#angsty central up in here

[iwozlegit]

Now that I've got the real meaning of the meme *lmao* here I come again for this!

 ✒ + Ultra Magnus!

Send ✒ + a character for a random headcanon I have about that character!

Answering ~

|| 🍍• Ultra Magnus struggles severely to ponder his way around negative emotions and thoughts surrounding loneliness and failure.

Ironically, his own authoritative stoicalness is to blame. Ultra Magnus’s flaw is that to him, Optimus Prime is the pinnacle of leadership. Another common trope in more recent years (RID2015 I’m looking at you), is that we’ve seen characters try to embody Optimus’s leadership and missing the whole point of “Optimus’s way worked because it was Optimus doing it.” Ultra Magnus is no different. And this is why he clashes with certain characters. When you take one aspect of Optimus and make it your personality, it’s not gonna be so sweet for you (I actually do like UM btw :’) )

Just as Ultra Magnus struggled initially to adapt to Team: Prime (“much has changed since the war for Cybertron”), Ultra Magnus also initially struggled to adapt to the unfortunate loss of his servo, appearing frustratingly disheartened when Ratchet refused to clear him for duty - he felt useless; lonely. In both of these situations, someone else aided him out of his funk - Optimus in the first instance, and Wheeljack in the latter.

Tldr : Ultra Magnus is the reason he’s lonely and struggles with failure, because he hasn’t worked out that…

A.) He doesn’t need to embody Optimus Prime to be a good leader.

B.) Because of this, when failure/upheaval occurs, he hasn’t learned the value of a family or close-knit team interactions, such as Team: Prime, or the value in asking for help.

[ellecdc]

Could you please write a poly! rosekiller based on the song why’d you only call me when you’re high by artic monkey? Preferably with reader being in an angsty will they won’t they situationship with the boys but somehow end at least semi positively. Thank you!

thanks for your request! I've been sooooooooooooo nervous and hesitant to write Evan as a central character and this is only my SECOND TIME doing so and I've made it from his fucking POV so I'm SORRY if I did terribly don't come for me I'm tryinggggggg

poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who they only call when they're high [1.4k words]

CW: descriptions of drug use and being high, discussion of past drinking/drug use, discussions of sex but nothing explicit and no sex happens (sorry y'all lol), Evan's POV and I might've fucked it up I'm sorry, angst? with a hopeful/positive ending

The blunt felt heavy between Evan’s lithe fingers as he stared unseeingly at the door.

Barty had texted you an hour ago, and there was still no sign of you. While he didn’t pretend he had any real business keeping tabs on where you were or how long it usually took for you to get from your flat to theirs, he couldn’t help but keep his eyes trained on the door and his ears on alert for your text tone from his phone.

“Is she here yet?” Barty asked from his current spot, which was laying on his back in the middle of the living room with the low coffee table across his torso and his elbows propped on top of it as he scrolled through his phone.

“Fuck off.” Evan grumbled around the blunt as he took another drag.

“She should - ow, fuck - be here by now.” Barty grumbled as he tried to extricate himself from underneath the table. 

“Then text her again, J, I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Evan muttered back as he stamped out the joint and stood.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he was standing for, but no sooner was he at his full height did the handle to their door twist before opening and exposing you. 

“Fucking finally.” Barty sighed in relief as he finally stood - the coffee table now halfway across the room from its intended position - and made for you. “Took you long enough, Treasure!”

He pulled you in and began kissing you messily; movements slowed and languid due to his own joint now long gone, though the smoke still sat heavy near the ceiling. 

If Evan wasn’t such a perceptive person, he may have completely missed the pained furrow of your brows when you pulled away from Barty as you disposed of your purse and shedded your jacket. 

But he was a perceptive person, and he did notice the pained furrow of your brows, and he wanted it gone.

“No hello for me, poppet?” He drawled as he stood lazily in front of his chair.

Your eyes met his for barely half a second before flitting away hastily as you took off your shoes. “Hey Ev.” 

“Right to business tonight?” Barty asked you then, tilting his head at you as he began cluing into… something that had shifted tonight. 

You did this often; the three of you, that is. 

Sometimes Barty and Evan would invite you over for some drinks and/or a smoke or two before falling into bed together. Sometimes, Barty and Evan will have already been several drinks or blunts in before they messaged you, which you often quickly agreed to as well.

But it had never taken you this long to show up before, it had never been this awkward when you showed up before, and you had never been this detached before. 

“S’why you called, right?” You replied simply, moving towards the sofa in the middle of the room as you started unbuttoning your blouse.

Which, of course they did, but what the fuck?

“Stop.” Evan said as he grabbed your hand, bringing a stop to your movements as you continued avoiding his gaze. “Would you look at me? Please?”

You let out a small breath and met his eyes - again for but the briefest moment - before your gaze fell somewhere around his cheek. 

“Treasure…if you’re not up to this tonight, we don’t have to do anything. We could just-”

“Just what, exactly?” You asked harshly then, turning in the direction of Barty and pinning him with a severe gaze. “This is what we do, right? There’s usually drinks or drugs, a phone call, and sex.” 

And…while that was technically true…what the fuck?

“So?” You asked when no one had anything to say. “Is that why you called?” Your eyes shifted to the ashtray which had a still semi-lit blunt resting in it. “Got high, check. Called me, check. So, why are we still talking about this?”

“It’s not like that.” Evan tried to argue, causing you to scoff a laugh as you held eye contact with him far longer than you had all night, which Evan would have celebrated were you not using it to glare at him. 

“It’s exactly like that, Ev. Why-” You cut yourself off and pushed the heel of your hands to your eyes.

“Why what?” Barty asked in a soft tone Evan had never heard the likes of before. 

You pulled your hands away from your face to expose an achingly pained expression and tear-filled eyes. “Why do you only call me when you’re high?” 

And even though it came out in a whisper, Evan could hear the no doubt painful tension laced in your voice.

“Treasure…”

“It’s not fair.” You continued; tears falling as you turned to look at him. “All of this,” you said as you gestured between the three of you, “has always been your doing. I never instigated these…romps because you guys are the ones in a relationship. But fuck.” 

“We didn’t- …have you wanted more from us?”

A strangled sort of sob escaped your lips as you looked to the ceiling and grabbed at your hair. “You call and I’ve never once declined, Evan. You call and I come running - how fucking humiliating, by the way - and I take what I can get, obviously. If you invite me over and I get to drink and hang out with you guys for a bit and pretend that I’m not just a fucking booty-call, great. If not, well, at least you guys thought of me, right?” You spat sarcastically. 

“Y/N.” Barty called, looking to Evan like he was just as close to the level of tears as you were. “We- I…I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well,” you huffed a laugh and sat dejectedly on the sofa before placing your head in your hands and resting your elbows on your knees, “now you do.”

The room fell to silence as Barty stared at you in horror, you worked on catching your breath, and Evan wished he hadn’t rolled that second blunt so he could at least have a fighting chance at the absolute fucking shit show this evening had turned out to be. 

“This was a mistake.” You announced suddenly, standing up. “I shouldn’t have come, I’m sorry.” 

Barty made some half-yelp, half-cursing sound as he blocked the door with his body and stared at you defiantly. “You can’t fucking leave now! Not like this?”

“Barty…” Evan warned, not wanting you feeling any more uncomfortable than you clearly already were, though also not wanting you to leave when there was obviously a lot to discuss. 

“No!” Barty shouted back at him. “No. You don’t get to show up here and dump this all on us and not give us a fucking chance to respond.” 

“Dump this on you!?” You shot back. “You created this!”

“Okay, enough.” Evan proclaimed as he moved to open a window to get the rest of the sodding smoke out of this flat, hoping that clearer air and visibility would help him think straight. He turned on a few lights for good measure as well.

“She can’t leave, Ev.” Barty nearly begged.

“Well shouting at her isn’t going to help, is it?” Evan argued as he grabbed some bottles of water from the fridge. “Sit down.”

You and Barty exchanged a glance before looking back at Evan. “Both of you.” He amended as he pointed at the sofa, handing each of you a bottle of water once you were seated before taking his own seat and opening one for himself. 

“Can you give us, like, 45 minutes to sober up so we can talk about this, properly? Please?” He sighed after finishing half the bottle. 

You had your legs crossed and your raised foot was bouncing in the air in obvious nerves, but you graciously nodded in agreement. 

“And you’re staying here tonight.” Barty added, quickly rolling his eyes when you turned to argue with him. “Not for sex, for fuck’s sake. So that you can be here with us and we can fix what the hell is going on in that pretty head of yours.”

You stared at him with your mouth open for a few moments before he - rather aggressively, if you asked Evan - grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss before putting it back down on the sofa between each of your thighs, though never actually releasing it from his grasp. 

Yes, Evan silently agreed, let’s fix whatever is going on in that pretty head of yours.

[winterarmyy]

I Knew It Then

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: If it was supposed to be a casual thing, then why does it hurts so much?

Pairing: avenger!bucky x female!reader

Words: 4.8k++

Warnings: angsty, maybe a tad too angst. a bit fluffy, if you search for it, and everything in between. non-descriptive sex scene but definitely contain adult (18+) contents. so, reader discretion.

Inspiration: @buck-star asked in a community post, “The sentence is: 'And then we were standing in front of one another again…' How would you continue it?” and this is my answer.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Bucky adjusted the sleeves of his jacket; a dark leather, matching the gloves he was wearing. Underneath was a charcoal coloured shirt; his pants was dark-wash jeans, frayed slightly at the edges. It was an effort to blend into the festive sea of people. Despite the spring air of Central Park, his style remained a mixture of shadowed past and muted present, a mix that barely fit in with the brightness of the day. 

The launch of the Avengers statues was a grand event; a reminder of battles fought, lives saved, a place for the public to show their gratitude and admiration. Honestly, in Bucky’s opinion, all of this was a little bit over the top. In which, Steve agreed. They both think that they were undeserving to be sculptured and displayed like this. 

Even the Avengers are human, excluding Thor, they were mortals; unfit to be worshipped as they are now. Yet, after being coaxed with quite a diplomatic, exaggerating speech about how ‘the people need a hero to look up to’, Steve ended up convinced. Not that it matters, but Stark was the one who gave that speech.

Nonetheless, Bucky couldn’t really object to the decision, but he did stated that he will not participate in the event with the rest of the team. And they can’t really do much about that, forcing him to will be equivalent to kidnapping and Bucky had literally filed a police report for it before. So, they won’t take their chances. 

The cheers and thundering of applause rippled through the park, filling every space with a strange blend of solemnity and celebration. Bucky lingered on the edge, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tensed beneath the weight of too many eyes while his own focused on his team on the make-shift stage near the statues. 

He preferred it here. No red carpets. No standing in front of flashing cameras with a smile that would never sit quite right on his lips.

With less aliens around and Hydra in hiding, this should have been a familiar scene; the Avengers posing and the people cheering. But for Bucky, the novelty had long worn off. The noise washed over him like waves lapping against a shore he couldn’t care to meet.

Shifting on his feet, his fingers brushing against the worn leather of his gloves, as if the urge to retreat was creeping under his skin. The cheers, the bright flashes of cameras, all blended into a muffled hum that made him wonder how soon he could slip away unnoticed.

Until he saw her.

She stood beneath the shade of a blooming cherry tree, the soft pink petals floating down around her as if nature itself wanted to frame her as a living art. 

Y/N. 

Bucky's breath was caught somewhere between inhaling and exhaling. Her mere presence had left him frozen. Then, the noise of the crowd slowly fading, the applause turning duller as his heart pounded in his chest, each beat harder, louder, until it drowned out the world around him. For a few painful moments, he felt as if his heart might force its way free from his ribcage, breaking him apart in the process.

She wore that sundress again. The light fabric swayed gently with each breeze, caressing her figure, the pastel colour that reminded him of the flowers he used to get for her. It was the same dress she’d worn that day; the day he realised falling for her wasn't a choice but a reality that had already happened. He swallowed hard, memories surging in torrents. Her laughter echoed in his ears, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about things that mattered to her. 

Now however, beneath the sweet sundress and that familiar grace, there was a darkness under her eyes. Shadows etched into her delicate skin, sadness lingering; still and silent, behind the gaze that once held nothing but warmth. Bucky's jaw tightened as he took it all in, every unspoken truth laid bare on her face. He knew why; he’d heard whispers through mutual acquaintances. About the heaviness she tried to mask, about the pain she tried to live through. 

Seeing it now, in the flesh, was so much worse.

It broke him. 

Again. His chest ached, a raw wound ripped within his chest; for every moment she suffered and every part of him that couldn’t fix it. Bucky wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. It was as if an invisible vine had him rooted on earth, willing him to witness the toll their separation had taken on her. How ironic, he thought bitterly. For someone once considered a ghost by the world, he was all too aware of how haunting it felt to see her pain in living colour.

The bar had been crowded that night when they met, laughter and music clashing together in a storm of contagious intoxication. Bucky found his usual spot in the corner, however unusually alone this time. His shoulders hunched beneath his leather jacket; his gloved hands nursed a drink he wasn’t truly interested in. He was simply another brooding man in a bar, trying to swallow his own bitterness, trying to forget. Elena’s words, his ex’s words, echoed in his mind; taunting and cold, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue.

“Mind if I sit?”

Her voice cut through the noise. He’d looked up, barely masking his surprise. The woman standing before him was... a force of nature. She didn’t wait for his permission and slid into the seat beside him, a confident smile tugging at her lips. 

She was so bright, so unapologetically there. 

It almost felt disorienting. Her eyes sparkled like she’d already decided he was interesting and wasn’t about to change her mind. “You always brood like this, or is it a special occasion?” she teased, tilting her head.

“Special occasion,” he replied dryly, a hint of sarcasm colouring his tone. “Guess I’m lucky, huh?”

She laughed, loud and unfiltered, drawing curious looks. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, raising her glass to him as if they were old friends sharing a private joke.

Bucky fought to suppress the twitch of his lips. He wasn’t sure what to make of her. “What brings you to this fine establishment?” he asked, his voice flat but not harsh. “Looking to rescue sad souls like me?”

“Rescue?” She leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief. “Please. I’m here for the entertainment value.”

“Brutal,” he said, but he couldn’t help it; the corner of his mouth lifted. A real smile was threatening to form.

Y/N, as she introduced herself a few moments later, was a whirlwind of honesty and charm. She spoke without hesitation, as if every thought had a right to be voiced. She teased him about the gloves he refused to take off, made a biting but hilarious comment about her friend’s taste in men as she watched her and the man grinding it on the dance floor, and then, out of nowhere, zeroed in on him.

She gestured to his drink. “Let me guess. Your ex. She, or he, I don’t judge…” A tiniest smile curved on the corner of his lips. “She.” he clarified which was replied with a glint of interest in Y/N’s eyes. She nodded, “Okay, she left you for someone who didn’t know how to brood so attractively.”

Bucky choked on his drink, laughter erupting before he could help himself. It was warm and a little bashful, completely genuine. He hadn’t laughed like that in... he couldn’t remember how long.

Y/N was not expecting much tonight. She was literally dragged by her friends to ’go out, meet people, get laid’. Truthfully, she wasn’t really expecting anything more than a few hours of banter and maybe some fleeting connection, just enough to make her smile. Witty remarks, a few drinks, teasing anyone interesting enough to engage; that was her aim. 

But when she saw him, brooding in his corner, a storm trapped beneath layers of leather and cold eyes, curiosity overtook reason. She wanted to know if he would entertain her. 

And he did.

Bucky or as he introduced himself, James, was sarcasm wrapped in shadows, his words carrying a sharpness that wasn’t meant to hurt, just to deflect. She found it oddly endearing, a defence mechanism she recognized all too well. She wanted to pull more from him, so she leaned in, laughed too loudly, pressed buttons she guessed would make him react. 

At first, it was just fun.

But then he smiled. God, when he smiled, her world tilted; much against her will too. It was like the first hint of sunlight breaking through a dense, dark cloud. His laughter was warm and unpracticed, spilling out of him as if it surprised him too. The moment stretched, just for a heartbeat, but it was enough. 

Her heart momentarily shuddered. She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks, blooming a soft pink she couldn’t hide. So, she covered it with more wit, more charm, desperate to keep that smile there a second longer.

“I’m kidding. Kind of,” she said, eyes softening as she studied him. “But seriously, imagine missing out on you. That’s just sad at this point.”

But underneath the humour, there was a flutter of something much profound. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Her heartbeat raced and she felt exposed. How ridiculous, she thought, to be undone by a smile; a real one, genuine and imperfect, just as raw as her own attempt to draw it out.

The concept of time blurred after that. Drinks flowed, words tumbled out like secrets they didn’t know they were sharing. Banter turned into stories, laughter into pauses that spoke louder than the music blaring around them. At some point, she reached for his hand, not caring that it was gloved or why. Her fingers lingered, hesitant for half a breath, before resting there as if they’d been doing so for years. 

The air thickened and inches shrink.

When he kissed her, she found herself kissing him back with a need she hadn’t recognized before. It wasn’t about filling the void; at least, not only that. It was about the way he leaned into her touch, how he kissed like it was the last act that could hold him together. It was raw and open and imperfect and she was high on it.

Despite the fleeting, breath-stealing kisses they shared prior, Bucky had only meant to see her safely to her home. That was the plan, the line he swore he wouldn’t cross. But when her lips met his again just outside her apartment, everything unravelled. Her kiss was insistent, needy in a way that mirrored the ache deep inside him. She pulled him in, the door closing behind them, shutting out the world and any remnants of restraint he had left.

They stumbled to the bed, still fully dressed, every touch and kiss growing more urgent. Her hands found the edges of his jacket, fingers seeking to peel it away. But when she tugged, he pulled back, his breaths ragged. “Wait,” he murmured, eyes cast down. His hesitation was a stark contrast to the flames between them moments before.

She paused immediately, her gaze softening. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was gentle, careful not to push too hard but unwilling to let him slip away either.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, the words thick, heavy.

A crease formed between her brows. “What? Your name is not James?”

The question, so genuine and earnest, pulled a laugh from him; short, almost incredulous. “No. I am James, but…” He ran a gloved hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes.

“But…?” she prompted, leaning in, her attention unwavering.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, each syllable weighted.

For a moment, she was silent. He could see her piecing it together, searching for the meaning behind his words. Then understanding dawned, slow and certain. “You’re…” she began, just as he said, “The Winter Soldier.” But what came from her lips was, “The Avenger.”

They stared at each other, the tension snapping into something fragile, almost surreal. “What?” they both said in unison, the word a mix of disbelief and irony. 

The absurdity of it cracked something inside him, and he laughed; a real, deep laugh that felt like a release. She joined him, their laughter intertwining in a way that felt like a mutual understanding. At the moment, Bucky realised that she didn’t flinch or shrink back. She met him where he was, without hesitation. He felt a pull; unsettling but oddly comforting; and, for a split second, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be different.

The humour melted into something more intense as she leaned closer, her hands found his again. “I want this, James,” she whispered, peeling away his glove. She cupped his cool, metal hand, pressing his palm against her cheek. The contrast of warmth against vibranium made his chest tighten. “I want you.” she spoke almost breathlessly; her eyes gazed up at him with an endearing plea.

His eyes darkened with a mix of desire and something much softer, “I want you too,” he said, his voice low, unguarded.

They moved together, shedding barriers with every kiss and touch. When their clothes finally fell away, they explored each other with as much urgency and wonder. Every touch, every movement was deliberate, almost desperate. He wanted to memorise her reactions. He wanted to give as much as he could.

It was raw and consuming, a night spent discovering each other. There was nothing mechanical, nothing detached. For hours, it was just them, bodies moving in unison and their moans and groans of pleasure mingling in a symphony that can challenge a siren’s song.

He found himself lost in her, in the way her skin felt beneath his, in the way she moaned for him. He couldn’t hold back, not when she responded to him with such hunger, her body moving against his with a need that matched his own. 

Every touch felt like a revelation, a new discovery, and he was pulled deeper into her, into the warmth and the rawness of the moment. It was as if time itself had stopped, and all that mattered was the heat of their connection.

When morning came, the light creeping in through the blinds, they lay bashfully, tangled in the sheets. For a few moments, there was only silence, a comfortable quiet punctuated by the slow return of reality. He turned to her, the words were heavy, he knew it, but he continued, “I’m not ready for… anything serious,” he admitted, hating the way it sounded, but knowing he owed her the truth.

She met his gaze, her expression soft and understanding. “That’s okay,” she said. “We don’t need to label it. It can be what it is.”

“Casual?” he asked, a hint of humour back in his voice.

She smiled, a touch of mischief in her eyes. “Casual.”

They both laughed, the sound soft and real. Whatever this was, for now, it was enough.

The next few months, their ‘casual’ arrangement became something she thought about far too often and yet tried to pretend wasn’t pressing too deep. The sex was undeniably great, almost maddeningly so. It wasn’t just the way he touched her, though that alone was enough to steal her breath; the careful, deliberate caresses that made her feel cherished and desired all at once. 

It was the way he explored her as if every inch of her, the weight of his attention, the way he moved with a mix of tenderness and hunger, as if he couldn’t decide whether to worship her or devour her. And maybe that was why it was so intoxicating; because she was falling for him, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

It wasn’t just the physical connection; it was everything in between. She fell for the way he could be painfully serious one moment and then crack the most unexpected joke, a hint of dry humour lighting up his eyes. She fell for the way he made sure her tea was always brewed just the way she liked, even though he claimed to be terrible at domestic things. 

She fell for his unspoken kindness; the way he would slip a blanket over her when she fell asleep on the couch, or his habit of standing protectively between her and crowded places without even thinking about it. It was all so subtle, so Bucky, and it deteriorated her defences bit by bit.

And Bucky on the other hand, tried not to let himself be too vulnerable around her. But Y/N had a warmth that made it hard for him to stay closed off. She didn’t push; she was just; a steady, comforting presence that felt like safety. Sometimes, without meaning to, he’d spill pieces of himself. 

Like the night he told her about Elena; the betrayal, the gaslighting on how she cheated on him because of him; it was his trauma and depression that had driven her away. As if she was trying to make it worse, as if she had a vendetta to isolate him from everyone else. 

And Y/N had listened without judgement, her eyes soft with compassion. “That’s not on you,” she had whispered, her hand covering his. “She was the problem, not you.” When the weight of his past grew too heavy, she was there.

And when she opened up about her own scars; the ex who wouldn’t leave her alone, the fear that lingered in the shadows; Bucky listened, fierce protectiveness hardening his features. That night, instead of touching each other’s body, they caressed each other’s innermost scars. They’d talk late into the night; their words heavy, but never too much for the other to bear.

And ever since their dynamic was a shifting dance, effortlessly dirty and playful one minute, his lips teasing at her neck, their words to each other were dripping with sin. The next, they’d be soft and tender, his forehead pressed to hers as they simply breathed together. And then there were the quiet, deep moments; when silence spoke more than words, and they found comfort just in being close, in the simple act of not being alone. 

It was everything, all tangled together, and it made it so easy, too damn easy, to fall in love with him. She knew she shouldn’t, but with Bucky, it felt inevitable.

Then, one in those blissful days, after another night of incredible sex, Bucky laid beside her, his chest still heavy with the aftermath of their intimacy. His eyes traced the soft curves of her form as she rested, her skin glowing in the dim light. 

She looked almost ethereal; untouchable, like something too perfect for him. The weight of her presence next to him was both comforting and painful, tightening his chest with a longing he couldn’t name. Shifting slightly, he cleared his throat, his voice rough when he finally spoke, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I’m going back to Elena,” he confessed, the statement hanging heavily in the air. 

For a moment, there was something in his eyes; a flicker of hesitation, of conflict, as if he desperately wanted to hold onto what they had, as if saying the words was a battle he was losing with every breath. 

But whatever war raged within him never fully translated in the way she saw him. To Y/N, his words felt resolute, laced with a kind of tenderness that made it hurt even more. He seemed sorry; deeply, genuinely. But the weight of his decision pressed down between them, undeniable.

She went still for a moment and he could feel the tension radiating from her. The way her body seemed to freeze, her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t respond at first, her gaze distant, focusing somewhere far away as though she needed a moment to process. Bucky’s chest felt heavy with the weight of his own words, the urge to take them back gnawing at him. 

Yet he kept his expression neutral, as if none of this hurt him. He needed to see this through, even if every second felt like he was tearing himself apart. “This…being here with you, touching you like this… this will be the last time,” he added, the sound of his voice was low but remained adamant.

Y/N had always known, somewhere deep down, that this day would come. They had both agreed that what they had was casual, temporary, nothing more than a passing thing. They had agreed their connection was fleeting; simply a series of borrowed moments. But even as she tried to convince herself it was fine, she knew better. 

Nothing about what they shared was truly casual. They’d been there for each other in ways no one else had. When the world had been cruel to him, scrutinising him for his past as the Winter Soldier, she’d been his quiet strength, the one who never judged him, never flinched. And when her own demons resurfaced, casting shadows over her life; he’d been the one there, standing between her and her doom. He had been her rock, just as she had been his. 

They were each other's strength, each other's solace.

'Has it ever really been casual?' But she couldn’t voice those thoughts. She wouldn’t burden him with her feelings when he already carried so much of his own. She wouldn’t beg for more than he could offer. 

With a soft breath, she forced herself to smile, her fingers brushing over his cheek, committing every moment to memory before it slipped away. “Will this make you happy?” she asked, her voice steady, though pain lingered beneath the surface.

Bucky’s heart twisted, but he nodded, the lie coming too easily. “Yes,” he said, his voice lacking conviction even as he tried to seem sure. He averted his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t see past the facade.

Her smile wavered, but she fought to hold it in place. She wanted to show him that she was fine, that she wasn’t falling apart. But as she pressed her smile into place, a single tear slipped from her eye, tracing a quiet path down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but it was already there; a silent confession of the pain he couldn’t see.

“Then, I guess this is goodbye,” she whispered, barely audible.

She leaned in, her forehead resting against his, her breath warm against his lips. And then she kissed him; softly, deeply, as if it would be their last.

Because, in this moment, it felt like it was.

The days blurred into weeks, and then months, each one dragging by with a dull ache that Y/N couldn’t shake. She buried herself in work, refusing to let her mind linger on what she’d lost. When that wasn't enough, she picked up freelance gigs; anything that kept her mind too occupied even thought about pain and the aching emptiness Bucky’s absence had left behind. 

It was easier that way; easier to drown in deadlines and endless to-do lists than to confront the hollowness. And through all this time, there were not a single call, or texts from Bucky. Just silence. Rationally, she knew it was for the best. He was a hero, after all; his life pulled him in a thousand different directions. And she told herself she was fine.

But late at night, when the world grew quiet, she could still feel it; the loss that crept into her bones and refused to let go. Most of the time, she'd catch herself staring at the ceiling, replaying the touch of his hand, the sound of his laughter, the way he had looked at her as if she were his whole world, even if just for a moment. She tried to shake it off, to convince herself that it was all just an illusion, but the hole in her chest ached too deeply to ignore.

Time passed. The headlines told of his deeds; how he saved countless lives, how the public finally began to accept him, to see him not just as a relic of violence and pain, but as a hero. She should’ve felt proud. Maybe, on some level, she did. But every article, every broadcast, every mention of him only twisted the knife deeper. 

At times, she’d pause whatever she was doing when his name flashed across the screen. It was a reflex, a sudden, uncontrollable urge to reach for something she could never have. She’d feel her chest tighten, her emotions were a blend of pride and pain. Why did she feel like this, like she wasn’t needed, like she was somehow unwanted by the man who had once looked at her like she was everything?

Even then, she couldn’t help but feel proud. No matter how much it hurts, she was happy for him. She remembered the sleepless nights when his past came alive in nightmares; when he’d thrash and murmur apologies with a voice cracked by guilt. She could still feel the weight of him in her arms as he clung to her in the dark, his breath shuddering against her neck, whispering, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” The memory of it made her chest ache; the rawness of his pain had always cut her deep, but it had also made her want to be his safe place, his haven.

She thought of those nights often. The way he’d hold her as if she were a shield against the ghosts that hunted him, how he’d bury his face in her shoulder to block out the world’s judgement. She’d whispered reassurances, stroked his hair, and wished she could take away every ounce of his pain. Seeing him now, standing tall, saving lives, and slowly being accepted by the world; it filled her with a bittersweet pride. 

He deserved every bit of recognition, every chance to rebuild himself.

But the cost of that pride was the deep loneliness that came with it; the reminder that he was out there saving the world while she was left to save herself from missing him. She wanted to be enough, to be the one he leaned on, but it was clear now that his path led somewhere she couldn’t follow. So she pushed forward, forced herself to be strong, and told herself that being happy for him was enough.

When the crowd at the Central Park continued to roar with excitement, time seemed like it stopped for Bucky and Y/N. And then they were standing in front of one another again, the air between them held a weight, as if every word left unspoken all those nights was pressing against the space between them. Bucky’s eyes flickered; momentarily shocked, yet he didn’t falter. 

Even then, Y/N saw it. She saw the look in his eyes that she knew too well, the look he had when it was just them, wrapped up in stolen hours that no one knew about. She forced a smile, warm and soft, the very same that she used to give him in those silent times, when their skins were pressed against each other, and everything else didn't matter. 

His heart ached with a need he thought he’d buried. He thought he had let her go. He kept telling himself he was not in love, that she was just someone to keep his bed warm, to fill the empty space his past had left behind. At least, that was what he told himself, over and over, like a mantra meant to dull the edges of the truth.

But deep down, he knew it was a lie; a desperate deception crafted to shield him from the vulnerability clawing at his walls. He was not fooling anyone, not himself at least. Each night he spent denying the way his pulse quickened at the thought of her touch, each time he claimed he felt nothing, the thin layer of defence cracked beneath the weight of untold longing. It was easier to lie, to pretend he didn’t care, than to face the reality that she had carved her place inside him, far deeper than he wanted to admit.

Now, seeing her again, smiling at him as if it didn't shatter her heart when he left, it was like he’d been hollowed out. 

And the time that seemingly stopped, abruptly resumed to its pace when they walked past each other. No words crossed their lips, but their eyes spoke a language that was theirs alone; a language that carried echoes of every touch, every laugh, every shared moment.

‘I miss you,’ their gazes whispered, even as the distance between them widened with each step.

They kept walking.

That night, Bucky found himself in front of her apartment. When she opened the door, it was as if she was expecting someone. Not him, but someone. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him standing there, broad shoulders taut and expression unreadable. 

For a second, neither of them spoke. The sight of her; dressed in a fitted dress that draped elegantly over her figure, accentuating every line and curve, stole the air from his lungs. It was the kind of dress she used to wear when they’d go out on a date, the kind that never failed to send his thoughts swirling in the gutter. No thoughts, just lust. 

She looked stunning. Ethereal even. But, painfully out of reach.

Y/N blinked. Shock, confusion, and hurt flashing in her eyes, as if the memories of what they’d had; and how it ended, came crashing back all at once. “Hey… James. What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tight and Bucky was never used to it.

He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting to her lips and lingering there longer than he intended. “Out for a date?” he murmured, evading her question, the words tasting like lead.

“Yeah…Kind of.” she replied, guarded. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things. Finally, he spoke again, his voice a low rasp. “Can I come in?”

She studied him warily, the hurt in her eyes morphing into something sharper. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, James.”

“Please,” he said, and the desperation in his tone softened her resolve just enough. She stepped aside reluctantly. “You gotta be quick,” she said, almost dismissively. “Josh is on the way.”

The mention of another man’s name was like a knife twisting in his chest. Bucky forced himself to stay still, to not let his expression betray him, but inside, he felt raw, the bitterness coiling deep.

Once inside, she crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive barrier between them. “Talk,” she said flatly.

He paced, trying to find the words. “It wasn’t real,” he started, voice thick. “Me and Elena getting back together; it was a mission. She was suspected of being a mole.” he paused as he studied her reaction, ” We couldn’t risk telling you. We had to make it look real. ”

She stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, as if trying to grasp the whirlwind of his sudden appearance. “You’re here for that? To explain yourself?” There was incredulity in her voice, mingled with raw, exhausted pain that came from reopening old wounds.

“Yes.” Bucky’s voice was firm but edged with something close to desperation. “We managed to capture her.” He took a deep breath, his gaze searching hers. “We had to keep the mission under wraps, Y/N. We couldn’t risk word getting out… not after what happened with S.H.I.E.L.D. We couldn’t have another Hydra situation, or anything that even looked like it.”

He paused, the tension in his jaw tightening. “It turns out her plan was to isolate me. To make me even more vulnerable than I already am, before they…” His words faltered, heavy and incomplete, as if finishing the sentence would make it all too real. 

But he didn’t need to say more. Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, the realisation clear in her expression. She was smart; too smart not to piece it together. She knew what Bucky feared most. He’d be dragged back into Hydra’s grasp, or worse, used as a pawn by some other twisted organisation. 

It was a fate too cruel to name, and he could see in her eyes that she already understood.

Her brow furrowed, processing everything Bucky had explained thus far. A mixture of confusion and anger flitting across her features. “So that was it?” she demanded. “I was just collateral damage?”

“No,” he said quickly, the word breaking from him like a plea. “No. It wasn’t like that. I wanted to protect you. We all did.” He hesitated, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I did.”

She scoffed, a bitter edge cutting through her words. “Unbelievable. I smiled at you one time, James—one time—and you think you can just come back into my life like you own it?”

The accusation hung between them, and the depth of her frustration was like a dam bursting. He recoiled slightly, horrified by the thought that he’d hurt her so deeply. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not what this is. I didn’t want to just—”

She cut him off with a sharp, biting word. “Bullshit!” The accusation hit him like a physical blow, but he pressed on, desperation bleeding into his tone. “I just wanted to tell you the truth,” he said, his voice tight with urgency. “That it was all fake.”

“Fake?” She echoed the word with a harsh, bitter laugh that rang with disbelief. It stung him, sharp as a slap across the face. “It looked pretty damn real to me, James. You don’t think I saw the pictures? The headlines? How you were with her?”

“It was a cover, Y/N. I didn’t have a choice.”

Her eyes flashed, anger and betrayal burning bright. She took a step toward him, as if the weight of her hurt couldn’t be contained. “You didn’t have a choice? You had a choice when you came to me, when you told me it was over. When you ripped my heart out, did you have a choice then?”

Bucky flinched, the impact of her words like a physical blow, but he held his ground. “I was trying to protect you.”

“By hurting me?” Her voice cracked, raw and trembling. “By tearing me apart?”

Silence crashed over them, heavy and suffocating. Her chest heaved, each breath ragged. “By leaving me behind?” she whispered, her words dripping with the weight of every unspoken wound. “By pretending like what we had meant nothing?”

He stepped closer, the space between them suffocating and electric. “It wasn’t nothing,” he said, his voice quivering. “It was everything. You were everything.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. “I don’t believe you.”

With a trembling hand, Bucky reached for her face, cupping her cheeks as though she were something fragile. His thumb brushed away her tears, his touch reverent, aching. “I love you, Y/N,” he breathed, the confession breaking through the dam of his restraint. “From the start, when we laughed about that ridiculous introduction; me, calling myself the Winter Soldier and you insisting I was an Avenger—I knew it then.”

He swallowed hard, blinking through tears. “But it wasn’t just that. It was how you saw me; not the killer, not the broken man, but me. The way you’d smile at me, like I was worth something. The nights you stayed awake, holding me when I couldn’t breathe, when the nightmares felt too real. The way you’d whisper that I wasn’t alone. No one ever did that for me. No one.”

He paused, the rawness in his expression deepening. “I knew it was too late when I realized I’d been in love with you for a while. It hit me that day at Sally’s, remember?” His voice grew softer, distant with memory. “It was spring. You wore that sundress you bragged about getting for next to nothing at a thrift store. The sunlight made your hair glow, and you laughed at something ridiculous; a dog chasing bubbles, I think. I couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t just the dress or the moment. It was the way you made everything feel… lighter. Like I could breathe again. Like the past didn’t own me.”

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb tracing along her jawline. “I realized then that I was in deep. That it was more than just a moment. And it terrified me, because I thought I’d ruin it. Ruin you.” His voice cracked, weighted with a mix of love and regret.

His shoulders shook as he let out a ragged breath, the tears spilling over. “It’s the way you laugh, the way you fight for everyone you care about. How you make me feel like I’m more than my past… God, I tried so hard to keep you safe. Even if it meant pushing you away. But it killed me, Y/N. Every day.”

She stared at him, stunned and raw, her own tears falling. His hands cradled her face gently, his touch trembling. “I love you,” he said again, more desperately. “I love you for every moment you gave me hope when I thought I couldn’t be saved. I love you for being there, even when I didn’t deserve it. And I don’t want to lose you again.”

He leaned in, their faces inches apart, his tears mixing with hers as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

She closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her, feeling the sincerity in every broken syllable. For a heartbeat, it seemed she would turn away. But then, her voice cracked, trembling with everything she’d buried. “I love you too,” she breathed, voice shaking. “I never stopped.”

His forehead touched hers, their breaths mingling, raw and vulnerable. Slowly, their lips met, soft at first, then deeper, a kiss that spoke of everything they had denied and everything they still longed for. In each other’s touch, everything else faded, leaving only the truth between them.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: i was planning to do a descriptive smut scene at first, but after piecing everything from my draft and re-reading the overall flow, i don't think it's suitable to include it in this. perhaps another time, a side/extra story maybe. i hope y'all okay with that and enjoy your reading 🥺

[vinelark]

I've been going through ur fic recs and after binging through "A Meditation On Railroading" and "The Long Way Home", I'm now obsessed with Jason and Tim. Something about hating each other but not really, all the bad blood and hurt and still becoming brothers bc how couldn't they

I wanted to ask if you know any other fics that are about them?

Thanks! :)

i had to make a real effort to keep this (relatively) short or it would just be hundreds of fics long. here is a very incomplete list of old favs and recent reads! i've definitely rec'd some of them already, but i think others are new to my fic rec tag.   you already mentioned a meditation on railroading and the long way home; i’m linking them again here for anyone else who wants them, because they are two of my favs and would kick off this list if you hadn’t already read them.   robin!jason era   Brother Wanted by Vamillepudding one of the most impressive things a story can do, imo, is pull off a really believable kid/teen pov—this does it twice, for both tim and jason, and it’s one of my fav rereads.

Like a Hinge, Like a Wing by @bonesbuckleup i’ll always be reccing this one; it’s one of my favorite slow-burn hurt/comfort fics, and the tim & jason relationship in this context is very sweet + compelling as they deal with some rough edges unique to this story.

1-800-ROBIN by spqr jason volunteers for a mental health hotline, and this leads to bonding with tim. this has some incredibly tender moments and a great robin!jason pov.   red hood!jason era

cake is a four letter word by @sonosvegliato jason just wants to make a loaf of bread. then tim shows up. i love when a writer nails tim in peak Annoying Mode (❤️).

geolocation by @envysparkler i love a good forced-to-work-together oneshot, and this one gets bonus points for the sheer amount of “actions speak louder than words” going on with every single thing jason does.

Tim in a Bottle by @coyote-nebula (wip) angst and humor galore; tim and jason and their giant pile of unresolved issues all get locked in a walk-in freezer together. need i go on?

the trolley problem by @silk-scarlet-ribbons this is—i say with full appreciation—an absolute pangfest. jason is taken by an enemy, and that enemy has kidnapped a "random civilian" (you guessed it: tim) for leverage to get jason to do what they want. (also check out requiem for the forsaken by the same author, which is the fic that finally got my best friend to start caring about robins with me.)

Short-Term Memory Loss (Leads to Long-Term Sibling) by Vamillepudding a bittersweet + hopeful story in which red hood!jason gets temporarily whammed back to robin!jason, and bonds with tim.

Say Uncle by @megaerakles an incredibly fun twist on tim’s fake uncle with layers upon layers of identity shenanigans.

of crime lords and literature by @adelfie a wonderfully angsty, plotty fic in which tim ends up in danger as himself, and—after a very rocky start—jason is somehow the one who rescues him.

unequipped by Valkirin there’s a lot of jason saving tim on this list, and this story is a delightful reversal of that trope. red hood’s in trouble, and tim shows up to bail him out.

For All The Just Alike Birds by @sunflowersandink tim breaks his arm, and jason makes it his problem. featuring some excellent begrudgingly worried jason pov!

alternate universe

clean it like you mean it by @wynterstars (wip) i adore this jason-joins-the-family late AU; the central robin!tim & sort-of-civilian!jason dynamic is so compelling. marked as a wip, but currently leaves off in a very satisfying place!

[bunnliix]

When Eight Becomes Nine - Chapter Seven

This was quite the angsty chapter to write, honestly, but it was fun after yesterday's cliffhanger.

Pairing: Ateez x 9th member!reader  Summary: We see the aftermath of the photos, and y/n has an interesting day, though the day isn't quite over yet. wc: 2.6k AU: a/b/o  Genre: Fluff/Angst  warnings: angst, sudden wake up calls, references to twitter not being nice, Dispatch (yes Dispatch is a warning), San being worried, violence, injuries, head injuries, though not described in lots of detail, medical attention, hospitals, talking about injuries being treated though not in great detail, Wooyoung feeling guilty, fighting, derogatory language (fucktoy, being called a toy, whore), slapping, lots of cursing, rude and sexist-ish questions being asked of y/n, this chapter is just angst central with a decent amount of violence, y/n is being slutshamed as an omega, mentions to omegas going through slutshaming, and Seonghwa and Wooyoung in particular, I think this is everything? Yes I know there's a lotta warnings this chapter. masterlist

San was sleeping peacefully, having a nice dream of his pack before he was shaken awake. 

“San-ah, wake up!” Seonghwa said, shaking the younger man awake.

“Hmm? Seonghwa-hyung, what’s going on? Did I sleep in?” He said, voice still full of sleep.

A phone was shoved into his face, and he blinked blearily, eyes still barely open. It took him a couple moments before he could see anything on his hyung’s phone, but once he was able to, his eyes were wide with shock.

“What? How did Dispatch get these photos?” He asked Seonghwa, concerned.

“An anonymous source. Who somehow had access to KQ and took these photos yesterday. Twitter is going wild over it, so don’t check it. Or any Instagram comments either. Pack Alpha’s orders.” Seonghwa informed him.

San became concerned once his Luna told him about Hongjoong’s orders. Hongjoong never usually forbade them from visiting social media, so for him to do so was very worrying.

“What’s going on with the company? What are we doing now?” He questioned.

“They’re bringing in the auditionees for a talk. They’re not sure who it is, but the concern it’s one of the cut auditionees who are unhappy over how attached some of us have gotten with y/n.” He explained to San.

“How do they still have access to the building?” San asked, concerned for their safety now if potentially scorned people have access to them because of the company’s negligence.

“They’re figuring it out. They’ll be restricting access to our areas of the company until they find out who exactly it was. No one that doesn’t need to be in or out of our studios, and our regular dance studio will be locked when we’re not in it.” Seonghwa said, taking this breach of privacy very seriously as it affected his pack members.

Wooyoung burst into the room, having heard most of it from outside of the room, and was frustrated that this was happening.

“What the fuck? They’re ripping her apart on twitter. This isn’t fucking fair to her, nor to us. She shouldn’t have to deal with this because someone took pictures of her while they rested during a dance practice!” Wooyoung yelled, which definitely woke San up if he hadn’t been awake before that.

“Wooyoung, calm down. There’s nothing we can do right now. We’ve been told to stay here at our dorms. We won’t be needed at the company today. “ Seonghwa tried to calm the younger omega, letting out a calming scent to try and soothe the omega’s anger.

It didn’t work. “Don’t you try and calm me down!” He yelled at the elder, “You should be pissed off too, they’re slut shaming her and going after her subgender, and you know that that’s like. Fuck, we both know what’s that’s like, we’ve lived through it!” Wooyoung screamed at Seonghwa, before darting out of the room, ready to risk the company and Hongjoong’s anger just to find a way to get to y/n and comfort her. She didn’t deserve this treatment, no one did. And he doubted any of the others had gone through anything remotely similar to this, and so she needed someone who’s been through this before. And if Hwa-hyung wouldn’t do it, he would.

“Where are you going?” Mingi asked him, having just entered the dorm.

“Going to see y/nnie, she needs someone by her side right now.” Wooyoung said, not looking at Mingi while he put on his jacket and shoes.

“Yeah, you’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.” Mingi decided, knowing that letting the youngest go alone would be a stupid idea.

“I’m fine to go alone! I don’t need you to come.” Wooyoung grumbled, until a hand came to rest on the back of his neck.

“I am going with you, or I’ll scruff you and make sure you don’t leave the dorm. Got it?” Mingi told him in a no-nonsense tone of voice which made Wooyoung shiver.

“Got it, alpha.” Wooyoung said, calming down a bit because he knew if he didn’t, he would be relegated back to the pack den and not allowed to leave unless supervised. Then he’d never get to y/n.

“Let’s go then.” Mingi said, having not taken his shoes off yet, so he was ready to go immediately.

Time Skip back to earlier this morning in the auditionee dorms…

Y/n slept peacefully, until shouts from somewhere else in the apartment woke her up. She stumbled out of bed, throwing on a sweatshirt as she walked to find the source of the noise. It didn’t take long until she found it, a group of the others crowded around a phone. They heard her come in, and before she could process it, she was suddenly looking away from the group. One of the female betas had slapped her. 

“You’re a fucking whore. I bet you’re letting them use you, just so you can become their ninth member. You really think they’ll want you around for more than just a fucktoy? You’re delusional if you think you’re anything more than a toy for them to play around with, and throw away when they get bored of it.”

Y/n felt tears in her eyes but blinked them away, because showing any form of weakness right now, could end with more violence.

“That is your opinion. Though I wouldn’t advise telling that to the members of the group we all have the chance to join. Now I believe we should be getting ready to head to the company, yes? Not standing around reading tabloid news.” She said, before turning around and leaving. But not before she felt something hit the back of her head, feeling the pain bloom from the spot she was hit. But she didn’t want to give them the win by turning around and getting angry at them, so she just continued walking away. 

She ignored any other noises in the dorm as she got ready, waiting for the staff to pick them up. It wasn’t long before a staff member came to their door, directing them to the cars, and Aaron hopped into the seat next to y/n.

“What’s with the images? Like what was going on?” He asked her, curious.

“I was simply taking a break after running choreo and they sat down with me to keep me company, that’s all. There was another staff member in the corner keeping an eye on us, I wasn’t alone with them.” She explained herself honestly but kept it to the point.

“So like you weren’t seconds away from doing anything with them? Even though you’re an omega?” Aaron rudely asked, which made y/n turn to him with a pissed off look.

“No, and I better not hear you ask me things like that again. It’s stereotypical, and you should know that’s fucking offensive. Do I ask you if you do stereotypical beta things? No. So don’t ask me shit like that again.” She told him off, before looking away from him and down at her phone, which was filled with notifications as people found her social media profiles. She quickly moved to turn them private, and tried her best to hide them, while posting for her close friends and family to not believe anything they see online. She spent the rest of the ride ignoring anything happening in the rest of the van.

Once they pulled up to the company, she was one of the first out of the vehicle, though today they weren’t guided to either the practice room, or a studio. Instead they were guided further into the company and into a conference room, where she was kept outside and pulled aside by who she recognized as one of Ateez’s managers.

“First. You don’t need to worry about any accusations from the company about any inappropriate actions, as a staff member was there the entire time. So please know that none of this is your fault, nor the fault of Ateez. We’re deviating from a normal plan today, to try and figure out if any of the others are the cause of this. There’s also suspicion it could be any of those who have been cut, as we have not been as strict on barring them from the company, to which we apologize.” He apologized to her, bowing.

“No no, you didn’t know this would happen, so I don’t blame you. I understand that it’s not an easy job, and the situation you’ve now been placed in doesn’t help.” She replied, being way too understanding, despite the fact that their negligence has resulted in violence against her by her fellow auditionees.

“Is there anyone that you suspect could have done this? Anyone that’s been unfriendly to you?”

“Everyone except Aaron has been unfriendly to me since Seonghwa pulled me away from the group that first day. They believe I’m getting unfair treatment by being able to spend time with the boys one-on-one. So it could be any one of them. I’m sorry I’m not much help.” She said, carefully hiding the fact of what happened that morning.

“Okay, well thank you for letting us know, regardless.” The manager thanked her, “If you want, you can go ahead and head to the practice room if you would like to get some extra practice in. Though the boys won’t be joining you, they’ve been told to stay away from the company for today while we sort things out.” He informed her as she nodded.

“That makes sense, and yes, I’ll head there and practice for a while.” She told him, and he waved her on as the staff that had stayed outside, entered alongside him into the conference room.

She made her way down to the practice room, finding it unlocked. She entered, putting her bag down next to the mirror before starting to stretch and warm up for another rigorous practice. She intended to practice the two choreographies from yesterday, wanting to perfect them so she could show them off to Yunho and San next time. She got into the zone, almost unaware of everything else going on around her. Once warmed up, she ran through the two dances back to back, until she couldn't do anything further, out of energy. She plopped down onto the floor, trying to regulate her breathing as she reached out for her water bottle. She was drinking water to rehydrate, when the door behind her slammed open.

“Baby omega!” Was all she heard before she was tackled onto the ground, hitting her head once again, and she groaned at the impact.

“Wooyoung, we don’t tackle people.” Mingi scolded the hyperactive omega, before pulling him off of y/n so she could sit up again.

She held a hand to the back of her head, and when she pulled it away, there were traces of blood on her palm. She looked down at it, processing the injury on her head, until her hand was harshly pulled out of her view as she heard a whine.

“Baby, did I hurt you? Oh gosh I’m so so sorry!” Wooyoung apologized, worry in his voice before he pulled her into his hold. “Mingi, we need to get her to a doctor!”

“I’m fine, it’s just a tiny wound. I’ll be okay if I wash it out.”

That was before she felt a hand examining her wound. “You need to see a doctor. This isn’t a minor cut.” Mingi said, with a very matter of fact-like tone.

“What?! Oh gosh we need to see a doctor now! Mingi, pick her up and let’s go!” Wooyoung panicked, as Mingi decided it was easier to follow the younger member’s instructions. He picked her up, resulting in a shocked squeak from her as Wooyoung marched the three of them out of the dance room, and out of the company as a whole. As Wooyoung walked over to the alpha’s car and opened the door, the taller man placed y/n gently into the back seat, the other omega having moved to sit in the back next to her. Mingi shut the door, rounding the car and getting in the driver’s seat, before driving to the hospital.

Wooyoung was glad that his fellow pack mate hurried to the nearest hospital. Once they arrived, the same situation happened as y/n was picked up and hurried into the ER, where due to it being an open head injury, she was quickly taken to the back after being registered. To the worried omega’s relief, it wasn’t as serious as it could have been, as the nurses cleaned out the wound before closing the cut and covering it with a bandaid.

“Thankfully, it wasn’t more serious, but be careful washing your hair until the wound is fully closed up, we don’t need it getting infected.” The nurse informed her after she finished. “You are so lucky to have such a nice alpha and fellow omega to bring you here so quickly. Another nurse will be in with papers, and then you’ll be able to leave.” She smiled at all of them before leaving, as y/n tried and failed to correct her in time.

Wooyoung pulled the girl close. “I’m so glad that it wasn’t anything really serious. How long have you had that wound?”

“This morning.” She said quietly. She didn’t need the other omega to go on a warpath against the others.

“This morning!? Who did that to you? Tell me their name. Now.” Wooyoung demanded, moving to stand in front of her.

“It’s fine, it’s not a big deal. It will be dealt with.” She told them, not wanting them to butt into this.

“Wooyoung is right. If it’s one of the others, or anyone else from the company, we can help you with this.” Mingi told her, moving to kneel in front of her. “We may have met not long ago, but we would feel guilty if we weren’t able to help resolve something that may have stemmed from something we’ve done.” He said, trying to get her to see that they just wanted to help.

“It was one of the female betas. She got upset this morning and slapped me. And I assume she’s also the one who threw whatever caused the wound.” She gave in, telling them.

“How fucking dare she. You get slutshamed all over the internet and she does that? Nah she’s fucking out of here right now. I don’t want anyone who will assault others.” Wooyoung said, pulling out his phone to call their manager, moving away from her.

“Has anything else happened because of what was released this morning?” Mingi asked her gently.

“Nothing I haven’t already handled.” She assured him.

Wooyoung quickly returned. “She’s been handled. Turns out she very quickly devolved into insulting you, for a variety of reasons and admitted to hurting you this morning. She’s already been kicked out, and will shortly be headed back to the airport for a flight back to wherever she came from, I didn’t care to listen.”

Thankfully, it was only a couple minutes more until the other nurse arrived with her paperwork, and after a few signatures, she was cleared to leave. This time, Wooyoung carried her, refusing to let her walk despite it not being a leg or foot injury.

“We’re going back to the den.” Wooyoung said, with no room for arguing. Mingi sighed, before driving the three of them back to the pack dorm, or well the largest of the three dorms, so the de-facto pack dorm. This was going to be interesting. Wooyoung had never liked another person, let alone another omega so much that he would bring them back to the pack den. Mingi was sure that this would result in some very surprised pack members.

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Taglist is: open!

[whoreforsexymen]

Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️‍💥 CH. 1

Gray Hair & The Absence of Care

(Gif creds: me <3)

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)

Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.

Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)

Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.

Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.

((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))

It had been a terrible night so far.

Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.

You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again. 

That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this. 

You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures. 

The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls. 

You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings. 

Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.

You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.

It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.  

The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt. 

Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.

Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus. 

The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat. 

“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word. 

He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.

You don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.

The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you. 

The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.

You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.

The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop. 

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.

You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.

“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.

You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice. 

“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.

The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.

“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone. 

The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor. 

His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice. 

“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer. 

The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly. 

Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong�� Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would. 

You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue. 

“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful. 

“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest. 

“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life. 

“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.

“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement. 

He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.

You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.

“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.

You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse. 

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up. 

However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won��t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you. 

“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”

The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.

“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add. 

The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely. 

You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.

“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it. 

“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond. 

You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone. 

“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.

You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.

“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”

You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.

You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.

Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.

“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.

The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.

He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.

The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”

You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.

“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.

The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.

“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.

“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.

“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”

It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.

You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.

You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.

“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.

“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.

It was infuriating.

You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.

“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”

The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.

“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more. 

The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.

Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.

You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.

Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.

You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.

The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment. 

“Look, kid—”

“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.

He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took. 

“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.

“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.” 

Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again. 

The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.

Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.

He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.

But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets. 

taglist: @blogforhoes @committingcrimes-2047 @dirtandcrime @eternalgoddessofart @woozulo @lutaaaslostacc-d8

[theprenderelliepalace]

Not Her

☆•Five x Reader•☆

TAU S4 AU

Summary: Imagine you're the version of Dolores that kept Five sane when he got stuck in the future for 45 years, but you died before Five could save you. So what will he do when your face is the first he sees on the infamous train of time?

Warnings: Grammatical errors, s4 spoilers(!), mentions of character death, no use of y/n, cannon divergence (thank gosh), mentions of self-h*rm, enemies to you know what, angsty central, fighting, swearing etc.

Words: 2.1k (enjoyed writing this a little too much)

•☆•

You could barely remember why you landed up in this neverending subway station anymore. Time after time, arriving at the same moment, it became numbing. The rattling of the train on the tracks an aching lull that pulled you into the darkest corners of your mind. Your dreams were fitful and strange, swirling shapes howled around you, calling you, shaming you.

You woke with a start. The train was at a standstill again, you could make out the debris of another apocalyptic timeline beyond the hazy glass of the cabin. The doors opened, you sighed, your head falling against your knees. You considered the end then. The blissful hum of death beckoned you more than you'd ever known before. The same moment over and over, you couldn't go on like that... It only took a moment, you thought, for it to be done.

Suddenly you heard a noise. A voice. You looked up, startled. It was a man's voice, calling out into the station. Your first instinct is to reach for the knife strapped to your boot. Your hand quivers over the handle, you duck under the benches, inching towards the door. You hide beside the door, waiting for intruder to take his first steps into the cabin. You'll surprise him, it'll be quick and painless.

You itch for the conflict, it's something new, something different from the mundane station to station. It's almost exciting. Being trapped down here for so long, you've forgotten the horror you used to feel for the art of killing. You almost laugh, but steal yourself. Your favorite person in the world used to say that. Like it was a sport. You used to hate him for that, the very notion disgusted you.

Except now, you weren't any different from the Five Hargreeves you'd come to love and hate in the tumbling pattern of a toxic relationship you'd run away from.

The doors slid open. You readied yourself, shifting on your haunches. He stepped fully onto the train, the doors sliding closed behind him, sealing his fate. You artfully stepped out from your hiding place. Your breath hitched, your footsteps dead-silent. You lunged.

Your opponent was too slow. His surprise would be your advantage. You slammed him against the opposite bench. Pressing your knife to his throat. You used your weight to leverage him, ensuring he was ensnared I'm your trap. You made to swipe your wrist, ending his life, but you faltered.

"Fi-Five?" You croak. Your eyes widened, your breath shook. He pushed you off him, sending you hurtling into the doors of the train. You slammed into them with a force that took your breath. You crumpled to the floor. The shock of the blow rendering you dumbstruck.

"Who the hell are you?!" He yelled. His eyes were the eyes you dreamed of so many nights, those loving eyes, those terrifying eyes. They looked at you with so much contempt now. "Talk. Now. Or you die." You hadn't registered him pulling out a small caliber 45 from the holster at his waist. He pointed it straight at your head, unwavering.

"Five..." You sounded desperate, you hated yourself for it, but the need to have him close to you, to be your Five, it was all consuming.

His eyes flickered. His hands shook. "Why do you look like her?" He whispered. You were sure the question wasn't meant for you, but in that moment all yours were answered.

You carefully raised your hands over your head, getting shakily to your feet. "I'm not your version of her." You lowered your head, the false hope that this man had been your Five was shattered, your heart became heavier than before, almost like you lost him all over again. "And you're not him..." You whispered.

"Dolores?" He sounded so confused, so hurt.

You glanced up at him. "I don't go by that anymore. It- it was too painful." You shouldn't be telling this Five anything about yourself, but you can't help it, he's that sick son of a bitch any way you look at him and he's also the man you'd die for twice on Sundays. You can't help the way your heart pulses uncomfortably in your chest as his gaze bores into your soul.

Your new name roles off his tongue like bile. He spits at you like he's angry you made him say it. His gun is quivering in his hands. You can tell his resolve is crumbling. His eyes are wild but still searching yours, willing you to be telling the truth.

You take a daring step towards him, suddenly feeling slightly braver. You shouldn't get involved, you should kill him and forget this ever happened. You should make him hold you again. You're so conflicted it's making your head spin. You reach his outstretched hands, he's watching you so closely it's making you squirm, but he's motionless save for his hands.

You place a gentle palm over the gun, lowering it. He watches you with overflowing sadness. You suddenly think that he must wish you were the right version of you just as badly. He must long for your touch in the same way, dream of your absence the same way you do. He's breathing heavily as your bodies touch, only for a moment but moments feel like lifetimes to you now.

"What is this place?" He chokes, eyes still boring into yours.

"It's a kind of waypoint. The same moment in time across an infinity of timelines." You pause, your hand still gently resting over his. "You need to get off the train Five." You say it like you don't really register the words leaving your mouth and then suddenly it clicks. You grip his hands hard, he pulls back. "You need to get off this train. NOW."

You grab his forearm and begin to pull him towards the doors, they open as you get closer when suddenly he pulls away from you again. You turn to watch him shake his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "What about you?"

"I don't matter! Five, if you don't blink out of here now... you'll... you'll be stuck here forever." He's standing there as stubbornly as stone, brows furrowed. "Please Five. Please do this for me!" You gasp as you realize tears are streaming down your cheeks.

"But you-"

"I'm not her! Don't make that mistake. Please, if you ever cared about your version of me, you'll go back to honor her." You interrupt.

"What's honor without a little daring?" He smiles, like he's letting you in on a joke you don't understand.

The train begins to rattle beneath your feet. The strange echos of the voice over the loud speaker begins to boom overhead. You look at him pleadingly, begging him to listen to you. "Dammit Five!" And before you can tell him off, he's pulling you out of the train. You scream as you tumble to the ground but you can barely blink before a mass of energy sucks you into it. You're pulled and prodded and stretched and suddenly you're in the Umbrella mansion, panting.

"I'm gonna be sick." You keel over, Five catches you, pulling you into him.

"Shh. Shh." You almost laugh, to the untrained eye, Five seems to be helping you through your queasy spell, you however, know that he's telling you to shut your mouth.

"Five?" Someone calls from the upper levels of the house. Now that you're looking at it, it's a complete hazard. Floor boards are sticking out of the floor, dust coats the little art work that's still left, the windows are cracked and glazed over. No one's lived in this house for a very long time.

"We have to hide you." He panicks, shoving you out the front door and into the street. He leads you around the house and into a nearby alley.

You groan, your stomach giving a painful lurch. You stop in your tracks, leaning against the closest thing you can find, which happens to be a dumpster. "Two things. First, never, EVER, blink me again. Ever."

"I-"

"SECONDLY, why the hell do I have to hide if you're the one that brought me back to your timeline?!" You'd be angrier, but your queasy stomach and aching brain aren't making it happen.

He sighs, like you've just given him news that he can't wear his favorite suit. "Look, I saved your ass. A thanks Five would be great."

Arrogant little prick. "No thank you. I was fine where I was." You lie. "And you're changing the subject!" He averts his eyes from yours.

"I couldn't leave you, but we have history and well, my family can be rough around the edges when it comes to history." You feel your anger slowly ebb. You remember your Fives family, suddenly hiding behind a dumpster doesn't seem so bad.

"'Kay fine. Fine. Im here now and for what? Because you couldnt let go! God, all you Fives are the same!" He recoils as though you slapped him, you might as well have but what right does he have to bring you here against your will, to control you and pester you like he always does, to save you from suicide. You sigh, deflating. "I'm sorry. That was tactless. I'm angry."

"Thanks, I figured that out. Look, if you want to get back on that train be my guest, but I think I need your help. So, help me?" His voice cracks and you can't help the tug it has on your heart. "If your Five was anything like me, you know it's not easy for us to ask for anything." He gives you a look. "Come on, don't make me say it again..."

You stand up straight, giggling. "Okay Five. I'll help you. But then you help me. Deal?" You square each other up, measuring, testing, it's almost familiar to you.

"Deal."

•☆•

The next few days were, in your humble opinion, absolutely insane. You tried to do things off the books with Five, you really did, to hunt down this Jennifer girl, to help Five get on top of his reawakened powers and then it all went to shit, in other words his family found out.

Now you're driving in a busted up van full of people who hate you for reasons you dont understand all the way to some mystery town to find some guys missing daughter. It's uncomfortable to say the least.

Now that you've been puked on, you've about had enough. "Hey, uh, Diego, can we stop for a second..."

"Don't talk to my brother." Alison barks. You glance at her.

"Should I write him a letter instead?" You seethe. Klaus laughs from beside you which causes the others the groan bitterly.

Diego pulls the van off to the side of the road, allowing for a mass exodus of the Hargreeves family onto the snowy highway. There's bickering and moaning, but you're not really listening to them because Five is staring at you, burning holes into your head.

You sigh. "Something on my face?"

"Yeah. The bitch that almost got us all killed in the last apocalypse we stopped." Viktor answers, glaring, as if trying to make his words stab into you. If anything, he's just making you tired.

"Why you people can't listen, I don't know." You huffed exasperatedly. "I. Am. A. Different. Person. I don't know you people, I don't have your beef, I'm just helping because Five saved my life. End of discussion."

"Like hell you are! That's exactly what a Dolores would say." Alison shouts. Obviously their version of you pissed her off the most. You groan.

"I mean, Five hasn't exactly told us why he brought you here. And the name change? That's pretty suspicious..." Luther adds.

"Guys please. Hating each other is not going to save our behinds. This little lady here, new persona and all is probably going to keep us alive in the long run. If I know a her at all." Klaus chimes in, almost frantic. He reaches to pat your shoulder with a gloved hand, but stops himself midway, with an embarrassed little smile.

The siblings look about as confused as you but before any of them can chip in again, Five clears his throat matter of factly. "The reason she is here is because I trust her. Her powers are how we found this stupid girl in the first place."

"You heard Five. Stop whinging." Lila smiles, coming up behind you and wrapping and arm around your shoulder. "Water under the bridge sweetheart." She smiles sort of creepily at you, but you suppose she's trying to be genuine.

"Okay people. Pack it up, back in the van, if we want to make it on time we've gotta move it." Diego orders. Everyone files back to their seats, but you stare apprehensively at the puke infested floor.

Ben smiles evily at you as he passes, groaning as he flops into his seat. "Want to sit shotgun?" Five asks, smirking his stupid smirk.

"Desperately. But I don't take handouts." With that you climb over Ben and Klaus and plop down into your seat. Wishing you were anywhere else.

You watch Five shrug and clamber into his spot. Diego starts the engine and veers back onto the highway. You're not even on the road for 10 seconds before Ben shouts beside you. You turn suddenly to watch a car ram into the side your truck.

The screaming is unbearable, all you can think of are the flashes of your terrible life. Death and loss and heartbreak. You can remember calling out to Five as the van rolls, slamming into something hard. Your head throbs, your breath catches in your throat. Someone reaches out and grabs your hand and everything goes black...

•☆•

A/n Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger!

Here's my masterlist if you like my stuffs

[buckgasms]

I realise that this might not be soemthing your interested in writing (and that's ok ily). Just wanted to tell you that after finishing the Dark mafia bucky (not bunny and clyde) I cannot stop thinking about how angsty it could get after the last main part.

Like i, myself, would not be able to handle that shit mentally. Like Reader staying in the bedroom all day because she's so worried and paranoid about soemone seeing her and laughing or soemthing after her... time... with bucky at work. Everytime bucky comes home minory upset or angry she goes into defence mode because she's worried he thinks she has betrayed him again. She can't sleep without him hugging her because all she can imagine is that somehow Rumlow survived and is gonan come kill the both of them.

I'm sorry I love in angst central sometimes <3

Thank you nonnie ilyt 😍 You are so spot on with this 👌🏼

Here is the link to the very dark fic if you are interested

Yeah I think his little bird is going to be so nervous from now on, but I think Bucky would be ok with it you know?

Like he doesn't mind if you don't wanna leave the house because it means he knows where you are and he can watch you on his cameras like a crazy man.

And imagine if his little bird is in his office you always dash under the desk when anyone comes in so you don't have to face them. He chuckles and strokes your hair as you cling to his leg. You sometimes watch as he pulls his cock out of his trousers under the desk and take it in your hand to give you something to focus on.

When you do have to face them you can't work out if they are thinking about it or not. Thinking about how you looked that day, how they applauded and jeered at you, now smiling and being somewhat respectful. It makes you cling to Bucky closer and press your face into his arm or chest for comfort. Your face burns when they chuckle at you, but at least Bucky holds your tighter.

🐦

I think any time he's angry you go very defensive and jumpy. Normally when he's angry he gets it out at work or the gym, so he only comes home really angry very rarely.

You shuffle around the house as you hear him shouting down the phone, slamming doors and all sorts. You plant yourself on the floor where he sits on the sofa, having left your dress on the floor and you shiver in your underwear.

Finally he appears and finds you waiting then for him and be flops down on the sofa and smiles. "Ah there's my little bird, waiting just for me huh?"

You nod and rest your arms on his thighs, smiling up at him, letting him stroke your face and run his fingers through your hair. "Thought you might have had a bad day?" You say softly and gently massage his legs, hands drifting higher, making him sigh.

"You worrying about me birdie? Did I make you nervous?" He smiles and pinches your chin pulling you forwards until you are straddling his lap, his hands squeezing at your waist.

"Hmm, tell me baby, you feeling nervous again?"

You nod and nibble at your finger, sitting down more comfortably on his lap, eyes stinging a little bit. "Don't want you to be mad..." You whisper, as he grips your face between his big hands.

"I'm not mad anymore baby, remember. It's all fixed. All fine now..." He smiles gently, stroking your cheeks and leaning upwards to press little kisses to your nose and cheeks.

You let out a shaky sigh and smile at him, but your heart still hums quickly in your chest.

🐦

You do often wake in the night, screaming, reliving that night where you pulled the trigger. Your body covered in sweat and hands shaking as you struggle to see anything in the darkness.

"Ssshh baby it's ok" you hear Bucky murmur as he pulls you in close to him, letting your sobs wrack through your body. "I gotcha."

"What if he comes back?" You sob as your fingers cling to the thick muscles of Bucky's back, fingers tracing along old scars.

"Ain't gonna happen pretty girl, I promise..."

He rolls over until he's on top, your eyes finally adjusting to the dark see his serious blue eyes staring at you. "He's never gonna come back, and you are safe with me, ok?"

You nod and let him press kisses to your forehead and you cling to him tighter still. You feel his hand wrap around your thigh and lift it higher. His cock is guided into your heat and you gasp as he slides himself slowly into you.

You still feel sensitive from the evenings escapades but that's what helps him glide into you, your body so responsive. "Good girl, always ready for me hmm? You feel that? Feel how easily you take me?"

Your body feels on fire as he gently rocks into you. He presses kisses to your face, licking away tears as you groan.

"My baby, you got nothing to worry about anymore. Just relax, just let me make it all better ok?"

🐦

Ooof yes very angsty but I'm a sucker for a happy ending so I feel like they'll work it out 🤭

[wiltedflowerpetals]

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At first, you, Mrs. Price, thought that you had to go on a normal but dangerous mission. You only had to get some intel. Get in and out. Easy… right?

But getting captured was not on your to-do-list for this mission…

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Words: 2038

Warning: Blood, death, angsty, fluff

Part 1: Wife Meets Friend | Part 2: Wife On A Mission | Part 3: Wife In Danger | Part 4: (you are reading it) | Part 5: Husband And Wife

141 moved with precision, each man knowing his role in the rescue mission. John led the way, his mind singularly focused on getting to his wife and bringing her back safely. Each step closer to Mikhailov's hideout increased the tension, but John was still determined. He wasn’t going to lose you, not to this man, not to anyone.

They cleared room after room, encountering resistance but dispatching it swiftly. John’s heart dropped with each empty room, the fear gnawing at him. Finally, they reached the central part of the compound - a large, reinforced door that led to what they assumed was a holding area.

Ghost and Gaz took up positions at the door, while Soap rigged the explosives. John waited, every muscle in his body tense. The moment the door blew open, they moved as one, weapons ready.

Inside, the scene that greeted them was one of chaos. Bodies lay across the floor, blood pooling beneath them. John’s eyes darted around the room, his heart in his throat, searching desperately for you.

Until his eyes met yours.

You were huddled in a corner, your clothes stained with blood, your face pale but fierce. The ropes that had bound your hands were on the floor beside you, and in your hands, you held bloodied knife and a piece of glass. Probably from a nearby window or a bottle that was lying on the ground.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. John’s blue eyes stared at you - alive, but bloodied. Relief, his lips turned up, smiling at you. He had found his wife. You were alive.

“(Y/N)!” John shouted, his voice rough with emotion as he rushed to you.

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and the weapons fell from your hands as you rose to your feet. The moment you saw him, you felt a tear escape your eye, as you stumbled forward, throwing yourself into his arms.

John wrapped you in a tight embrace, holding you close as if he could protect you from everything that had happened. You were finally in his arms.

“John…” You whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “I thought… I didn’t think…”

“Shh…” He soothed, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

You two stayed like that for a few moments. But eventually, John pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

“What happened?” He asked. “How did you manage to-” He gestured to the dead men around them. “How did you fight them off?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes locking with his. You could see the concern, the confusion in his gaze, and you knew you couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer.

“John.” You began, your voice trembling, not knowing how he will react. “… There’s something I need to tell you.”

He frowned, concern deepening. “What is it? You can tell me anything.”

You took a deep breath. “I’m not who you think I am…” Your gaze moved to the ground, scared to see his reaction. “I’ve been lying to you… about my job, about who I am. I’m not just a secretary, John. I’m… I’m a hitman.”

John stared at you, shocked. He couldn’t believe what you were saying. It didn’t make sense - how could his wife, the woman he loved, be a hitman?

“A hitman?” He repeated slowly. “What… What are you talking about?”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded. “It’s true. I’ve been doing this for years, long before I met you. It’s how I know Kate, how I’ve been able to protect you during some missions without you knowing. I didn’t want to tell you… I was afraid that if you knew, it would put you in more danger and… I… I was scared that you might leave me…”

John took a step back, his mind razing through so many thoughts. The woman he had thought he knew, the woman he had married, was a professional killer. It was almost too much for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, his voice filled with a mix of hurt and confusion. “All this time… Why didn’t you trust me?”

“It wasn’t about trust.” You said quickly. “It was about keeping you safe. If you knew… if anyone knew… it would have put a target on your back. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

John’s mind raced. You were a murderer…? Someone who got paid just to kill people. Sure, he did it as well, but he was a soldier, while you were a hitman.

He looked around the room again, at the bodies, the blood, and then back at her. The strength it must have taken for you to survive, to fight your way out - he couldn’t deny that you had done what you needed to do to stay alive.

But the betrayal he felt was deep. It felt like a knife stabbing and cutting him. “You should have told me.” He said, his voice breaking slightly. “We could have faced this together.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you shook your head. “I’m so sorry, John. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now that I was just lying to both of us. I never wanted to hurt you.”

John was silent for a long moment. He was angry, hurt, and yet… he was also relieved. You were alive, you were here with him, and that was what mattered most.

He reached out, taking your hand in his. “We’ll get through this.” He said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “But no more secrets. We will tell each other everything, from now on. Understand?”

You nodded, squeezing his hand tightly. “No more secrets. I promise.”

John pulled you into his arms again, holding you as tightly as he could. No more lies, no more hiding.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. “We need to get out of here.” He said, his voice firm but gentle. “We’ll talk more later, but right now, we have to move.”

You nodded. John motioned for Ghost, Gaz, and Soap to move in, their weapons still drawn as they cleared the area, making sure there were no more threats.

“Clear.” Ghost muttered, his voice low and professional as always.

“Let’s get her out of here.” Soap added, casting a concerned glance at you. He, like the others, didn’t fully understand what had happened, but they all knew the mission wasn’t over until you were safe.

John kept you close as they made their way out of the compound, the team covering them as they moved swiftly and silently. Once outside, the team regrouped at their extraction point. The silence got interrupted by the sound of the helicopter blades cut, ready to take them to safety.

As they boarded, John kept his arm around you, not letting you go for a second. You leaned into him, exhausted. He held you closer, whispering reassurances that you were safe now, that he was there.

The helicopter lifted off, and the team remained silent, each lost in their thoughts. John couldn’t help but think of the man responsible for all this - Mikhailov. He was still out there, a threat looming over them like a dark cloud. John had faced him once before and thought he’d ended it. Now he realized how wrong he’d been.

But he also knew that Mikhailov wasn’t the only threat. The secrets his wife had kept, the life she had lived in, were now a part of his world. They couldn’t go back to the way things were before. Everything had changed.

When they finally touched down at the base, John helped you out of the helicopter, his arm still around you. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face for some sign of what he was thinking. He could see the fear in your eyes - not fear of him, but fear of what might happen next, of how he would react now that he knew the truth.

He cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “We’ll figure this out.” He said, his voice soft but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will. You’re my wife, and I love you. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of relief. You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I love you too, John. I’m so sorry for everything.”

As they headed into the base, the team following behind, John knew that Mikhailov was still out there, and as long as that man was alive, they would never be truly safe. This was far from over. The battle lines were drawn, and this time, John wasn’t just fighting for himself - he was fighting for the woman he loved.

And he wouldn’t stop until Mikhailov was nothing more than a ghost of the past.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

His arm remained around your shoulders, a silent promise that he would keep you safe. The rest of Task Force 141 followed closely behind; their expressions unreadable.

They reached a secured briefing room, each of them taking their places around the table. John led you to a chair, his hand lingering on your shoulder before he took his place at the head of the table. His mind was racing. So much as happened today.

“We have a problem. Mikhailov. He’s still out there, and he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. He’s a ghost from my past, someone I thought I’d taken care of years ago, but he’s come back for revenge. And now, he’s targeting (Y/N) because of me.” John said firmly, arms crossed over his chest, as he glanced at every person at the table.

Gaz frowned. “If Mikhailov is involved, it means this is bigger than just a personal vendetta.”

“That’s why we can’t let our guard down.” John agreed. “He’s already shown he’s willing to go to any lengths to hurt us, and I won’t let him get another chance.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Soap asked, his tone serious. “We can’t just sit around waiting for him to make his next move.”

John nodded, grateful for the support. “We go on the offensive. We track him down, find out where he’s hiding, and take him out before he can do any more damage.”

“And what about Mrs. Price?” Ghost asked, his gaze shifting to you. “She’s been through a lot. Is she ready for what’s coming?”

You straightened in your chair. “I’m ready. I want to help take him down.”

John’s heart swelled with pride at her determination. “We’re going to do this together.”

You looked at him. “I know. But I also know that I’m the one who got us into this mess. I need to be a part of getting us out of it.”

“Then it’s settled.” John said, his voice firm. “We go after Mikhailov, and we end this once and for all.”

They spent the next several hours going over intelligence, strategizing, and preparing for what would be one of the most dangerous missions they had ever undertaken. They knew Mikhailov wouldn’t go down easily, but they will try their best.

“Don’t worry, we got this.” You said on the phone, talking to Kate as she gave more information that might help you all out during the mission. “Good. Be careful. All of you.”

You said your goodbyes, as you walked through the base, gaze moving towards the balcony to see your husband smoking a cigar on there.

You walked to him and leaned against the railing.

Your husband turned to you, his expression softening as he reached out to take your hand. “I meant what I said earlier.” He murmured. “No more secrets, no more hiding.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything...”

He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We all make mistakes.”

You nodded, leaning into him as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

Together, they would face whatever came next. And together, they would overcome it.

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[obriengf]

A Gracious Gift || Mitch Rapp x Reader

Summary: Mitch had almost forgotten what it was like to be shown love until you gave him a small token to change his mind. Words: 1.4k Warnings: swearing bc it's mitch... he also has trust issues okay, pretty angsty oops Notes: the first addition to my 2023 xmas fics!

hope he's bringing me love this christmas cause i deserve you here ✩

His nose scrunched, details of exasperation etching themselves deep in the wrinkle between his brows and the frown of his lips. It was a cross between amusement and simple irritation that devoured the man as he stood resistant to the brightly coloured lights that reflected across the warm brown of his irises, arms crossed over his chest and a huff pushing past his lips. Mitch Rapp didn't do Christmas, not anymore. Neither did his ears enjoy the pretentious tunes that flooded the small living room of your safehouse or the irony they held as he stared at the decorated tree beside the small television.

"Is this a joke?" He huffed, once more, head barely turning as his voice carried to the small frame to his left. You didn't reply, his question dripping in all things rhetorical, and instead allowed a smile to curl upward into the shadow of a smirk. His pessimism is something that you're used to by now - starting beyond the tantrum he threw when you were first assigned as his partner. The Assassin grew to like you, however, after many arguments and a handful of times proving yourself. He saw honour within you and a driving force to do right by all, no matter what it took. In turn, you saw a man that hurt where his heart lay, but he used his head as a guard and determination to build up near impenetrable walls. It didn't stop you though, from trying... from showing him that there is much more to this world than Good versus Bad. And eventually, Mitch Rapp became oxygen - you breathed in his presence every single day without fault, but a part of you also desperately needed him to survive. 

"Don't be such a killjoy." You eventually said, proud that you pulled together something so makeshift in such little time allowed. You chuckled at his negative outlook, avoiding the side eye he threw your way as you tentatively reached out to drag a finger across a bright blue bauble. It was hope, a much-needed light in the midst of the cruel world that you face every day. And it just so happened to appear in the form of cheap gas station decorations and an overwhelming scent of pine needles from one of the small trees next to the cabin. You drew a breath as you turned to the man, the whisky tone of his eyes already peering down at you. He was swimming in hesitation, near drowning from it if it meant that he kept himself closed off. "I just wanted to give you a reason to be happy."

Your voice was quiet, and Mitch nearly would have missed it if he wasn't pouring so much of his focus into you. He last celebrated this stupid Holiday with Katrina - when he had a reason to smile, to have hope, to bathe in that happiness that would usually come from such a joyous time. And since then, you had made him smile and he had an inkling of hope, and he had a reason to be happy once again but the pain was still so incredibly present that it continued to devour every single cell in his body until he was just a shell. And Mitch hurt. He always hurt.

You always knew when he was starting to shut down. Mitch's emotions would turn off, like a simple flick of a switch, and the robot persona that the Central Intelligence Agency craved would soon embody the man that you've grown so accustomed to. You would lose him for hours, as if he was asleep and he needed to wake. Mitch Rapp had lost hope for so long and it killed you to see how much it affected him.

Even if it took every single second you owned, you were going to help him. To show the man the love that he deserved. To finally wake him up.

Mitch scoffed and turned away from you, his large hand dragging down his cheek. Words were mumbled against the palm of his hand, "Well, you wasted your time."

"You're never a waste of time, Mitch." You replied, remaining beside the tree as you watched his head hang low. It was expected for him to walk away, but he didn't, his back still to you but his ears listening for the soft coo of your voice. A small smile tugged eagerly at your lips, "You're a lot of things, mostly a pain in my ass, but you're not a waste of time. Especially mine. I'd do anything for you, you know that."

The man exhaled, his head shaking, "You can't fix a broken man, Y/N. Not one whose as fucked as I am."

Your chest tightened. Mitch's exhaustion was wearing him down, his walls cracking, crumbling, and not in the way you thought they would. His sadness tugged at your heart and you were already beginning to second guess if your plan was the right path to take. Gently, you reached to the base of the tree, the lights flickering against the side of your face as you grasped at a small box.

"You're not broken. You're not a waste of time. And if you're fucked up Mitch, then I must be as fucked up as you because we've come from the same place. We've had the same feelings hurt. But we're here, and we're alive and okay. And I'm never letting you go, no matter how much you push me away."

Mitch turned to catch the shimmer in your eyes. He could see the emotion building up and gathering along your waterline, and he had such an overwhelming desire to catch the tears before they fell. He moved forward with large strides before he captured your cheeks within his palms, thumbs rubbing with such tenderness under the tips of your lashes. You always managed to bring him back from the edge of despair, but seeing you with such sentiment was enough to shake some sense into him. He shushed under his breath, any evidence of an Assassin disappearing, and instead a simple man was left behind.

"Please don't cry." He hummed, not daring to look away from your eyes until he felt something hard press to his abdomen. His focus broke, an eyebrow raising in question at a small white box clutched strongly within your hands. Mitch's head tilted to the side, "What's this?"

An unwanted sniffle escaped you before your gaze followed his, the box in question now lifted toward him, "I meant it when I said I'm never letting you go. You mean a lot to me, Mitch, and this is how I was going to show you... instead of crying like a child." An incredulous chuckle ended your response as you ushered the box at Mitch, shaking the small object until he took it from you.

The man was nervous, but curious, pulling lightly at the bow that adorned the top until the fabric fluttered gently to the hardwood floors. The top of the box was removed next and he froze before he picked up the item inside. Mitch's finger ran over it delicately as he peered in disbelief.

"This is for me?" He asked, voice whispered as he held his new pocket knife so gently between you both. All you could do was nod and smile as he looked at you, his own smile perking in happiness.

"Turn it over."

He did as he was told before his lips slightly parted, irises of deep brown flicking over the engraving you left on the hilt -

Always with you.

A clang was heard as he placed the knife on the table beside him, a movement so quick that you almost didn't see it happen as you were gathered in his arms. Arms of your own slid over his shoulders as the man secured your waist, his hold tight and he savoured being so close to you. It was his kick, his wake-up call. It was what he needed to know that hope was not lost. It was his future and the piece that could fill the hole in his heart.

Mitch pressed a kiss tenderly to the crown of your head, his lips then falling to your temple before they pressed again. He was sure that you could feel the thumping in his chest, but he didn't care. Not when he had you wrapped up so perfectly against his frame.

You could feel the warmth of his breath dance against your skin, "I am always with you, too."

[lewkwoodnco]

june gloom - anthony lockwood x reader

“Look,” he bites out, “if you don’t want me here, say the word and I’ll leave.”

“No.” She looks positively alarmed and places a hand on his elbow. “Please. Don’t go. I like having you here.” Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile, but the dead look in her eyes only makes Lockwood even more uneasy. “I like seeing you like this. Thinner. Paler. I like watching you watch me.” She tips her head, considering him. “I like watching you look at me like you can never get your fill of me.”

june gloom, tule fog, I might as well say meet me in Montauk

a/n - help I can’t rmb how I used to format these I hope this is (mostly) correct 😭😭 uni is rlly steamrolling me frfr like I have so many WIPs which I planned to finish up first but inspiration struck for this one instead, for some reason?? And I imagine this to pick up where we left off from chapter 3 (the ntwdt fic) so this would be Ch 3.5 but could also be read as a stand alone I think? anyways enjoy a very autumn coded gloomy kind of angsty fic hehe (also do NOT smoke i am not promoting smoking ❌❌)

tropes/warnings - angst, estranged friends, veryyy very mild allusions to cheating (arguably. personally i didn’t write it that way but i guess I could see some ppl interpreting it that way)

word count - 1.6k!

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 3.5 | Ch 3.75 | Ch 4 | Ch 5

Finding an apartment to rent in central London was a bleak affair any time of the year, but something about late October seemed to make it even worse. While she looked for a place of her own, her parents had very kindly agreed to put her up for a couple of days. It was at their kitchen table that she had been pouring over apartment listings one barren, gloomy morning, when she peered out to see a familiar car pulled up outside.

Lockwood didn’t know what he was doing. He had just pulled up to her house five minutes ago, of which he spent four of them sitting in silence with the engine turned off. He dragged his palms across his jeans. He isn’t sure how he ended up here, or why. Lockwood & Co. had been handed the privilege of one miraculously empty weekend without any cases. Its employees had decided to indulge themselves, be it through a long bubble bath or a little tinkering on some model train set. A certain special someone’s birthday was coming up. If Lockwood had half the sense he ought to, he’d be spending the weekend with her. Instead, he got in his car and started driving aimlessly, meandering through slick roads that took him to the outskirts of the city.

Maybe it had been some subconscious desire to see her again that led him here. He hadn’t stopped thinking about their brief crossing of paths from a week ago. He had spent months convincing himself that he thought of her less and less as the days went by, enough to delude himself into thinking there was nothing to regret. After all, how could a guy hung up on an old friend find love like he did? But all it took was one glimpse of her again, and it was like they had spent no time apart at all. It was like he was still the sulky, stubborn boy from that last night months ago, smarting from the words unsaid and the pain in his shin. Sleepless and sick with the want to hear her slip back in, for them to make up by the morning, for them to act like it never happened.

He could pretend to have moved on all he wanted, but the sorrow buried deep into his chest and never quite left. He could feel it now, sitting motionless in his car under a dull, overcast sky.

He should’ve asked her to stay.

He jumps when he hears a tapping on the passenger window. The kind, weathered face of Mrs. L/N peers through, clad in gardening gloves and a wide-brim hat. Lockwood instantly becomes aware of how intrusive his visit must be. He hurriedly unbuckles his seat belt and steps out.

“I’m really sorry Mrs. L/N, I meant to call ahead -“

But she was already waving away his effusively apologetic words. She turns towards the house. “Oh, Y/N, it’s been ages since you’ve seen each other. Wouldn’t it be nice for you to catch up?”

He looks over her shoulder and follows her gaze to the house. There, he sees the hazy image of Y/N standing a few steps down from the front door. The slight fog obscures her expression, but there’s something rigid in the way she has her arms wrapped around herself.

“What Mum said. We’d lo-ove to have you.”

She stretches the word out in an exaggerated London drawl. It almost feels like she’s mocking him. But she’s too far for him to get a close enough look at her face, and by the time he makes his way up the winding driveway, she’s disappeared inside.

It helps that Mrs. L/N joins them. Once she’s set out some tea and scones, she prattles on comfortingly like she doesn’t notice the tension weighing in the air. Save for the occasional nod or one-word answer, they stay mostly silent, occasionally sneaking glances at each other. A part of him likes that they’re in the same house again, with her sitting across from him, fiddling with her mug, laughing a little too loud in a not entirely unpleasant way. But he doesn’t recognise her sweater, and her hair’s different, and her pinched face matches her raw, bitten nails.

Occasionally, she makes some seemingly innocuous remark which sounds a little too much like a jab at Lockwood. He hesitates, like he isn’t sure what to say, but then her lips painfully stretch into what is a sardonic smile at best, and the conversation changes. Still, every few seconds his eyes flick back to her face, of which she takes no notice.

But there’s still only so much Mrs. L/N can fill the silence with, and she eventually excuses herself to return to her gardening. The two of them make it for a grand total of 30 seconds of painful silence before she stands up and murmurs something about stepping out for fresh air.

After a minute, Lockwood leaves the kitchen table himself and goes looking for her. He finds her smoking in the backyard, standing at the fence, staring blankly at the treeline a short distance away.

“It’s a filthy habit.” She pauses, dropping the cigarette from her lips, but refuses to turn around. He walks down to the fence. “I thought you got rid of it.”

“How’d you find me?” How’d you know where I’d be?

Lockwood shook his head slowly, eyes unfocused, staring vacantly at the sparse trees reaching for the blank sky. “I didn’t…I wasn’t looking for you.”

She gives him a curious look. If she finds him unconvincing, she doesn’t comment on it. She takes a long drag from her cigarette. The silence starts to become a little more bearable.

“How’s Luce?”

He gives a stiff sort of half-nod. “Alright. Still more violent than she ought to be.”

“George?”

“He’s good.”

“Head still in the books?”

He frowns. “It’s only been three months. He’s not a different person.”

She shrugs. He can’t stop staring at the grimy cigarette in her hand. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly, finally giving the impression that she wasn’t nearly half as calm as she was trying to seem. “He could’ve…taken up water polo, or something. I wouldn’t know.”

The resentment in her voice was apparent - this was definitely a dig at him. For the first time since she’s left, it crosses his mind that she’s left behind a family. Still, it wasn’t like he had kicked her out.

“You chose to leave.”

“You didn’t give me much reason to stay, either.”

“Because - “

“No.” Her subdued, nonchalant attitude dissolved now that he had gotten a rise out of her. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me for leaving when I was miserable and you did fuck all about it. You’ve been this…this fog in my head since June.“ Her clipped voice burns through the cool air harshly. “You have no right to come running back now that it’s finally starting to clear up.”

Lockwood wonders whether the cigarette might be easier to reason with. His gaze wanders over to his car rusting in their driveway. Coming here was a mistake.

“Look,” he bites out, “if you don’t want me here, say the word and I’ll leave.”

“No.” She looks positively alarmed and places a hand on his elbow. “Please. Don’t go. I like having you here.” Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile, but the dead look in her eyes only makes Lockwood even more uneasy. “I like seeing you like this. Thinner. Paler. I like watching you watch me.” She tips her head, considering him. “I like watching you look at me like you can never get your fill of me.”

Lockwood flinches, pulling himself out of her grasp as he reels back, suddenly overcome with a surge of revulsion. There’s something malicious, corrupted, unrecognisable about her. He scoffs as he turns back to the house.

“If she’s so amazing, why are you on this side of town?”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Her voice cuts through the air, jagged and bitter. He turns and sees her grinding the cigarette with the heel of her shoe. She straightens and pushes her hair back with a steady, measured hand, a far cry from the klutz whose stumbling around and whispered shrieks guaranteed to drag a smile on Lockwood’s face. Even now, she doesn’t acknowledge how he hasn’t taken his eyes off of her for more than half a minute all day.

“Happy couples,” he starts, a little half-heartedly, “don’t need to be joined at the hip.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that.” She walks up to the house too, and when she pauses by him, he punches down the urge to step back.  

“What are you trying to find out?”

She looks at him dismissively, like she already knows the answer and finds it unimpressive. Then she’s disappeared back into the house, the cold is stinging his face, and his heart’s thumping hard enough to break free of his chest.

He exhales shakily and feels his heart shutter itself away from the rest of the world. He still doesn’t know what he came looking for, but maybe it was to remember what he has clearly forgotten.

Always a problem. They’d always be a problem.

TAGLIST: @neewtmas @midnight--raine @ahead-fullofdreams @how-to-stuff-and-things @cielooci @mohinithoughts @snoopyluver20 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @elenianag080 @avdiobliss @houseoftwistedspirits @mischivana @dangelnleif @mitskiswift99

[an-actual-attack-helicopter]

Book 6, Episode 1: Startouched Analysis/Commentary

Gotta love how it opens with Ripples in the water reflecting the stars. Go read the short stories if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Aaravos hesitates before crumbling Viren which is the funniest shit to me. This hurts more though, having seen the whole season.

Gotta love how Terry basically said Viren just ran away to go die like an angsty teen.

He got a new son to orphan les goooo

I find the framing of this pretty interesting. Viren is still in the dark while Claudia is standing in the light. You'd think it'd be the other way around. Perhaps it symbolizes how he has come to terms with his dark side, and is going to face it. While he leaves Claudia who, hopefully, can still be redeemed. Because ultimately this isn't her fault, it's his. He's the dark one.

At first I thought it was cruel for Viren to leave Claudia, but I've come to a realization. Claudia is better off without him. He is the reason she's done all this, and nothing will change if she keeps having to save him. She needs to let go. I'm not sure if this was intentional on Viren's part, but he made the right choice nonetheless.

Man, what is it with this show and blindfolds? So far they have showed up in Harrow's little flashback speech, on the Celestial elves, and here. Is this anything??

I was expecting to be annoyed by the baitlings' presence in this season, but they didn't actually get in the way much. Glad the writers read the room. They were mostly just used to fill the comic relief void that soren has left.

Also, I love how Jason Simpson still managed to weasel his way into the High Council through Barius, since Viren isn't exactly, yk, in that position.

DESTROY IT? CALLUM, HAVE YOU EVEN LISTENED TO THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES?

THE TABLE, CALLUM. THE TABLE!!!! Bro really be like "it's remarkably easy to buy a Novablade in central Starscraper."

Also, the way Rayla says "pearl" sounds like "peril."

They play Aaravos's little motif-melody-thingy throughout this scene. Yk, from I See You and Follow my Lead. Glad to cross that off my bingo card.

You can't see it here but the eye-movements in this scene are great. I think the animation and lighting really shine in this season. Pun intended.

Barius doing some casual baking at like 1 AM or something. Bro got insomnia /j. I mean, who are these for? They don't have fridges so they can't save em for long. Maybe Callum got him some sorta magical fridge. Or- wait- maybe they do have, like, a primitive fridge. Was that a thing? Oh actually, maybe Callum and Rayla just go to bed early. Lmfao

And there we have it, the first Viren-Callum parallel of the season. Just like episode 1 of season 1, he barges into the King's bedroom.

Alright, so. Other than this line being hilarious, I'm thinking the frustrating switcharoo that turns the latter half of the season into a bloodbath happened here. Was pretty foolish of Callum to think the pearl would be safe with him on his way out.

Ezran is saddened by everyone's departure. I'm not sure why, but it's worth noting.

They pretty much have her say "my dad is gone" just so that using this clip as a trailer wouldn't spoil anything lmao. I've been waiting to say that since Wondercon.

And now Claudia is the one leaving, as she steps out of the purifying light of the setting sun. Everyone, please give Terry a round of applause for continuing to love her despite this.

And now for the credits:

These are similar. Opeli is from the credits of this episode, and Harrow, from the credits of one from Season 2.

We need this to be a shirt.

Ahhh so Aaravos isn't the only Startouch elf with a star on their chest. I might be a little late to noticing that. Idk.

WHY THE HELL IS TERRY THE ONLY ONE CRYING FOR SIR SPARKLEPUFF? WHAT THE FUCK?

One last thing. Is it just me or is the outro song a little different? Music people, help me. I must know.

But yeah, banger episode, banger season, banger show. Imma be doin' these for all the season 6 episodes. At this rate, they will all have more words than Fallout Equestria. /j

Alright, time to take my meds. 💀

[wkemeup]

I Am Not My Own

summary: Following the Battle of New York, Steve begins to lose himself to the mantle of Captain America. Torn with guilt over the loss of his friend and struggling in a time that does not belong to him, Steve takes comfort in his only solace. 

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: descriptions of a panic attack, sad boy angsty steve 

a/n: This takes place between Avengers 1 and TWS. Based on an anon request from ages ago along the lines of exploring “the impact of traumas like seeing Bucky falling from the train and the guilt over Bucky's capture, the feeling of displacement which he kept quiet while carrying the mantle of Captain America.” Title inspired by a lyric in Party of One by Brandi Carlile. 

Steve Rogers looks upon the crowd gathered below the podium – a sea of star-spangled commercialized t-shirts and homemade costumes. Adoring fans scream as they hold posters raised above their heads professing their love and allegiance. Even as he stands in the back corner of the stage attempting to fade into the shadow cast by the American flag beside him, it does not sway the attention of the crowd.  

He can still feel them watching him. Waiting for him. Bouncing on the balls of their feet in anticipation of his slightest movement.  

The mayor nears the end of her well-rehearsed speech, and the crowd begins to grow antsier with every second. They’re not here for the mayor’s latest initiative to rebuild the subway following yet another otherworldly attack defended by the Avengers. No – they're here for him.  

He almost misses his cue when the mayor steps back from the podium and gestures for him to come forward. The crowd alights with excitement; applause echoing through the treetops of Central Park and casting birds from their homes on the branches.  

Steve settles the racing tempo in his chest and presses a tight smile onto his face before he steps from the shadow. It’s what he was trained to do, after all. He shakes the mayor’s hand as he’s done for the last four mayoral projects – none of which have held up to their promises to help the people of this city, but they’ve increased the mayor’s polling averages and the eased public tension toward SHEILD, and he supposes that was all it was ever meant for anyway. 

So, Steve waves a hand to the crowd and throws on the charming grin he practiced in the mirror earlier that morning. He poses for pictures in the stance shown to him by the rather uptight woman in PR and he pretends for a moment that this is all there is.  

No nightmares that chase him through the cold dark of his dreams until he wakes in blinding terror. No aliens slipping through a hole in space above New York. No memories of a hand he was inches from reaching; of the cold, blistering wind through the snowcapped mountains. No echoing of a scream he’ll never be able to erase as his best friend falls to the ravine.  

It’s only the flashing lights. The tight grip of the mayor’s hand in his. The endless chanting of his name through the crowd. 

A strange feeling comes over him as the sea of voices begins to fade, as he listens to a chorus of strangers call his name – praising a hero he does not recognize in the mirror. He hears his name and realizes it does not belong to him anymore.  

Steve Rogers. Captain America. His name, his title, stripped from his grasp and given to a podium he never asked for. The mantle of the hero Steve can hardly live up to – painted only in light acceptable to the public relations department on level seven.  

They erased the dark lingering under his bones and pretended like there is little more to their prized trophy than the glory of red, white, and blue. Because what use is he to them if they discover he is just as broken and battered as the rest of the soldiers left to rot on their own after they’re returned to US soil? What good is Captain America if he can hardly sleep through the night? If he’s constantly looking over his shoulder for the next threat? If he’s got a boulder on his back crippling his spine, burdened with such guilt and shame, he’s certain he’ll drown under the weight of it? 

Pieces of him were torn away in the wreckage of the Atlantic, shredded remains left behind in the forties, lost to the battlefields in the city he grew up in. Fragments ripped from his clutches under bleeding nails and given to the people chanting his name, to the lawmakers in their ivory towers, to the only sense of purpose he could find within the walls of the Avengers Tower. 

He realizes it then. Steve Rogers is not his own.  

*** 

“Captain Rogers!” a shrill voice calls behind him as he trudges through the main lobby of the tower. Heels click behind his PR agent, Linda, as she struggles to keep up with his long strides. She means well. He knows she does. But he also knows she’s more of a babysitter than anything else – hired to make sure Steve doesn’t stray too far from the picture-perfect image they have set up for him.  

His escape plan is thwarted by the elevator when it refuses to open its door before she catches up.  

“You’re a fast one, aren’t you?” Linda huffs, trying to catch her breath. She's laughing as if she’s in on the joke, but Steve can barely muster a smile.  

All he wants is to get this damn uniform off – to rid himself of the mockery it’s become and the outright lie of heroism attached to it. He feels like he might suffocate under it, like the fabric might burst into flame and devour him whole if he doesn’t peal it from his skin in time. He can already feel the singing burn against his forearms, against his chest, against his back. It’s boiling hot. It’s agonizing. It’s– 

“Don’t forget about the auction this Saturday! You’re our top earner!” Linda chimes, scribbling something down in her notebook just as the elevator doors open. Steve exhales a sigh of relief when she does not follow him inside. She doesn’t even look up at him as she rattles off the rest of his upcoming schedule. He lets the doors close before she finishes. He wonders if she will even notice.  

The sudden silence in the elevator might have been a relief if not for the constant ringing in his ears. Steve lifts a shaking hand to the strap of his helmet and unlatches it. Slowly, as the elevator begins to climb, he pulls it off. Weight slips from his body but it’s not enough. It’s like removing a stone from the back of a boulder – insufficient and pathetic.  

He doesn’t have to look at his reflection in the silver doors to know there are red marks lining his face around where the mask meets his skin. They’ll fade in a few minutes, but they’re deep now. They look like mutilations upon the bone itself. He had asked once to adjust the framing of the helmet to avoid the painful marks, but he was told the alterative designs didn’t poll well in focus groups.  

Though he tries to avoid it, Steve catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dull shimmer of the sliver doors. His hair is unkept, messy from the helmet and a rough night of sleep. The bright reflection of red, white, and blue stares back as if to mock him. But what startles him the most is the weight in his own eyes. He looks tired, he realizes. Dark circles under his eyes that never learned to fade after he took his first sip of bourbon alone in an empty bar the night he lost his best friend.  

And that crowd dared to call him a hero.  

Steve can’t help the shiver that sweeps up his spine. It isn’t a pleasant one. No ��� it's dark and cold and leaves his fingertips shaking enough that only the sharp curl of his fist is all that eases him. And even then, it’s not enough. The tremors retreat up his arms, past his shoulders, and burrow into his chest around his heart where he’s certain the muscle will twist in on itself until it gives out entirely. 

He doesn’t notice the elevator doors have parted until they begin to close again. Steve quickly slips through the small opening before they can trap him inside. 

He’s sweating by the time he reaches his room, though he knows the air conditioning is blowing full blast. It’s not the heat of the tower, but his own heart pulsing into overdrive. It’s the kind of panic he endured as a scrawny kid in Brooklyn, so he recognizes the feeling as it settles in.  

He might have thought the serum would have taken care of the panic attacks for him, but as it turns out, even superheroes aren’t immune to the consequences of guilt and shame.  

Steve digs a hand under the collar of his suit, trying to peel away the fabric from his chest but there are too many zippers. Too many straps and hooks. His hands fumble desperately with the latches but it’s taking too long to rid himself of the material. It's as if the walls are closing in on him – suffocating him, burying him.  

He can’t stand the uniform. It doesn't matter how many focus groups the design has undergone or how much cutting-edge technology they sew into the fabric. It’s still the same lie. The same goddamn lie.  

He’s not a hero.  

He's a propaganda poster.  

He watched his best friend fall to death. He laid waste to his own city in an attempt to save it. He aligned himself with politicians and intelligence agencies that puppet him around like he’s little more than a poster boy. He’s not saving anyone. He can’t save anyone.  

He’s nothing.  

He’s weak. He’s pathetic. He’s — 

“Steve?” 

He freezes at the sound of your voice. The top of his suit is half hanging off his chest, still stuck to his left arm from all the damn sweat. He keeps his back to the door where he knows you’re standing, where he knows you’re looking at him with devastating pity in your eyes. He can hear the confusion in your voice, the concern. He knows what you must think of him.  

Your footsteps carry you into the room though he refuses to turn around. He can feel your gaze trailing over him, observing every ounce of the high, rapid rising of his chest, of the flush on his skin, and the sweat beading into his hair. You set your hand against his forearm as you step in front of him and slowly, Steve dares to meet your eyes.  

Whatever pity he was preparing for is absent. Instead, he finds only a kind understanding that nearly knocks him off his feet. It’s too much. It’s more than he deserves. And yet, there you are.  

Without saying a word, your hand slides up along his arms to begin working the suit from his tired body. He barely moves a muscle as he allows you to peel away the fabric, gentle hands coaxing over his tense muscle. Your lip tugs between your teeth in the effort and Steve can’t help but watch the sharp indent you make, how red it is when you finally release it from your bite.  

A chill sweeps over him as you remove the jacket and set it carefully on the bed. He takes in as much of a breath as his lungs will allow – finally able to breathe now that the suit is no longer suffocating him.  

You glance at him cautiously before your eyes dip to his belt. 

“I’ve got it,” he tells you then, his voice a little rough at its edges, but at least he’s not gasping for air anymore.  

You nod and step back, though you do not leave his room. Steve picks up a pair of sweatpants he discarded the evening before and takes them to the bathroom with him. He doesn’t dare a glance at the mirror, doesn’t want to know how flushed his skin has become under the rapid mixture of shame and panic. He doesn’t want to know what you must see when you look at him – this pathetic, hollow shell of the patriotic symbol plastered upon t-shirts and billboards and recruitment posters.  

He steps out of his boots, discards the navy-blue pants to the corner tiles, and pulls on the soft fabric of old, familiar sweats. It’s soft against his skin. Loose. Discolored with age with fraying drawstrings and a rip at the hem under his heel. It’s everything the suit isn’t and Steve can finally breathe again.  

By the time he gathers himself, he expects you to have left his room. You were dressed in your gym clothes as if you were on your way to the weekly sparring match with Natasha the rookies couldn’t stop gossiping about. You have places to be, clearly. You don’t need to be wasting your time tending to... whatever just happened with him. You’re not his babysitter.  

Hell – Steve isn’t sure what you are to him, but he knows he doesn’t want you to see him like this and he’s grateful all the same. Conflict wars within him; this urge to push you away so you never witness his failings again and his desperation to sink into your arms until he finally believes the gentle encouragements you whisper.  

But, of course, Steve finds you sitting patiently on his bed when he emerges from the bathroom. You stand as soon as you hear the door open, hands fidgeting in your lap. Your gaze drags over him, noticing every bare inch of his chest and the discarded remains of his suit on the floor behind him.  

Your lips part, but Steve is the first to speak.  

“You don’t have to be here.” 

You furrow your brow, confused. “If you're about to tell me you're fine, don’t.” 

Steve doesn’t look at you because he knows you’ll be able to read right through him. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. I can manage.” 

Something akin to anger flashes over your features, which surprises him. “You’ve been managing for years, Steve. You can’t keep going on like this.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve hisses back, surprising himself.  

You don’t flinch at his bite, but he notices the sharp intake of your breath, the surprise that alters your balance just a fraction. Subtle expressions and movements he should not be able to recognize. Another gift of the serum he has come to resent. 

You swallow, but you do not cower from him. “I know you’re hurting. I know the weight of the world is sitting on your shoulders. Let me help you. Let me carry some of that weight, Steve. Please.” 

He hears the ache in your voice, the desperation, and it nearly brings him to his knees. But he locks the joints and refuses to give in. He can’t show weakness now. He can’t. Because he knows he’ll crumble under it. And you’ve been too good to him – too kind, too generous with your time, too willing to offer him warm smiles he didn’t deserve.  

The air conditioner hums over his head as a tunnel of cold air pushes into the room. It’s not enough to quell the sweat on his hair line, and still, he starts to shiver. For a moment, he feels ice under his palms. He feels the wind whipping against his face as he clings to the cold metal of a moving train. He feels Bucky’s fingertips slipping out of reach. He hears— He hears the rusted screws give out under his friend’s weight. The short, sharp snap.  

He braces himself for what he knows comes next. The frightened look in Bucky’s eyes as a weightlessness takes him for a fraction of a second. The air suddenly ripped from his own lungs as the realization sets in. And then – the scream.  

It follows him to his dreams. It haunts every waking silence. Bucky’s scream as he fell into the ravine. 

It happened so quickly and still, Steve remembers every second if he’d drawn each frame himself. Every line upon Bucky’s face. The feel of the ice under his palms. The sting of the wind against his cheeks. The shame burning holes into his chest as he watched Bucky fall until he couldn’t stomach it anymore and he turned away.  

“They keep telling me I’m a hero,” Steve says, though his voice is little more than a whimper. “But I’m not. I’m... I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m an experiment designed to be the perfect soldier and I... I still couldn’t save him.” 

He risks a glance at you to find your eyes are wet with tears. He knows then that he doesn’t need to specify. You were with him at the Smithsonian when he first saw the exhibit dedicated to Captain America and the Howling Commandos. You saw Bucky’s face carved into glass and the footage of his youth. You held his hand when he felt like he might collapse under the weight of those memories. 

So perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by how easily you move towards him, how effortlessly you take his hand in yours and gently guide him towards the bed. His legs feel weak, his body aching and tired, so he does as you silently ask and sits on the edge of the bed. You crawl up beside him, kicking off your sneakers, and you tug him until he lays his full body across the mattress with you beside him.  

You don’t say a word as you maneuver his arm to lay across your waist and guide his head to lay over your chest. It’s no small task given his size, but he uses what is left of his strength to follow your lead. When you're finished and his right leg is hooked between yours, his right arm curled around you, his ear resting over your heartbeat, Steve feels the weight ease a little from his back. The dizziness begins to fade, the fog over his mind dissipating. He concentrates on the steady thump of your heart until it drowns out the memories threatening to pull him under.  

“You’re a good man, Steve,” you tell him softly. He feels the vibration of it in your chest and clings to it. Your hand slips into his hair, fingertips running gently against his scalp, and he sighs at the sensation. “The world sees you as Captain America. To them, you will always be a hero.”  

He tenses at the word, but you don’t back down.  

“Don’t mistake me,” you continue, “you are, but you are so much more than what they expect you to be.” 

Steve shifts against you, but your hold on him doesn’t relent. You don’t shy away from his discomfort or his shame. You don’t wipe your hands of his fears. Instead – you hold him through it.  

“You are the man who makes a fresh pot of coffee every morning after the team downs the first batch because you know it takes me longer to drag myself out of bed.” You only smile as surprise jolts in Steve’s chest. He doesn’t lift his head to look at you, but he can feel the soft brush of your fingers trail from his scalp down along his neck, brushing against his jawline in ginger strokes as if to soothe away his worries.  

“I know you think I haven’t noticed, but it’s kind of hard to miss how wonderful you are.” There’s a breath of laughter in your voice – as if relief hangs on the end of every syllable. “You are the man who volunteered to teach basic combat after hours to the rookies who are falling below their benchmarks. You entertain all of Sam’s ridiculous attempts to outrace you and you have this uncanny ability to make Natasha laugh even when she’s veering on the edge of darkness. You are kind and sweet and thoughtful and a good, decent man.” 

Steve wonders then if you can feel how frantic his heart is beating. Not from adrenaline, not from panic or fear, but born of something else entirely. Something that had to do with the way your hands soothed over his tense muscles, how you touched him so easily and so gently it was if you drew new strength back to his bones.  

“And I know,” you begin, taking in a long breath, “I know you would have given your life in a second if it meant saving Bucky’s.” 

Steve anticipates his stomach to bottom out, to feel the floor collapse under him. He’s certain the walls will cave around him and suffocate the last ounce of air from his lungs, but he only feels you. He feels every stroke of your touch, every steady pulse of your heart under his ear. He feels you against him and around him and holding him and somehow – that paralyzing dread he expects never comes. Instead, all that remains is a hollow, painful ache – a memory, a grief.  

“I see you,” your voice comes as a gentle murmur against the tension surrounding his heart. “I see the man behind the uniform. I see you, Steve Rogers.” 

Something breaks in him at the sound of his name on your lips. He has spent too many years giving himself over to the mantle of Captain America; erasing any trace of the vulnerable, grieving man under the surface. He allowed himself to be made into a symbol, a puppet, a caricature for SHIED, that he’d begun to drown under the weight of it.  

But you –  

You saw him gasping for air. You saw him struggling to stay afloat as salt water spilled into his lungs. You saw him and dragged his broken, aching body to shore.  

Steve curls his arm a little tighter around you and he feels you sigh relief against his crown. Pieces of himself mend together by glue and tape the longer he spends in your embrace, with every reminder you offer of the man behind the mask.  

“It’s easy to lose myself sometimes,” he murmurs against your chest.  

You sigh, your chest lifting his resting head with a long inhale. “I know, darling. And I will always be here to guide you back.” 

It doesn’t matter then what you are to him, he realizes, because he knows he loves you regardless. He must, because nothing has ever calmed him as easily as you do. He’s never found a safer solace than when he caves into the security of your arms. You are his anchor, his grounding upon uneven waters.  

And you gave him back his name.  

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[amsgrey]

I judt found this draft/idea thing in my drafts from over two years ago (written before Little Sister Hugs) and i genuinely cracked up so much rereading it bc it would be really funny.

would anyone be interested in this?

Jay and hailey are busy with a case involving drug trafficking with military dudes or smth

you and will go out for dinner bc you get like n A+ in science or some shit and Will is all proud older brother

you get a call from Jay that the case is ramping up so he wont be home tonight and then ur like lit ill stay at wills i just gotta grab some stuff

you and will walk in and the house is like a mess and your like uh wtf

and will is like ok let me call jay or the cops or whatever

before he can he gets like smacked from behind like all those stupid movies

ur like o shit what the actual fuck

these big old dudes are in all black and holding like riffles bc intimidating and ur like :o

and ur standing in the kitchen so you do that really funny grab for the closest weapon and its like a pan that was waiting to dry or something entirely useless

theyre like yeah ok sure put it down u dimwit

u like stand over will being like feck off my brothers a cop

theyre like ha lol yeah we know we tryna find him where he at

ur like ha what i dont know? wouldn't have a clue

and theyre like ok then u come with us and ur like uh no sir

omg what if they chloroformed them that would be the funniest trope ever

jay is like workin the case being all undercover n shit and then he gets a call and its wills phone and hes like oh what did y/n do

will is like silent

jay is like yo whats up u alg

OR WHAT IF ITS LIKE WHAT THEY DID TO SAY WHERE THEY JUST SEND LIKE A SUPER FUCKING ANGSTY SHIT QUALITY VIDEO OF THEM LIKE BEATING WILL WHICH IS SUPER FUCKING NOT FUNNY BUT IS FUNNY TO IMAGINE THE UNO REVERSE FOR JAY

Jay immediately looses his mind and tries calling u like wheres will tf

obvi u dont answer and hes like this aint right

the team go to jays house and its all like torn apart but nothign like bad?

they call in the lab and the labs were like oh hey there's blood but they cleaned it? or smth

jay is spiralling and then they get anoter video of u? idk something else angsty

theyre like release our dude and give us back all the idk like guns and shit and voight is like ok well no way they let us do that

jay almost going cowboy cop

everyones like well this is great

you are like locked up by zipties bc criminals are stupid and you manage to like breakfree like a real mvp

u like find a gun or smth bc thats fun and free will

your all like well theres enough warehouses n creepy buildings in chicago for u to be anywhere so tf where we at

wills all leave me bc thats a funny trope and ur like shut the fuck up u dumbass

some military dude comes round the corner with his gun and sees u tryna walk with dead weight will and hes like? what are-

you shoot him bc badass bitch

he like fall down is all bloody and ur like o shit i just killed a man

will is like ya we gotta go ok like this shit serious fam

you walk around a corner and they all be sitting around in the big room and u and will are like oh hi guys

they all like point guns and ur like ah man we dead

but then!! intellegence is all out ur guns on the ground now! police things!

one of them like aims his gun but someone shoots his gUN bc i think thats the badassest thing ever and then he like has a bleeding hand and grabs u and knife to the throat thing bc trope central over here

no one has a clean shot so they all like omg dude let her go

do u get like seriously hurt? lowkey imagine like them dying and jay and will being like a mess ok thats way too dark but i like?

you either

die

get seriously maimed like idk loose a limb or smth idk

or ur unharmed and are like omg how am i not even bruised tf is this

depends on the level of angst idk

if anyone wants to ready this lmk i might actually write it

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Okay guys, you've convinced me lol, here's the gist of the Kim/Porsche idea!

The Kittisawats are a rival mafia family led by Porsche

When Kim is ~18, instead of running away to college, he sells himself to Porsche to be his sex slave. It's surprisingly wholesome.

This happens bc Kim discovers Tawan's being sketchy. Kinn doesn't believe him, so Kim tries to find more evidence, only to learn Korn is also involved (not directly, but he makes it very easy for Tawan to find secrets to sell, and be the snake he is). Kinn doesn't believe Kim about this either, but now he's angry bc Kim is trying to tear down Tawan and their father, while he's blinded by love and respect for both.

So Kim runs straight to Porsche

The conditions for his deal: Porsche gets Kim and everything he knows, as long as Porsche protects him from his father, swears not to hurt Kinn, and takes care of Tawan. Kim just wants to keep his family safe. But he knows he's just become a traitor, and his father won't let that stand. So. He's stuck with the Kittisawats. (It's not a hardship. He's honestly treated so much better by Porsche, feels more free as his slave than his father's son, and isn't that fucked up.)

At this point, Porsche isn't sleeping with men yet. There's some interest but no follow through. But Kim is offering himself up, so like. That's what he's supposed to do, right?? That seems like the thing to do. Because Kim's his sex slave now. So they should have sex.

Neither of them have any idea what they're doing. Kim's being heavily influenced by Vegas' psychotic stories of his sex pets, so that's what he expects from Porsche, and that's the role he's trying to fill. Porsche is just going along for the ride.

(It ends up angsty later bc neither of them actually want this. Or, they don't want it like this.)

Porsche does think Kim is very pretty, which leads to some... interesting situations. Some dubcon gender. Kim is going to play the part of his beautiful demure mistress because he feels like he has to. And it's easier this way, separating himself from the situation by playing this role, changing every aspect of himself down to his voice. (Until he has an identity crisis and a breakdown about it.)

This actually becomes a central part of the fic, but I don't want to spoil the surprise.

After Kim's break down, they start over, establish some boundaries and expectations. Once Kim gets comfortable enough to feel safe with Porsche, and his place under Porsche's power, he becomes an absolute gremlin. Porsche loves it, he's so fun, he's such a little shit.

Another central part of this fic is that Kim has OCD and slight agoraphobia. The agoraphobia comes after he betrays his father, it's a gradual onset. First he's just in hiding, but then Porsche starts trying to make him go out more. He's heard stories about Kim's eldest brother who never leaves the tower, he doesn't want Kim to end up like that. But Kim resists him at every turn, until it's just. Natural for him not to leave. (Chay will later get him outside, but not for a while.)

The OCD has always been there. But Korn isn't exactly a beacon of mental healthy support, so Kim has no idea what it is. All he knows is that he's Odd, that there are certain rituals he has to perform or else he feels like he's going to die, or someone else is, and he's usually punished for it. I don't want to get into all of them here but !!! I've spent the past few days coming up with self-soothing rituals for Kim and they are so good. It's not the usual generic habits like ~clean freak~ or ~counting things~, they're connected to his specific traumas, and they are so. excellent. they make me so happy.

So yeah! There you go! It starts out almost like an arranged marriage trope, Kim sells himself to Porsche, they eventually relax around each other, and they become excellent friends (who fuck, but don't fall in love). Kim uses family secrets to help Porsche get a leg up on his father. Porsche eventually helps mend Kim's broken relationship with Kinn (DubCon brother bonding).

Oh! And while Porsche isn't particularly kinky in this story, Kim is, so Porsche has to learn how to be a good dom for him. Once again the way that happens is very angsty, but it turns out great for them! Kim just needs someone to put him in subspace and leave him there for a while, get him out of his head. It's as close to therapy as he's likely to get.

[buzzyb33]

hiii it me..can i get angsty smut of josh if you're comfortable please...also loved your last fic so cute xoxo

Prompt: Y/n going out with one of her childhood friends and it instantly getting photographed and sent to josh- though he knew she wouldn’t cheat on him- though, he hadn’t told his friends you and him were even together, he was already having a bad day and this just pissed him off more- ending in sloppy forgivings.

Warnings: swearing, SMUT, dirty talk, angsty.

I wait on the side of the busy streets of London after meeting up with Keegan, a friend from my secondary school I haven’t seen in years.

I had a small smile on my face as I wait for my Taxi, I’d already let josh know I was on my way back but I hadn’t got a response.

I see my uber and climb in, I arrange my schedule as I get ready to tell josh about my day.

As I get home I pull my converses off and clear my throat.

“Josh?”

I call as I walk into the living room.

He isn’t in their so I assume he was in his office or our room.

“Josh! I’m back!”

I shout as I go to wash my hands.

“Where were you?” He says as I jump slightly and turn to him.

“I was out with a friend from my secondary school.”

I look at his face and I can tell he’s pissed off, he has a small frown etched into his features and his stance is more firm.

“Yeah- right, Y/n-“ he exhales.

“Don’t do this- you’re clearly pissed off at something don’t try to use me to get more annoyed.” I say and he rolls his eyes.

“I don’t do that- I didn’t ask who you was with- though it was my next question, where were you?” He says again and I narrow my eyes.

“Central London, a coffee shop.” My voice is firm as I look up at him.

“Who were you with?” He asks as his eyes narrow into mine.

“Keegan Cooper- a friend of mine when I was younger.” I challenge him.

“So- just a friend?” He questions and I loose my guard for a second.

“Josh are you taking the piss- you think-“

He cuts me off “I don’t think anything y/n, I just asked you a question.”

“Yes, he’s just a friend.”

He hums and turns around, going to his office.

I scoff and go to our room.

-

“Y/n! Come here please..” I hear josh and I go downstairs, I was still in my black pencil skirt and grey jumper.

“What? Do you want another argument?” I hold back an eye roll and he sighs.

“No- come here.” He replies with a soft sigh and I narrow my eyes.

“I’m close enough.”

“Please?” I exhale and he taps his thigh, I sit down on his lap hesitantly and he kisses my cheek.

I sit to face him, my legs on either side of his thighs.

I tuck myself closer to him and he groans lightly, I kiss his bearded cheek.

His calloused hands find my hips and he breathes in the scent of my hair.

I get his motives and move my hips lightly on his, his breathes getting deeper as his fingers dig into the flesh in my thighs.

I breath as he pulls back and looks into my eyes for permission I kiss his lips briefly and nod.

He pulls down his tracksuit bottoms and leaves himself in his boxers, his cold hands traveling up my jumper giving me goosebumps, I shiver as no words are exchanged between us, his hands go to my jumper and I lift my arms up as he pulls it off, my hips still moving lightly, his mouth going to my breast bone.

Soft whimpers leave my mouth as I speed up my pace, feeling his hard-on getting more intense.

He grunts lowly as his lips travel further down, his right sliding up and down my waist.

I could tell from his movements he was still pissed off so this was going to be rough.

Meh pulls his mouth off of me and brings me onto my back underneath him, my skirt rolled at my hips, my black panties already damp.

He mumbled something under his breath as his lips went to my jaw, his hands on his waistband.

“You ready?” He said with almost a dark tone to his normally energetic voice.

I meet his eyes and nod.

He pulls his boxers down, his cock springing free as I bite my lip, my cheeks flushing.

He pulls down my panties, leaving my bottom half bare except my socks.

He grips my hips, sure to leave marks for tomorrow as he eases himself inside of me, my ankles meeting at his tail bone.

He gives my little to no time to adjust before he starts thrusting, low grunts leaving him as his mouth goes to my breasts which were still covered by my bra, he pulls it down with his mouth and sucks my breasts as my head goes back, his hips snapping into me.

He grumbles and speaks: “this is- all me- yeah? ‘s all mine… ain’t it n/n?” He says in between pants.

I nod as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Y-ye- fuck josh-! Yeah.. all yours..”

He grins as his hips somehow snap into mine harder.

“Yeah- t-that’s what I fucking thought.. just me..” he groans out as he brings his calloused hands to my waist as he keeps on thrusting.

I breath out moans of pleasure, my eyes pricking with tears at his sheer size.

“My body- yeah- yeah..” he mumbles to himself as I feel myself clench around him, his grunts getting deeper and his thrusts harder.

My moans getting more high pitched as I grip the back of his neck, my arms around him.

“Josh- I- I’m close-“ I grown out as he opens his eyes.

“You can go more than one- can’t ya? Cum on my cock.. yeah..” he groans as he slows down a bit.

I tremble as I hit my first climax- and definitely not last- of the night.

“Good girl…” he breaths, and I swear to god, I could cum again from that alone.

Through out the night, we switched positions and I rode him, kissed him and sucked his neck.

After all the sex, he pulled out of me, some fun dripping of his semi-erection- a mix of both of ours.

He pulls his boxers back up as I sit on his thighs, exhausted.

He pulls my panties back up for me and picks me up, taking us into the master bedroom.

He tells me not to fall asleep as he runs a nice hot bubble Bath.

We had had sex before and after care was something he did, but it had never really crossed my mind how much effort he put into it, how much effort he put into us.

He comes back in as his sleeves are pulled up and his hands are wet.

He gives me a smile and leans down to pick me up again.

I smile at him.

“Josh-“

He cuts me off.

“No, you don’t need to.”

He instructs me to undress which I oblige, feeling a little more self conscious.

He undressed himself as we climb into the bath together, my back to his chest as he massaged my scalp with shampoo and silence.

“You okay?” He asks, a gentle touch of concern in his voice.

Although he was rough, it was very fucking pleasurable.

“Yeah, I’m okay- are you?” He hummed in response.

“You sure I didn-“ I cut him off.

“I’m sure.”

He smiles as the bathroom sets into comfortable silence.

As we get out the bath he kisses my lips the second I’m in my pretty little thing pyjamas and pulls on a vest and some bottoms.

As he climbs in bed with me he looks into my eyes and I look back, before they wonder and see the mark I left on his neck that he was more than aware about.

“I’ve got a recording in the morning so I might not be here when you wake up, Kay?” He asks as I nuzzle into his chest.

I nod as his arms wrap around me, and I think at that moment I realised this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

The following morning, josh had forgot to mention or even bother hiding the hickey on his neck.

The problem was, y/n was another content creator in his circle, she made comedy skits with other YouTubers and had a podcast with Becky bambino.

He was recording ”sidemen who wants to be a millionaire 2” and took off his hoodie where his neck was very clearly on show, though he didn’t think about it nor attract much attention.

“I’d like to phone a friend, please.” Ethan says as he looks At Harry.

“Okay! And is this friend in the studio or call them?” Harry asks as he crosses his arms.

“I’d like to ask Zerkaa please-“ everyone looked at josh and Tobis jaw actually dropped.

“What?” He said as their faces mirrored shock.

“Josh, you’ve been busy!” Harry laughs as josh frowns.

“What do you me- oh.” His face instantly turns a bright shade of red.

“Well-“ he utters as he covers his face.

“Who josh?! Do we know them?” Tobi asks as JJ laughs loudly.

“…”

“Yeah, you know her..”

Quite well, too.

A/n:

FIRST SMUT?? I don’t mind this one ibr.

By the way, should be a new fic every 3-5 days!

Requests are open!

Masterlist!