighs. It was a scarf, a rather luxurious one, feeling like silk underneath her fingers.

“I really had no idea what to get you.”, Eren declared, taking it from her and wrapping it around her neck, same as all those years ago, “But then I remembered that you still wore my old one, so….”, finishing with his work, he let his hands drop, smiling. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s beautiful,”, Mikasa whispered, feeling the fabric again. It was amazing to touch. “And the only thing I want is you being home more.”, their eyes met, “I miss you.”

“I know. I’ll have to finish this week and the next, but I want to talk to Erwin after, get some time off. I think that I deserve it. He has to cave in, I missed the party because of work.”

“The party was okay, but Sasha made me an amazing cake. Sucks that you missed that one.”, her mouth watered just at the memory, “Delicious.”

But Eren looked far from crestfallen. Standing up, he made a quick visit to the kitchen, returning with a can of whipped cream and a grin, that suggested he had something planned already. Tugging the edge of Mikasa’s shirt over her head, she followed his instruction, quite confused, and before she realized it she was naked, lying beneath him on the couch.

“See, I don’t really mind that,”, a hiss later, something very cold covered her left nipple, making her gasp, “because I got my favorite cake right here anyway.”, another hiss, and this time it was her right that took the hit. “Sasha can’t compare to this.”

“Mikasa did want to say something, comment on his choice of food, but Eren was quite hungry tonight, so dipping his head, he got to work on his treat. And her mind went blank. A lot of “dessert” eating later, and a clean up after, as her whole body was rather sticky from the cream, when they were snuggling together, with Mikasa leeching Eren’s warmth as usual, watching a movie, she couldn’t help but smile. All in all, it was a pretty great Valentine’s day. With countless more to come.

[itsnotsammy]

Heyyyy you. Guess what? All? Of? Them?

fanfic author ask meme (a.k.a. cait will kill me one day)

placing this under read more because you guys are already tired of giant texts about me answering questions *glares at cait*

1. What was your first fic and could you stand to reread it today? I’ve written my very first fanfic like 15 years ago. It was some Harry Potter crap and I’m just glad that thing is gone for good. But honestly, I’ve reread some of my old fanfics and IT WAS A HUGE MISTAKE

2. What’s your most recent fic and how far do you think you’ve come? I guess it’s Burial at Sea and Barriers to Trans-Dimensional Travel (and How to Break Them), both a Supernatural/Bioshock crossover. I’m stuck on chapter 3 so far and ugh I’m a terrible person.

3. In your opinion, what’s your best fic? Oohh, that’s a hard one. In this very moment, I’m very fond of my messiah!Sam verse and I can’t wait to write more about it.

4. In your opinion and without looking at any numbers, what’s your most popular fic? It’s A Hundred Words, a RoTG fanfic I used to update on Fanfiction.net. On Tumblr, I’m not sure because I didn’t post any complete fanfic yet.

5. Is there any fic that makes you super happy to reread and remember you wrote that? A Hundred Words. It’s adorable and I wish I had the muse to finish it.

6. Is there any fic that makes you super embarrassed to reread and remember you wrote that? Every single fanfic I’ve written 10 years ago.

7. What’s the fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)? Burial at Sea, because SPN/Bioshock, dude.

8. What’s the oldest (longest since last update) fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)? Wow. I guess it’s Nightingale's Eyes but this one is a distant dream.

9. Have you ever written for a fandom without watching/reading/playing the source material? Not really.

10. Have you ever written for a fandom without reading other fanfic for it? Hey, Dragon Age fandom. I see you.

11. Have you ever written a fic for a concept you know someone else has done before? How did it impact your writing process or feelings after posting? I don’t think so? I’ve written a lot tbh, I don’t remember exactly everything but nah, I’m cool. I mean, it’s a big world and I’ve even seen this situation happening in books.

12. Have you ever written a fic and decided never to publish it? Why? *looks at 28736287 unfinished fanfics* I wonder why...

13. What’s the biggest change between your style when you started in fandom and today? Writing style, I guess. I change it a lot but I’m never satisfied.

14. What’s the biggest change in your taste between when you started in fandom and today? Back when I started, I wasn’t very fond of the whole alternative universe idea. *laughs at the irony*

15. Have you ever purposefully written one fandom/fic idea over another because you knew it’d be more popular? Nah.

16. Have you ever stopped writing a fic/for a fandom because it wasn’t receiving enough attention? Hell yea. What can I say, I’m a slut for attention sometimes.

17. In your opinion, what’s your most overrated fic? Anything I post on Tumblr tbh *chuckles*

18. What’s your most underrated fic? Don’t know, don’t really care. It’s been ages since I last checked AO3 & Fanfiction.net to be sure, because I don’t bother.

19. If you had to pick one fic/scene/chapter of your work to describe your entire portfolio to a stranger, which would you pick? Do not trespass. Incestuous sex ahead.

20. Have/Would you ever rewrite a fic? If yes, would you take the original down? YES. YES. YES. I’m always glad to rewrite a fanfic because it looks 10000 times better than the original and jfc, I wonder why people read the classic one.

21. If someone starts kudosing and commenting your fics in a spree and has a few works of their own, would you go look through theirs? Of course.

22. Has there ever been anyone who’s made you freak out because they read your work and followed/favorited/reviewed? Y E S.

23. What’s the nicest review you’ve ever gotten? My A Hundred Words has lots of wonderful reviews and it makes me feel terrible for abandoning the fanfic. People in RoTG fandom are so nice!

24. What’s the meanest review you’ve ever gotten? Do you think the reviewer intended it? I don’t think I’ve gotten one? I really can’t remember lol

25. What constructive criticism, however well-meaning, always makes you feel bad when you see it in a review? I...dunno. Seriously. I’m terrible at this.

26. What aspect of your writing do you most enjoy to see praised? Everything. As I said, I love getting attention.

27. If you could only ever write crossovers or single-fandom fics ever again, which would you pick? Supernatural/Bioshock because yea. This crap is my life force and I’m not even ashamed.

28. if you could only ever write for a single crossover or a single fandom again, which would you pick? Supernatural.

29. Does the division of your writing across fandoms line up with your reading? What’s the biggest discrepancy? *shrugs* not really sure about this one, sorry.

30. Do you continue to write for a fandom after you’ve moved on or do you focus solely on the new one? It depends on my muse. And my time. And,,, a lot of things. Heh.

31. Who’s the one character you’ve just never managed to get perfectly right? What’s up Dean? Doing good today?

32. Who’s the one character who shines without you even trying? Sam Fucking Winchester.

33. Is there any particular character whose scenes always wind up being longer/more frequent than you expected? Does the quality hold up? Hey Sammy, don’t even try to hide. Dad loves you.

34. Was there any fic that you wrote that really surprised you in the fandom reaction? Was it just by the numbers or did they take it an entirely different way? I never expected A Hundred Words to be so loved, tbh.

35. Have you ever written a ship into a fic without meaning to? *squints at Sam/Atlas* Hm. I think so. Not what I planned but goddammit these characters! They do what they want, I swear.

36. Have you ever sincerely written a ship you do not support into a fic? Nope. What for? I can barely write things about the ships I support!

37. Have you ever purposefully bashed a character/ship in a fic? Nah. Don’t think so.

38. Have you ever purposefully written something you know your readers would find uncomfortable/would not enjoy? If yes, why? *pushes underage non-con away* what? Me, never. Why would I do it?

39. Do you consider yourself to have a readership? No.

40. Do you feel like you put out enough content? Nevah.

41. If you cross-post your fics on multiple sites, do you have a favorite? Are there certain fics you would only post on certain site? I’ve been focused on Fanfiction.net for a long time and it’s still my favorite.

42. How many views has your most popular fic gotten? 66,810.

43. Your least popular? 150.

44. Do you follow/favorite/kudos/comment/review more stories than you have received? Obviously, hah.

45. If you had to call yourself an author of a single genre (besides fanfic) what label would you give yourself? Sadistic asshole.

46. Do you consider yourself a diverse author? Yeah. I mean, I have a lot of fanfics through lots of fandoms and countless AUs waiting to be written one day.

47. If someone you know in real life who isn’t involved in fandoms asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first? Hahahahaha, no thank you.

48. Does anyone you know from outside of fandom know you write fanfic? Are they involved in the same fandom too? Nope nope.

49. Has anyone in your life ever read your fanfic just because you wrote it? Nope.

50. Has writing fanfic had a significant impact on your life? Would you say it’s entirely positive? Yea, it opened some doors and windows and made me realize how much I love writing, even if I’m not good enough nor creative enough. It just makes me feel good and... special, I guess.