#as one might put it. i only know that i know nothing...
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
A Confession from the Heart of Suffering: An Unbearable Reality
I hope you read my confession, and thank you. This is the reality of all the people of Gaza.
Whenever I think of the life we used to have before the genocide, I have to struggle to hold my tears so I don't cause my children more pain than what they already feel. Our life, then, was neither easy nor perfect but it was full of warmth and the simple joy of being together under one roof .
We have never felt completely free because we have always been under a siege that has only gotten worse during this war but at least we felt somewhat safe and we had quite a decent life with the means that we were allowed.What kept us going was our belief that the future might be brighter one day.
Unfortunately, there seems to be no better tomorrow for us anymore. Nothing remains of our previous lives but rubble and memories, and the future is so bleak and full of uncertainties.It's not just the walls of our house that were turned into ruins, it's our hopes and dreams that were reduced to ashes. Now, we only dream of things that might seem so trivial to other people around the world like being able to sleep in and wake up in a comfortable bed or having a meal without standing for it in line for hours.
We dream of having enough clean drinking water so we don't have to worry about dying of thirst. We dream of the days we had a home with a regular kitchen and stove, the days we could celebrate special occasions with family in peace. Above all, we dream of not losing the people we love in a split second and of living safely and with dignity.
Instead, we have been wrongfully sentenced to a life of fear, displacement, and humiliation beyond belief. It is a living nightmare here now. Everything needed to ensure the bare minimum of decency and normalcy is denied to us. As you well know, there is no safe place in Gaza anymore and We are deprived of simple rights like having having a roof over our heads or enjoying some peace of mind for even one single day. The airstrikes and the buzzing of drones almost never stop. We live with a very real sense of impending doom day and night.
The water and food scarcity are only getting worse with time. Even regular chores like cooking or doing the laundry have become true challenges. I cannot propely bathe my children because the little water we get is polluted and their sensitive baby skin keeps getting irritated.
Before the war, my nine- year-old daughter was so picky about which outfits to wear; it made me laugh that she acted that way at her age but now we don't even have enough warm clothes for the winter. It kills me each time she says she doesn't need fancy clothes anymore and only wants to feel warm and go back to school. What makes it worse is our tent has recently been flooded by rain.
The whole camp turned into a swamp overnight. The children woke up soaked, shivering and terrified. It was almost impossible to calm them down as the rain kept pouring. We are doing our best but even if we succeed in finding the treatment, it's going to cost almost a fortune. This is why we need your support even more now.
All we do now is fight for survival every day. I never imagined,even in my darkest nightmares, that I would be searching high and low to put food in my children's mouths and keep them warm or that I would be begging the world to literally save their lives but I have no other choice now.
Despite the unbearable suffering we're daily going through, I still believe in humanity. please keep us in your prayers and help us anyway you can. Donate if you're able to,reblog and share our story as widely as you can.We are grateful to each and every one of you
Vetted by @bilal-salah0
7,464$ / 10,000$
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
CRAVE | Joel Miller
SUMMARY: there’s only one thing that joel craves, and it isn’t the mental fucking torture of an overly stubborn twenty-something teasing him ‘til he’s blue in the face. and balls.
PAIRING: dbf!joel miller x afab!reader. legal unspecified age gap.
WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, 18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT. alcohol consumption. pervy old man joel. reader’s dad (i’ve named him sorrrry) is there before joel gets pervy. some religious themes and also descriptions of religion in a negative light (this is MY experience with christianity, if you do not agree then please don’t read), no explicit smut but descriptions of what joel wants to do to youuuu so: mentions of piv, cock-riding, oral f!receiving, choking if you squint, dirty talk asf, joel being cocky which leads to his cock being sad and alone. reader is cunty. not proof-read ‘cus, once again, i’m a lazy bitch and i don’t have time for that. enjoy. 🫶🏻
An end to craving is an end to suffering.
Today’s last stream of sunlight fulgurates through the branches of your father’s prized Texas Ash, hitting perfectly the dime-sized crucifix situated comfortably between two pert tits sheathed in sheer black cotton.
Joel tries not to stare, but it’s impossible. He’s been watching you all fucking night. Every time you get up, he’s been glued to your ass. Whenever you lean over, Joel can’t seem to pry his eyes away from your cleavage. The more he’s been drinking, the more brazen he’s been with his stolen glances.
When your father rambles about some work-related spiel—and you’re sitting so innocently across the way—he can’t help affixing his eyes to the swell of your breasts. Wondering what it’d be like to touch, and grope, and suck on them.
Your mother was right about him. For all of the years that she knew Joel while your parents were together, she’d always say that he was trouble. A good-for-nothing, splenetic, perverted old-man who was but a bad influence. And you never noticed, never cared. You always thought that he was a great friend, and a stand-up guy.
Until today. Until you saw him scrutinizing your form—in front of your dad—you had a lot more respect for Joel. But now you realize that your mother was right. He is a perv. But—fuck—do you love that.
You’re not sure what you enjoy more—disrespecting your insane Catholic mother, or knowing that Joel is undressing you with his eyes—but you can’t help yourself feeding into his fantasy.
“Daddy?” Your father hums, not entirely bothered by the fact that you’ve just interrupted his conversation. He smiles. “Do you want another beer?”
“Please, hon.” He hands you his empty bottle, mumbling something about how he was going to get himself one and that you don’t need to. But you insist.
The blanket over your thighs is being discarded, hiking your dress up with it. Joel gets a glimpse of your lace panties that he likes to imagine you wore just for him, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Bare, supple skin is on display as you get up from the deck chair. You turn to him with a prurient twinkle in your eye, and ask if he wants a drink too. “Yeah, another won’t hurt. I’m already pretty—“ he hiccups, “pretty far gone, anyway.”
Dad laughs while you saunter to the cooler and make a big show of bending over, completely unaware of the way Joel is trying to conjure up a plan to get you alone tonight. But then…
“Same ‘ere, bud.” He laughs before he’s nodding toward Joel. “Stay the night, if ‘ya wanna. I mean, you’re in no fit state to drive—none of us are—and I got a spare bedroom.”
His nose scrunches up, as if to decline, before you’re turning around with two unopened beers and a small bottle of wine. Your hand wraps around the neck almost romantically, leaving very little to his imagination.
“Yeah, you might as well stay, Miller.” You put down the beers on the table, still holding firmly the Merlot. “I’m stayin’. I got nowhere to be in the mornin’, and dad bought breakfast stuff.”
Two brown eyes are latched to each of yours, and you feel beads of perspiration roll through the valley of your breasts. Despite the evening cooling down, you’re stifling beneath his unyielding gaze.
“Alright, I’ll stay.” Joel concedes. He takes his can and cracks it open, lifting it up to cheers your father. “S’long as you’re makin’ me breakfast, Gary.”
Dad salutes and you smile, sinking into the purple cushion with a satisfied hum. You ogle Joel, biting fiercely the skin of your bottom lip. And it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Joel swigs his beer—letting your dad drunkenly ramble—and doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Wondering how he’s going to make you pay for torturing him like this.
But this hadn’t been your intention when Joel showed up to watch the Cowboys v Browns game this afternoon. In fact, him staying past nine o’clock was completely unintentional and if it weren’t for your dad pumping him full of Coors and Old Milwaukee, he’d be fast asleep at this very moment.
He supposes that he doesn’t mind, being here. Especially because he’s buzzed—still able to speak and think coherently, which is surprising—and gets to spend some rare time with you. Even if it is with your dad.
You watch them converse—the way that friends do—admiring how patient Joel is with him despite him being a little bit too inebriated for his own good. He’s the kind of friend that your old man needs; understanding, forbearing. And it baffles you that they’ve not known one another for longer than seven years, but surmise that they’d definitely be best friends in every other timeline because they just work so well.
But it’s the thought of them being friends—brothers—that urges feelings of unease. Trepidation. Gary’ll have a cow if he finds out the way that his so called buddy has been making googly eyes at his little girl’s titties for the last eight hours.
Joel senses the shift in attitude—you’re not teasing him now—and turns the topic of conversation to you. Dad doesn’t mind, though. Never minds talking to—or about—his kid.
“What made you stay in with us oldies tonight, huh?”
Wine is being swiveled around the glass before you take it back in one swig. A grimace flits over your features, but they both catch it.
“Didn’t feel like hittin’ the bars.” Candidly, you say. It’s refreshing. “Can’t be dealin’ with pervy old men tryna touch me.”
Less refreshing.
Joel’s blood runs cold, and you smirk. He swallows thickly the liquid acrimony bubbling from the chasms of his throat. He wants to screw that stupid grin off of your face—stuff his cock straight between those plush lips and throat fuck you ‘til you’re crying and gasping for air.
He just nods instead of saying anything.
“I’ll kill anyone that touches you.” Dad says, not sensing Joel’s sudden frigid state. “Seriously. ‘Specially if it’s an old fuckin’ degenerate asshole—“
“Alright, Gary.” You halt the hate train, pouring the last few dregs of wine into your glass. “No need to get all protective. No old coot is comin’ anywhere near me.”
You look directly at Joel when you say; “old men can’t do what guys my age can, anyway.”
Dad grimaces. Joel scoffs. You can’t help smiling, feeling very proud of yourself.
“Y’know, you’re still my kid? And hearing this shit is nasty.” Your father tells you around a burp, and realizes that this might be the time to call it a night.
He’s never been able to handle his alcohol, especially after being married to your psychotic beer-loathing, hymn-signing, prayer-group-leading, holier-than-though moronic fucking mother.
He lets himself get too drunk too fast, now. Ever since she went back to Kansas—which was totally code for I fucked the priest and got extradited from the church—he’s really let his hair down, and you’d be lying if you said this version of your old man wasn’t the very best. Because he’s living his life the way that he wants to, now.
It’s nice.
“It might be nasty, but ‘least you don’t have to worry about me bringing home a man your age. Or even worse; older.”
Gary gets to his feet—knees clicking and cracking as he does so—and nods. “‘Spose that’s true, kid.”
Joel. Is. So. Fucking. Pissed.
As you say your goodnights—and put on a few lights so that your dad doesn’t trip over his own feet—Joel is mentally counting down the minutes until he gets you alone on this damn patio. He’s determined to make you regret the few little comments that you’ve made tonight.
“Don’t stay up too late. Y’know how cranky ‘ya get with no sleep.” Dad reminds you. “You too, Miller.”
You hum your response, lifting your empty glass and indicating that you’ll be retiring to your room soon, too.
“Night dad.”
“Night, pumpkin.” He turns to Joel. “Make sure she ain’t up too late.”
He nods and shifts his gaze to you, eyes darkening. “Yessir. I’ll put her to sleep.”
Your father grunts and slides the patio door to close. Leaving his daughter and best friend alone together might be the biggest mistake that he’s ever going to make.
Joel watches him intently behind the glass door, heeding him stumble across the tile. He might be about to rearrange your guts, but he at least wants to be courteous.
Your legs squeeze together, for the only sound you hear is the reverberation of Joel’s I’ll put her to sleep in that sexy, beer-slick tone.
He sees it.
“She makin’ ‘ya squirm?”
You blink at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your pussy.” Joel—as candid as ever—elaborates. “Is she flutterin’ ‘cus ‘a me?”
The fallout of a chemical bomb would be much more appealing than having to look Joel in the eye after such a lewd statement.
“Don’t worry if so. I have that effect on the ladies.”
“Makin’ yourself sound like a slut, Miller.” Coolly, you respond. Your hand is reaching for a can of beer, twining fingertips around the base while another pulls the tab.
Two eyes screw shut when a spritz of alcohol is flushing over your face, neck and chest. Droplets of Bud trickle between those perfect tits that Joel’s eyes have almost burned fucking holes into; forcing even the horniest man on planet earth to render himself utterly speechless.
You trail a finger through the valley of your breasts, collecting the sticky liquid before you’re putting it straight into your mouth; sucking it clean. Your eyes are locked on Joel’s.
“What? Cat got your tongue?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. The sight before him is truly one to behold; his friend’s sweet daughter with her fingers between her tits out in the patio. Nobody’d ever believe him if he told them this. Joel probably wouldn’t even fucking believe himself.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t ’ya?” Is what he says in response. He’s quick witted, you’ll give him that. “My tongue stuck in your pretty little pussy—“
Heat flashes over you.
“You’re fucking vile.”
“Ain’t that the way it’s meant’a be?” He lurches forward, and your eyes travel to the small opening of his shirt’s midsection that highlights perfectly the fact that he hasn’t a base layer beneath the flannel.
You see a small patch of hair; brown, and gray and seems a little fuzzy. It’s a sudden reminder that this man is a smidge too old for you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care very much.
“Don’t think so.” Trying to out-douche him, you respond. Joel’s thick fingers are twined together, hands resting over the peaks of his knees. “Think youre meant’a have some kinda respect for me. Y’know, as my dad’s buddy, ‘n all.”
Joel snorts a laugh.
“I’d have respect for ‘ya, but the way that peachy fuckin’ ass was in the air when ‘ya bent over the cooler tells me that daddy’s ’lil girl is more of a slut than me.”
Your jaw rolls. Reaction: gauged.
He inches nearer to you; slimy grin plastered across rough, rugged features. “Only pullin’ your leg, hon. I know you’re no slut. Too much of a prissy bitch—“
“Oh, really?” Irked, you spit.
Joel nods. Pushing at your buttons has never been much of a difficult feat. It’s something that he quite enjoys, actually.
“Mhm, yeah.” The man is leaning backwards in his chair, now. Arms folded behind his head; hands pressed against his dark curls. “Gonna have to prove that you ain’t like your mama.”
Your blood boils. And then it runs cold.
“Don’t gotta prove shit to you.” You defend. Very defensively.
“No, that’s right. Don’t gotta do nothin’, kiddo.”
You see the outline of his dick as it stiffens within the confines of his dark, navy-denim jeans. He’s actually getting off on this.
“Unless you want to—“
“Nah, I’m good.” You’re leaning back, now, lifting your legs to sit criss cross applesauce. The barely-covering-your-crotch sheer fabric of your thong catches his eye; a glint of something wicked flickers through them as he clears his throat.
If you’re playing the long game, then so is he. He can out-stubborn anybody.
“So I’ve heard.” He jabs, insinuating that you’re a prude. Again. “Can prove ‘em all wrong, if ‘ya wanna.”
It’s killing him, this. It’s torture. But he’s strong. Ish.
You shake your head, reaching for your almost-empty can of beer. You’re taking another long pull, making a dramatic show of tilting your head back and puffing out your chest as you do so. His lips purse.
“I’m good.” You tell him again with a syrupy smile. “Rather we just talk. Y’know—be civilized, ‘n all.”
His arms are moving to the sides of his deck chair, now. Joel’s tongue runs along his bottom lip. He gives a quick bob of his head.
“Yeah, we can talk.” His eyes zone in on your pussy; the engorged wet patch situated on the part of fabric that kind-of clothes your cunt. His mouth waters. “But what’ll we talk about, baby girl?”
Another surge of pleasure oozes out from between your thighs, turning what was once a purple thong into a jet-black one. Joel doesn’t mind, though. The sight is sweet; it’s prurient, in some sick way.
“Hm.” You pretend to think, all the while spreading your legs a little bit more. He sees perfectly the outline of your folds as fabric hugs and highlights the inner workings of your beautiful anatomy. “Why don’t we start with what you’re thinkin’ about, Mr. Miller?”
A weakness of his, that is. You referring to him as Mr. Miller has always gotten him hot. It’s innocent, almost. It’s like that’d been engrained into your brain by the god-fearing fruit-loop that brought you up, and you can’t quit saying it in these situations.
“Oh, doll. Not sure you’ll wanna hear what I’m thinkin’ of.” His tone is rough, now. Like 180 grit sandpaper against the wooden walls inside of your fucking brain. You hum.
Mentally, Joel’s cock is spearing open the tight hole between your legs; making you scream his name. He’s thrusting his prick up into your cervix while you ride him like he’s the last cowboy on earth, desperate to feel a kind of pleasure that no man your age could ever bestow upon you.
In his head, he’s picturing your crucifix dangling in his face while you’re pleasuring yourself on his length; glistening with sweat, and cum, and Sierra Nevada. Howling at his girth, speechless at the size of him.
He wants nothing more than to wrap a hand around the base of your throat and fuck you into next week; feeling damp walls contract and seize around his cock—
“No.” You snap him back to reality; halting his train of thought. “No, you can tell me. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”
Oh, I’m fuckin’ sure she can.
“Fine.” He clears his throat. “Just thinkin’ of stufin’ that warm ‘lil cunt with my big ‘ol cock, ‘s’all.”
“Oh, is that all?” Your tone is teasing.
Joel does not like to be teased.
“If you’d shut your fuckin’ mouth, I’d be able to finish.”
In a moment of pure, unapologetic submission, you nod. The skin of your bottom lip is getting fucking gnawed at by your teeth in an attempt to conceal a moan.
It works. Kind of.
“What was I sayin’…” He strives to recall his last few words; and then he remembers. ���Oh, yeah. Stretchin’ out that cute pussy ‘a yours.”
That cute pussy ‘a yours, is twitching. Fuck that, it’s pulsating.
“And you’re so sure of that? You being able to stretch me out, I mean.”
“Dead sure, angel face.” He quips. “I know for a damn fact that you’d be havin’ trouble takin’ my fat cock all in one go; be cryin’ for everyone to hear.”
Through long, thick lashes, you stare at him.
“You’d be seein’ stars; and not just the ones above us right now.”
You look up to the sky and hope to alleviate some of the mental pain being bestowed upon you right now. Which is entirely your own doing, of course.
Joel shifts in his seat so that he’s a little bit more sunken, able to heed clearly the sickly sweetness blanketing the chair you’re on.
“I’ll eat your pussy, too.”
Your attention is snapped back down to Joel, now. Your brows raise.
“Suck your soul right out from between your legs.”
“Oh, Joel.” You moan, a little. He lets his eyes shut for a brief moment, only to open them again to find you taking off your panties.
It’s like Christmas fucking day, this.
“I’d love for you to take me right here; fill me up on one ‘a the sunloungers.” You’re getting off your chair, and Joel’s heart is starting to pound within the chasms of his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
You’re walking toward him; thong in hand. Fingers wreathed through soaked purple cotton.
“Can’t think of anything that’ll bring me more pleasure than you fuckin’ me ‘til I’m crying. Or gasping for air.”
“You ‘n me both, beautiful.”
You smile. You give Joel your underwear, before you’re running your fingers through his hair and he’s letting a hand glide up the meat of your thigh and beneath your skirt.
“Just a shame, ain’t it.”
“What’s a shame, sugar?”
The feeling of his fingertips—calloused and covered in rough skin—is almost orgasmic. But you’re stronger than what he is. So you pull yourself away from his hold, and begin to feel an unwavering sense of need. You shirk it, though.
You’re leaning into him now, breasts pressed against his shoulder, lips touching the shell of his ear. Goosebumps prickle over his neck and you assume that they’re making their way down south, too.
“Huh?” He says to get your attention, for you still haven’t answered. “What’s a shame?”
Fingertips trace over broad shoulders enveloped in soft, warm flannel. You’re leaning closer; hot breath on his skin. Your lips part to whisper:
“If daddy ever found out about this, he’d kill ‘ya.”
“Baby—“
You’re taking the panties from his hand, and tucking them into the breast pocket of his shirt. Fighting a blush—feeling very proud of yourself—your face remains straight.
You tap at his chest and walk away, but not before throwing a “night, Miller” over your shoulder.
Joel looks down at the ground, presently wallowing in some sort of self-pity. But then remembers the visible effect that his words had—and the way he looked at—you, and he can’t fight the stupid fucking grin pushing its way onto his face.
He might’ve just experienced blue-balls at his big age, but to see you submit to his gaze was absolutely worth it.
He just hopes you’ll never tell a soul about his dirty-talk. He has a reputation to uphold, these days.
#please don’t look at me. i’m ovulating#dbf!joel#dads best friend joel miller x reader#dbf!joel miller#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x reader smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller smut#tlou x f!reader#tlou x female reader#tlou x you#tlou x reader#tlou smut#tlou fanfiction#tlou fic#joel tlou#tlou hbo
440 notes
·
View notes
Text
Theo anticipated questions of course and he knew he really should talk to others about his missions more but he shook his head, "I am very, very rarely on my own in field missions. I have others with me, a team of agents with different skills and access rights and know how." He at least offered as some reassurance he was not just bottling everything up, even if he was very mistrusting of those her went on missions with. "I've got my outlets," he tried though whether or not they were healthy he didn't answer.
"You should still tell me about your travels, I need to know these things so I understand what's going on." He insisted, though he knew it could come to a point where she did trigger an episode from him he thought it was far worse if she decided to keep such things a secret from him. That probably made him a hypocrite but it was different for her, he was her father. "I always have back up, someone in Delta Green always knows where I am and I update them on what I am dealing with." He tried to justify, "you don't have that back up, only me."
He saw her piecing things together, though he was sure to shake his head around Davidson threatening the family, though he wouldn't have put it passed him to have suggested it. "It took a while but they don't do things like that anymore, Samantha and I, once we were in deep enough we could start to adjust things. They don't recruit like that anymore." Delta Green had certainly changed in their time of working for them. "They are not going to send you anywhere and there's nothing that would stop me coming for you if they tried." He promised and hoped she wouldn't think they would trap her in such a place as they had done to him.
Layla came up and Theo's gaze dropped to the floor, he felt terrible for what happened to that group of agents too. None of them had made it out of the mines, except for himself and Violet. "I... went back to the mine after I left you at the hospital," he explained, he had gone there instead of to see a doctor, she might as well know. "I collapsed it, no one is going to find anything or anyone down there." He had also gone after the cultists but that was details she didn't need. "How Layla died isn't known by anyone except you and me." He had not put Violet in his report. How could he?!
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy
Violet hadn't really thought about it that way, that her dad wasn't keeping secrets from her, but was actually protecting her from potential episodes. He had told her that knowing about monsters could be dangerous, but she had soaked in so much knowledge in the cowboy timeline and had never felt it chipping away at her mind. What if it still had? What if she was just 'bottling it up' like Samantha had said? And what if it exploded one day? The thought sent a cold shiver down her back.
"I understand," she whispered, "but if you never talk about your missions... how do you deal with them? Whenever I come back from a travel, I tell you all about it, and it helps-" She stopped, and opened her mouth in horror. "Should I stop telling you about it? Could it trigger more episodes?" It was her fault her dad had spent the last four days struggling with his memories. But what if she triggered another episode one day? Because she kept telling him about the monsters and the travels?
She nodded. Yes, she remembered Agent Davidson and the many threats he had told her dad. Just thinking about it made her blood boil. Delta Green might have a noble purpose, but it was not a noble organization. "It must have been horrible," she said with a frown, "knowing that they were always holding this threat over your head." And yet he was so dedicated to the Program. Was it just because he believed in their cause? Because he wanted to protect the world?
"They threatened our family, too?" Her frown deepened. "Did Agent Davidson threaten our family?" Oh, how she hated this man! She hated him more than she had ever hated anyone else. She hated him more than she hated Sloane. She hated him more than she hated the Horned One.
This explained his dedication to the Program, at least. He had given them everything because if he hadn't, who knows what they would have done? Even without the threat of the ward, they had used other ways to force her dad into fighting their battles. "They're wicked," she croaked, shaking her head, "I know they fight monsters but... what they did to you... it's cruel. And it's unfair."
Fear started to trickle down inside her chest, drop by drop, as she thought about the letter she had received. The letter her dad had shredded, to protect her. "Are they going to do something like that to me? Are they going to send me to a ward to recruit me? I- I killed Layla and- what if they tell the Police?"
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
BANG-ABLE | Jeon Jungkook | Drabble 1
Summary: When your very curious robot boyfriend finds all of your old sex toys. Pairing: f!reader x Sex Bot Jungkook Word Count: 2k~ Warnings: Smut but that goes without saying for this fic p.s. I put out a mini drabble as well right before this in case you didn't catch it hehe p.p.s I have another temperature play drabble request so keep an eye out for that one in the future 🤭 Requested by an anon 💜
"What are these?" Jungkook asks when he walks into the living room where I'm sat down watching Hidden Love for the fifth time, holding up my little black box that I had hidden away and had completely forgotten about.
"NOTHING!" I say hurriedly, scrambling to get off the couch and tripping over the blanket I was using in the process. I regain my footing, run up to him and reach for the box but he holds it over my head, completely out of my reach.
"Are you cheating on me?" he teases, the objects in the box being ones I used before I got him. "You seriously think I would use those anymore? Now give it here!" I jump but once my fingers just barely touch it he grabs onto my hips to keep me from trying again.
I glare, waiting for him to give them back and when all I'm given is a stupid smug smile I resort to threats. "Give that to me or I will turn you off and make you charge on the floor instead of in bed with me" his eyes widen, not expecting that and deciding to do as I say, handing me the box of various sex toys that could never truly satisfy me.
"Why do you have so many?" he asks, picking up one very elaborate and confusing looking one that I snatch out of his hand immediately and put back in the box, shoving it in the back of my closet.
"Because none of them did everything I wanted them to" I sigh and close the door in hopes to help change the subject. When I try to walk past him though he stops me by wrapping an arm around my waist and bringing me back to stand in front of him.
"I don't know why I asked since I know how needy my baby is" he says, his voice dropping a bit while he places kisses on my neck, knowing that'll help take the edge off.
"Why do you always have to go through my t-things?" I stutter, my resolve of trying to stay upset with him faltering. "Because I wanna know everything about you baby, and that includes all of your dirty little secrets" he says directly into my ear before sucking on the sensitive skin right below.
I shudder at the thought of letting him in that much and I know I will eventually but his want to figure out as many ways as he can to please me on his own is way too fun to experience, no matter how embarrassing it might seem.
"You like that huh? The thought of me knowing everything about you, all your deepest darkest desires that you haven't even dared to say out loud. My baby likes to hide that away huh? Too afraid to even tell me what she wants sometimes. That's pretty selfish don't you think?" he says, his grip on my waist tightening when he pulls me closer, his sensors picking up on my arousal and in turn hardening his length for me to use as I see fit.
"Why don't you let me use some of those on you tonight hm? Or better yet, let me watch you use them to get yourself off. I bet you'd look adorable, so frustrated and begging for release but never quite getting exactly what you wanted" he says but I shake my head.
"Too cold, want you" his presence tonight being one that drove me into submission so easily. I can't help but become putty in his hands sometimes. He was made for me and knows exactly what I like so why not give into what his programing is telling him to do to me.
"Aw, too cold for you? Needed me to warm you up?" he says, his condescending way of talking to me one of the easiest ways to tip me into that submissive headspace, only with him though. With him things are different. With him I know I'm safe.
I nod my head and my lip juts out the slightest bit leaving him running his thumb along it before I decide to open my mouth and run my tongue across it. His robotic pupils dilate as if they were human and the next second I'm on my back on my bed, him hovering over me with that sexy smug look on his face.
"Does my pretty baby want something?" he asks, caressing my cheek with a featherlight touch, and I blink up at him, still reeling from his sudden actions. He hums as a way to get my attention on him again, wanting me to answer his question.
"Want you" I say, hoping he'll accept my simple answer but I know he won't settle for that. "You've gotta be a little more specific love" he teases making me huff. "Oh come on, be a good girl for me and tell me what you want hm?" he mumbles and peppers kisses all along my neck and collarbone, having worn just a tank top and shorts today.
His hands heat up and run along my skin, warming me up just like he said he would but suddenly his hands turn ice cold, making me push him away but as always he doesn't budge at all.
"What the matter love?" he taunts, his hands quickly going back to a normal temperature. "Don't do that" I scowl, not liking the sudden change. "Lemme play around a bit yeah? Wanna try something" he says, clearly ignoring my scolding.
I squint my eyes at him when he looks down at me, a stupidly tempting look on his face. "Just trust me" he says, leaning down to mumble it against my lips, just barely kissing me before pulling back and looking at me again for confirmation.
After thinking for a couple more seconds I nod my head and he tongues his cheek, a habit that he picked up from who knows where but something that's become so sexy to me and he knows it.
He helps me strip out of my clothes and lets out a groan in approval, running his fingers through my folds.
"Baby is so wet for me already and I've barely done anything. How adorable. Been waiting all day for me to touch you huh?" he says, watching as my mouth falls open when he applies pressure on my clit just how I like it, tracing circles around it and alternating with just barely dipping a finger into my entrance, never giving me what I really want, playing with me just like he said he would.
When his fingers start to touch me with more precision, one finger pumping inside of me while his thumb circles my clit I feel that same chill run though my body and I realize his hands have gone cold inside me making me yelp and back away from him but he growls and uses his other hand to grip my hip pinning me down on the bed to keep me from moving.
"Stay still for me love, promise it'll feel good" he says and I decide to trust him. He knows what my body wants and what it can handle, the signs to look out for to know what's going on in my head.
"So good for me" he says, kissing me and starting to pump his fingers in and out of me again, adding a second one right away but switching the temperature back to a warmer one to help with the stretch.
Once he starts to feel that I've gotten used to the intrusion he changes the temperature just cold enough so I can feel it, my back arching as the only way I can move about since he's still got my hips pinned against the mattress.
"Shh I know I know. You can take it though, it's just a little cold love" he coaches, his cold fingers dragging along my warm walls making me wince. "This is w-why I stopped using them, t-too cold" I admit although I already had before, hoping that in some way that would make him stop but he doesn't.
"You know I'll take care of you though" he says, the temperature of his fingers changing back to normal now, giving me a bit of a breather but soon he's pulling them out of me making me wince for another reason.
"Where are you going?" I whine but he only laughs and gets off the bed to take off his clothes before crawling back on top of me. "My baby is so impatient, aren't you?" he chuckles, settling between my legs and dragging his tip along my folds, his brows furrowed in concentration while collecting my slick and rubbing it all over his cock.
"Just put it in already, please" I basically cry out, the temperature play leaving me incredible sensitive and he knows it, not letting up with this sick form of torture. He places his tip against my entrance, not pushing in and just teasing my hole and when I open my mouth to protest he shoves himself into me, knocking the wind out of me, his response a hum, clearly satisfied with the results of his actions.
"Couldn't even wait for me to fuck you like I wanted to, needed my cock in you so bad that you couldn't even shut up and wait. Thought you wanted to be good for me tonight" he grunts, slamming into me at a relentless pace, his robotic strength being unparalleled in bed. I sob, the intensity and the need to catch my breath overwhelming me in the best way possible but when he chances the temperature of his dick I'm screaming for him to change it back.
"Stop running" he growls, grabbing my hips and sitting back on his heels so he can fuck me onto him, pushing and pulling my hips so fast making my breasts bounce up and down. "Fuck play with your tits. Wanna ruin you but my baby can lend me a hand or two can't she?" he says, talking down to me like I'm fucking stupid when I clearly am, cock drunk and barely able to see straight.
I slowly bring my hands up my torso, ghosting my fingers along my breasts, "S-shit" he stutters, his programing really playing the part and making me moan at his reaction. "Play with your nipples baby, get them nice and hard for me" he says, his hands dragging my hips back and forth making his length disappear inside of me over and over, never ceasing making my cock drunk mind go blurry, my reaction speed severely diminished.
He decides to give me a breather, stopping his movements and putting his fingers in my mouth, my lips closing around them right away. "Make a mess baby" he say, encouraging me to get them as wet as possible, my tongue swirling around them, a pool of saliva now gathered and making a complete mess, exactly how he wanted.
He takes them out of my mouth and my brows furrow, not wanting to stop since the approving gaze he gave me while I did it being something I didn't want to give up just yet. He chuckles and rubs his fingers together, making sure his thumb, pointer and middle finger are covered before using them to play with my nipple making me whine at the harsh pressure.
"Shh it's okay, I got you" he coaches, the cold temperature making my nipples harden painfully, goosebumps now present all over my body.
"My baby gets so cold so easily. Want me to warm you up again?" he taunts and I nod my head, the rate of his thrusts though making it difficult to decipher but he knows and so he switches to a warmer temperature making me sigh in delight. It quickly goes from too cold to way too warm making me moan in delight, the scorching temperature being painfully pleasurable.
"Don't worry baby, it's not gonna leave a mark, I wouldn't hurt my pretty girl. Unless she wanted me to" he says, the offer enticing enough to make me think twice but I shake my head 'no' and he take it. "Baby doesn't wanna be branded? That's okay, I'll take good care of you" he coos and that he does.
Over and over and over.
Drabble Masterlist
Taglist: @jkslipppiercing @trina864 @kaitieskidmore97 @goddesofimortality @coolbluedude @coralmusicblaze @whoa-jo @00frenchfries00 @pastelpinkjoon @joonwater Rest of the tags are in the comments 💜
Join my Taglist!
Feel free to fill out the form or just comment on any of my fics to be added :)
#jungkook fanfic#fanfic#jungkook#fanfiction#kpop#jeon jungkook#bts#bts jungkook#kpop fanfic#ask#jungkook smut#jungkook bts#jungkook x reader#jungkook fic#jungkook x you#jungkook x original character#jungkook x y/n#jungkook x oc#jungkook bangtan#jungkook imagine#kpop smut
305 notes
·
View notes
Text
Inevitable Things : chapter eleven
aizawa x reader fic
cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. CONSULT AO3 FOR FULL TAGGED CONTENT WARNINGS
previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter
Your mom used to tell you that love was a choice that she made every day. She woke up and chose to love your father, chose to put in the effort that a relationship needed, chose to stay by his side through the good and the bad. It was a point of pride to endure at all, a smile slapped on her face. She told you that until he left one night, bags in hand and another woman’s name on his lips.
After that, love was no longer a choice. It was nights of tears and screaming matches, begging and pleading, obligatory phone calls and visitations out of state. Love was no longer a choice, but a shackle, something that you say at the end of a conversation because you must. Love is a pain you bear because you are human, and someone must hold these feelings you have.
Your mother still wants your father to call her.
You wait for Touya to come home.
It haunts you all morning, as you twiddle away time before the convention floor opens again. You end up calling your boss with an update, only to chat with him over coffee. His niece is over again - she screams hi into the receiver- and his sister says hello as well. You try to end the call there, but he stays on, asking questions about who you’ve seen and how they've been. The conversation drags, but neither of you seem to mind.
“You aren’t watching Shouta.” It’s an observation, posed as a question. He’s speaking better today- you aren’t sure why. Death ebbs and flows.
“He asked me not to.” The truth feels right at this moment. It doesn’t betray anything changing between you two; Toshinori is probably aware of the tense air between you too. Now, it’s just tense in a different way, a way that makes your toes curl to think about.
“Don’t take it personally,” he says, “Shouta is a very private man.”
More so than you know, Yagi, you think. Aizawa is very different behind closed doors, behind that wall he’s so carefully crafted. You fear you’ve only cracked one layer of him only to uncover a different veneer.
At the end of the call with Toshinori, you let slip a little “Love you.” and he laughs, surprisingly boisterous for his frail lungs.
“I didn’t mean it,” you try to say.
“It’s okay,” he says once he catches his breath. “I understand.”
You don’t.
The rest of the morning is spent in your room, pouring over your emails. Technically, the company is on crunch time; your newer model hits the market within two months and panic has set across the office. Everything is ready, technically, but also nothing is; every day is a new little fire, begging to be put out. Being away on a friday was actually a gift, you realize now that you’re scrolling through what you’ve missed. Your inbox is filled with random issues and scheduled meetings for the upcoming weeks. Your DMs are alight with notifications too-- these, less urgent.
Izuku Midoriya -> are you alive? or did Mr. Aizawa murder you?
Oh, if only he knew how quickly things change.
we're both alive and well somehow <-
Another message comes through, this one in a different tab.
Hizashi Yamada -> I see you online!
Trying to sneak some work in before I get out of bed. <-
Hizashi Yamada -> Send me your room number.
He arrives in less than five minutes. As usual, Hizashi is put together in a respectfully ostentatious way. His all black outfit might be velvet because of how it eats the light, equally matte and shiny all at once. It’s the type of clothing you wish you could pull off-- or afford --but he wears it so easily, with a confidence you could never have. No, you could never so gracefully enter a room and throw off a jacket like some supermodel.
“How was the presentation?” he asks as he flops into bed beside you. It's a different feeling than being next to Aizawa; he’s perched like a girl gossiping during a slumber party, hair tosselled on your silk pillow. You close your laptop and carefully place it aside. There’s no way you’ll be working with Hizashi around. That was probably his plan all along.
“I didn’t go-- you didn’t go either?” You playfully shove him. “You're a bad friend!”
“I woke up late.” He shrugs, feigning sympathy with a content smirk. “And had other things to do this morning, if you catch my drift.”
He throws in an unnecessary wink. Your cringe is a reflex- you don’t really mind hearing about Hizashi’s conquests, but it does make you think about last night again. All you did was kiss, but your skin prickles as if you did more, as if you want more.
And maybe you do. You’ve been tossing the idea around all morning, trying to figure out exactly what you want, not only from the man, but from yourself, but every time you think about it too hard, the image of Touya flashes in your mind, and your thoughts are tumbling once again.
You think of your mother. It used to be your worst fear to become her, but each day that passes, you see more of her in your eyes, in the thinness in your skin.
“You okay, babygirl?”
He points directly at the space between your eyes, where you’ll one day have the same worried creases your mother has.. “You’ve got a face on your face.”
You try to wipe away whatever he’s seeing, but it clearly doesn’t work. Hizashi looks at you harder, expression especially soft.
“Oh, yeah, I’m just-” you shrug. Is there a word for what you're feeling? Ennui? Horror? Somewhere in between? “Shaking off a weird feeling.”
“Weird feeling-” Hizashi throws you a wink. “I think we call it a hangover.”
“I’m not hungover--”
Before you can protest, your friend gasps, so violently that you nearly jump out of your skin. He backs up, hand over his heart and jaw dropped to the floor. “Oh my god. Oh my goooooooodddd.”
“What? What? Am I dying?”
“Your neck!” Now he points to you with a fully straight arm, like he’s accusing you of being a witch. You slap a hand over the spot instinctively. “Hello, that’s a hickey!”
Oh. Oh no. You had been too distracted this morning to notice, but apparently Aizawa’s lips have left a mark on you. Heat flushes across your face; a hickey? Who do you think you are? Kaminari? You’ve had a secret for less than 24 hours and it’s already threatening to come out.
“You got laid last night? With who? Where? When? Tell me everything!” Hizashi pushes down in the mattress to bounce himself, jimmying you up and down in the process.
“Well, uh--” You can’t even begin to make something up. The irrational fears start to take over- what if he figures out exactly who’s mouth left that mark? Hizashi’s a whore-- he might know some sort of mouth forensics or something! Or, you don’t know, maybe you still smell like Aizawa, even
“You dirty dog, is that why you didn’t see Aizawa’s thing?” Your stomach somehow sinks lower. “Because you and Tensei fucked?”
Tensei?
“Tensei?”
“Oh my god, you totally did. You’re all flustered!”
You had completely forgotten the man even existed. Beautiful Tensei Iida, the ‘sexy’ doctor Hizashi wanted you to have… it’s funny how things never work out the way you think they will.
“It wasn’t Tensei!” You scooch away. “And it’s not a hickey!”
Hizashi sees through that lie. He crawls on his hands and knees after you. “You gotta tell me, please-”
Crap. He’s not going to let this go. Sex and all that comes with it is Hizashi’s catnip; once he’s gotten a taste of it, he’s deranged.
Telling the truth certainly isn’t an option. You and Aizawa? The absolute nuclear fallout that would hit the office if that came out would be catastrophic. Hizashi can’t keep his mouth shut, so even hinting at what happened last night could be the end of whatever weird thing you and Shouta have, killing it before you can even name what it is.
And being so close to launch? It could potentially hinder Aizawa’s image--
And your and Touya’s relationship.
“It was someone I met at the restaurant after you left-” Not completely a lie. “We just-- kissed, I guess. I didn’t want to, you know, do more.”
Hizashi kicks his feet in excitement. His shoes are on your bed- gross.
“Good for you, setting boundaries!” he says. “That’s growth!”
He goofs around for just a moment longer before settling.
“Why do you look so sad about it?” He’s quick to say. “Did they do something?”
“No! No, it was nice, but-” you start. The truth feels heavy, yet silly at the same time. You know the reaction you’re about it get, and yet you say it anyway- “I don't know, I started to think about Touya this morning and-”
Hizashi’s face falls so hard that you swear you can hear it. His hatred of Touya has never been a secret, but before Touya made his disappearing act, he at least kept his comments to a minimum. With no Touya, there’s no limit to Hizashi’s public loathing.
“I love you. So much.” He takes your hand in his. He’s still on his knees, hunched over you awkwardly, those damn shoes still on the bed. “But thought you were over this shitbag.”
You want to protest. He’s not a shitbag, he’s just having a hard time. He’s not a bad guy, the drugs just make him that way. He’s a good boy underneath all of the troubles, you know it’s true.
But you’ve run out of excuses years ago. All you can say is the truth: “I think I still love him.”
Compassion contorts your friend’s face. “Oh, girl. Girl. You don’t.”
“Hizashi-” You try to slide away, but he doesn’t let you.
“He treated you like garbage for years. Years!” The blonde squeezes your hand. “And he wasn’t loyal, he wasn’t safe, he wasn’t kind or sober or-”
“It's not like he abused me or something.” You say it so quickly that it feels tinny on your lips. Both of you go quiet for a second and Hizashi throws his hands up in surrender. He ducks his head low, not in defeat, but in a humble act, like a dog that’s pushed it’s boundaries a bit too far. With a sigh, he sits back on his knees, allowing there to be space between you.
“I didn't say that,” he says carefully. “It doesn't have to be abuse, that doesn't mean it's healthy.”
There’s a hesitation, then he reaches out his hand again. You don’t take it, but he keeps it there, in the air, waiting for you.
“I just care about you. I know ‘muri and I get a bit too pushy and wild sometimes, but it’s because we want you to have fun for once. We-- we want you to be with someone that makes you feel good-- who thinks you’re the best thing in the world,” Hizashi says. “We want you to get what you deserve and Touya isn’t that.”
A different type of warm runs over you- a watery one, one that stings at your eyes. You aren’t sure where the well of emotion has come from, but it’s there, bubbling just under the surface. You try to sniffle without giving yourself away.
“Would it be so bad to let yourself move on and try something new?” Hizashi smiles. “Let yourself have a little fun for once?”
Reluctantly, you take his hand. He squeezes and coos, pulling your hand into an awkward faux-hug, right about his heart.
“Let yourself have fun, let yourself live.”
“I’m gonna try to try.”
--
The convention itself goes smoothly. More people ask about Yagi, but the word seems to be spreading: he’s not here. He’ll never be here. The air is bittersweet, but Hizashi always recovers it for you. He keeps the conversation flowing back to work and the bed, with much more ease than you’ll ever have.
The only time you see Aizawa is when he’s in your periphery. He’s in the corner, caught in some conversation with people whose names you’ve already forgotten. Tensei’s by his side, basking in the probable praise, while Aizawa just nods along. The presentation must have gone well, you gather from the attention they’re both getting. That’s both good and bad; the work deserves credit, but Aizawa…
What a heavy secret to carry. What a prominent shame. He didn’t want you to see, but he was okay with all of these strangers ogling him like a science experiment.
Does that make you more important than those strangers? Or less?
You try to look for an opening to leave, but one never seems to come.
Only once do you catch him staring back at you, his expression too far away to be read. The thump of your heart steps out of rhythm for a moment before you get yourself together.
“I see you eyeing up Tensei,” Hizashi teases. “Are you sure he isn’t your mystery man?”
You deny it, but Hizashi is unconvinced.
----
The three of you finally reunite over dinner. This time, Hizashi swears he will stay the whole time.
This time, you don’t want him to.
You’ve settled into a different booth than you were in last night. Again, the chip basket is empty before Aizawa can arrive. He’s always running late for these things, either through lack of effort or lack or lack of time management. If he didn’t have a presentation tomorrow, you’d be annoyed, but you decide to give the man a break.
Though, you do wonder if you’ll be allowed to see this one. You’ll have to go, right? It’s about your company.
“I still can’t believe you managed to pick up Tensei with Aizawa right there.” Hizashi leans back into the booth.
“It wasn’t Tensei,” you insist. “And he was distracted.”
“By what?”
You aren’t a quick liar.
“Some girl.” Or a good one. “They went off together.”
You know you’ve fucked up by the look on Hizashi’s face. He sits up, staring at you from over his glasses with a slack jawed amazement.
“You're lying.” He sits up even more. “You're lying straight to my face right now.”
Fear thrums you so hard that your stomach almost revolts on impact.
“I’ve never seen Shouta pick up a stranger, ever.” Hizashi throws his hands up in the air for effect. “Never, ever. Not even in college! ”
Looking back, you should have said he was struck by lightning. That would have been more believable. From what you remember, Aizawa doesn’t date very often - or at all. You can’t remember if he’s ever brought someone to a work event or even mentioned a partner. (Which makes you feel equally bad and… special. Are you an exception to his rule? Are you different?
…Or, more likely, he’s just a private guy. But you can pretend.)
“Well, uh, I dunno what to say.” You still haven’t come up with a better lie. “Ask him yourself.”
“I will!”
Good. That gives you time to text Shouta and warn him about that shit storm he’s about to enter. The two of you can come up with a lie that makes sense and won’t send Hizashi screaming. Suddenly, you’re grateful that Aizawa can’t show up on time for-
“Again with the chips?”
Fuck!!
As if summoned, Aizawa is behind you, shrugging off his jacket. He’s in the same suit as he was earlier, but a lot more disheveled after making it through the day. The social interaction really took it out of him; no wonder he’s so quiet at the office. You pat the seat next to you and he practically slumps into it.
“Please tell me you aren’t escaping again tonight,” he says to Hizashi.
“Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere, trust me.” That smile sets the whole table on guard. “I have too many questions.”
“If you had questions, you should have shown up to the talk,” Aizawa says. “Which went well, by the way. Thank you for asking.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to ask, asshole.”
“Should have been the first words out of your mouth.”
“Well, sorry, Mr. Sensitive. I didn’t think I needed to stroke your ego today! Should I start singing your praises now, or after we verbally jack you off for a bit?”
“We are in public, Mic, stop talking about jacking off.”
“How was your presentation, oh smart one?”
“It was--” Aizawa stops himself mid sentence, brow furrowed as he turns directly towards you. “You’re being quiet.”
“Me?” you point to yourself as if you don’t know the answer. The accusation makes your heart race- or maybe it’s those sharp eyes, boring down into you.
“Why are you being quiet?” he says with an accusatory glare. “What did you do?”
Hizashi erupts into a giggle and the attention is finally turned away from you.
“I heard that you went home with someone-”
Aizawa’s gaze snaps to you. It takes effort to press your lips down and keep a neutral expression; anxiety is trilling inside you, high and frail and wild, like a little flute in a marching band finale. The man tilts his head just a bit, eyes sharp and questioning, clearly trying to interrogate you while completely silent.
“Where did you hear that, Yamada?” Aizawa’s tone isn’t flat now. No, it’s pressed, stressed; he thinks you’ve told him everything. You try to gesture with just your eyes -- three normal blinks and wide eyes, like a makeshift morse code. This obviously fails.
“Little miss girl here-” Hizashi waggles his eyebrows and Aizawa’s pupils dilate with fear- “told you you went home with a stranger from the restaurant.”
Realization hits Aizawa’s expression, then, relaxation. His whole body turns to you with a belabored sigh. “You little snitch.”
The smile you’ve been trying to fight erupts across your face. You burst into a nervous giggle, one that you have to silence with your own hand. This is a dangerous line you’re walking; Hizashi isn’t a stupid guy- he’s going to figure out something’s wrong if either of you slip up.
“It’s true?” Hizashi gasps. “What? You? You?”
“Is it really so weird that I had sex with someone?” Aizawa says. “You do it all the time.”
“You aren’t a hook up guy!” Hizashi peers from over his glasses. “You’re a ‘third date and a bottle of wine’ guy!”
“When have I ever had a bottle of wine?”
“Okay, ‘third date and an air of desperation.’ How's that?”
Aizawa wrinkles his nose and bares his teeth, barking out a canned laugh. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Fuck off.”
The shorter man sits back in his seat and uses his drink to gesture to you. “Why don’t you harass Miss Hickey over there instead?”
The attention shifts to you for only a moment before Hizashi waves you away with the back of his hand. He shifts forward on to his elbows, directly towards his friend..“She just made out with a guy, I don’t care about that-”
“-Hey!” you object. As if Aizawa isn’t the reason you’re bruised in the first place! The dark haired man is purposefully looking down his nose at you, expression taut.
“Sorry, but I need every nitty gritty detail of Shouta��s night ASAP. “ Hizashi grinds you back on track.
The two of them have been friends since college, you remember. You’d never really been able to see the connection before; they’re both so different that they almost seem like they’d never mesh, but today they are huddled together like boys, mirroring each other’s movements. You wonder if there were lots of nights like these, gossiping over girls and wild nights.
Did Hizashi know him before the car accident?
“I’ll tell you later, Mic,” Aizawa says. “After she’s gone.”
It’d be best to stay quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to be purposefully excluded.
“You don’t want to get dirty in front of me, huh?” you tease. Besides, you’d like to see what he comes up with. “I can handle it.”
He doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not a sharer.”
You turn away with a little shrug. “Hm.”
Aizawa almost doesn’t respond. The gears turn behind his eyes, slowly grinding away at his patience until he grits out a little: “What?”
His knee bumps into yours under the table. It’s fleeting, but there.
“I was just thinking-” you start. “Maybe you’re a bit of a coward.”
“Coward?” he replies.
“Afraid to gossip-”
It’s Aizawa’s turn to huff. “Gentlemen don’t gossip.”
“Since when are you a gentleman?” Hizashi barks out a laugh.
With another exhale, Aizawa closes his eyes. A moment, then another passes, before he opens them again, one brow raised. It’s the same expression a teacher would give to the class after too much clownery. No wonder the interns are terrified of the man, you’d be scared too if you weren’t so excited to see where this is going.
“You really want me to tell you what I did last night?” He’s deadpan. “Really?”
Both of you nod.
“Fine.” He throws his hands up in defeat. “I met this woman at the bar. Bought her a cocktail-”
“What kind of cocktail?” you interject.
“What?” Aizawa stares at you, lip curled in frustration. You’re making lying harder and you know that, but excitement is driving you forward. The risk doesn’t outweigh the reward quite yet. “I don’t know- something sweet.”
“Hm.”
“Margarita. The spicy kind. She tasted like it all night.”
Aizawa is alarmingly good at lying. He does it with a straight face, minus the telltale curl of his lip, but Hizashi doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy sitting on the edge of his seat. You’re still trying to reconcile all of the versions of him inside your head: the work version, the ‘lover’ you met, and this lackadaisical liar.
“Keep going.” Hizashi urges.
“Then we went back to her room. Didn’t even make it to the bed.”
The way he lays down each word is slow, meticulous, purposeful; the narrative he builds is crafted especially for you, but you aren’t quite sure of his goal.
“ Is that enough detail?”
“Boo-” Hizashi’s fanning the flame now too. “Not the fade to black storytelling!”
Aizawa ducks in close, resting on his forearms as he talks. His gaze flicks between you and Hizashi, but lingers much longer on you, flickering down to your lips every now and again. His timbre drops lower, gritty, rolling as he whispers.
“We went back to her room-”
You’re watching his mouth a bit too intensely.
“- I got on my hands and knees-”
He enunciates it slowly, so neither of you miss a moment. A shiver goes up your spine. There’s a weight to his breath, a genuine enjoyment. Would he get on his knees for you?
“And I begged to eat her out.”
He’s proud of it. Oh, he would get down for you. He’d plead for the privilege. His leg brushes against yours again, this time with pressure and purpose, and your skin crawls with excitement. It’s just a story. You know it’s not true.
But the glint in his eye says that he wishes it wasn’t.
“And?” your voice shakes a bit. That’s his goal, isn’t it? To get you riled up? To make you regret forcing him into this situation?
Aizawa rubs the spot where his jaw connects with a slow, purposeful circle, like he’s trying to rub out a kinked muscle. It’s borderline boastful. “And that’s how I spent the night.”
Hizashi tips his head back and laughs so loudly that the table next to you stares. “Good for you!”
“Good for her,” Aizawa replies.
Hizashi rolls his eyes. “I almost forgot you’re a munch. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten any, so-”
“Watch it, Hizashi.”
You regret the question before you ask it. “Uh, what’s a munch?”
Both of them look at you.
“Well, it’s clearly not Touya,” Hizashi mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.
“It’s a slang term for someone who really enjoys…” Aizawa trails off, cocking his head expectantly.
“Eating pussy,” Hizashi finishes for him.
Another thrill of excitement goes up your spine. Enjoys it? Is that even possible? The idea has you woozy.
“Yeah, that’s totally not Touya,” you manage to say.
Hizashi makes another comment, but you can’t force yourself to focus on that. No, not when your heart is beating like this. It’s just words, a fake story, but there’s a silent promise to it as well. You wonder what would have happened last night if you said yes. Would he have spent the night between your legs, eating simply for your pleasure?
Want trembles in your hands as you pretend to check your phone. Is it pathetic? To be worked up over a silly little story, made up to cover your tracks? The waiter comes, you all order. Aizawa’s knee pumps against yours- once accidentally, once on purpose. You hope he doesn’t notice how you’re squirming in your seat, trying to ignore the way your body is craving pressure and attention. You think, maybe, if you move right, you could get the seam of your pants to hit just right-
What are you doing? This is pathetic.
“I’m going to go to the bathroom.” You don’t wait for a response. Pushing up from the table, you turn down the back of the restaurant. The signs lead you into a little back hallway, tucked by the kitchen, where the lighting is respectfully dim. You have to wait a moment because the door is locked, but you don’t mind. It gives you time to mull over everything.
Maybe Hizashi is right; maybe it’s okay to try something new. It’s been years since you’ve felt this alive with someone, this excited to get something more. With Touya, sex became more of an obligation. Maybe it could be different with someone else. Maybe it could be something fun, something-
A hand catches you by the back of your shirt, not hard enough to yank you backwards, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. A gasp squeaks out of you as you stagger back into the chest of the man behind you. You crank around to see- only to relax when you realize it’s just Aizawa.
“You scared me,” you mumble out a lament.
“You little sneak.” With a thumb, he tilts your chin up, so far that you’re looking back at him. His other fingers press ever so nicely into the length of your neck, drawing you back into his chest. There’s nothing constricting your breath, but suddenly your lungs are empty, breathless, and your parted lips pull nothing in. Aizawa’s dark eyes are narrowed, boring straight down into yours.
Oh, he’s pissed.
And, for the first time, that excites you.
“You like making me sweat, don’t you?” His free hand is looped around your waist, holding you much tighter than the other. “Almost getting us caught-- You make me so mad sometimes.”
The kitchen is full of mumbled orders and the clang of dishware. It echoes through the dark hall you’ve trapped yourselves in, you aren’t alone, no matter how badly you wish it to be true.
“Thought you liked me,” you whisper.
You swear there’s a subtle dilation to his eyes, involuntary. Real. “I do.”
He leans over and dots a simple kiss on to your forehead, right where your hair meets skin. It’s simple, soft, but, god, it sets everything inside you into this wet, wobbly, needy heat, something soft and harsh all at once.
“Even when you piss me off.” The hand around your neck twitches playfully, with no real constriction.
It’s cliche, you think, how you just sort of watch each other, breathless, patient. Neither of you tries to make a move, locked together. He smells good. Not like anything you can name, just… good. It’s the same good you feel in your chest and an equal good to how your hands feel when you reach backwards and grab his hips.
“I’m starting to think you like making me mad.”
“Shouta-” you say his name because he likes it, because it makes him lean in closer to you-
The bathroom door flies open and you both pull away like you’ve touched a hot stove. The woman who exists definitely knows something’s up; she rolls her eyes and sends a text on her phone as she passes. The two of you share a look; you, relieved, Aizawa amused. It’s as if you're sixteen again, with this fluttering feeling in your stomach you can’t quite swallow down. It’s too bright to be anxiety.
Aizawa steps back a bit with a nod. Oh, right, the bathroom. You don’t actually have to go, but it would be silly to not go in now. Maybe you can just try to go-
You look back at your Aizawa.
Or maybe.
Or maybe you can have some fun.
With uncharacteristic confidence, you hook a finger under a button of his shirt and tug. Aizawa’s face goes bright with realization. He falls into following as you guide him forward into the bathroom, step by awkward step, backwards until the door opens against your weight. Aizawa glances around before the door closes after him, making sure to remain unspotted, then turns to you with a wicked, narrowed, glowering look.
The bathroom is simple, but nice. The lighting is sharp and bright, the floor is white and clean. A decorative table is wedged into the corner, topped with extra towels and real flowers in water. Your brain can’t process more than that- not with a dark haired man wrapped around your finger. He has the forethought to lock the door behind him.
“What are you doing-?” he grumbles wickedly, ducking down to catch you in a kiss, but you don’t let him make contact. You dip away, drawing him further and further in, until you’re backed against the little decorative table. With his weight, he shifts you back until your ass is seated properly on that wiggly table, one hand back to brace yourself. Finally, he traps you, stubble rough against your cheek, lips soft against yours.
“I thought we were going slow,” he says into your lips. You don’t respond-- you can’t. Your breath is stolen from your lungs, the need to breathe replaced with the need for him, the need for touch-
You hook a leg over his waist and his hand flies to it, folding it higher, pulling it tighter.
“Oh, you can’t help it, can you?” he mumbles. “One little story about eating pussy has you desperate for it, huh?”
“Y-you-” You hate that you can’t dirty talk smoothly like he can.
“Yeah?” He’s almost condescending. “Yeah? What does my girl want?”
Embarrassment floods your cheeks with heat. Aizawa waits for it, hovering above you. Oh, he won’t give it to you until you really ask, will he? You have to physically brace yourself to say it.
“Will you kiss it?” you ask, much meeker than intended.
“Kiss ‘it’?” You expect him to keep picking at you, but instead his hands are busy unbuttoning your pants, guiding them down. “Do you mean-”
His lips find your hickey and the spot aches under the connection. “Here?”
Creeping lower, he hunches over your chest. This time, he pecks at the hem of your shirt. “Here?”
Down he goes, on to his knees. This kiss lands in your stomach, right where the tightness of want sits-
“Here?”
“Shouta-” You’re mad and annoyed and you’d frankly settle for him kissing you anywhere at this point-
Hands slip your pants down past your knees. When the air hits your skin, you suddenly realize just how wet you are, how it’s bled through your panties and smeared across your thigh. Before you can process anything, his mouth is over your clothed cunt, wide mouthed and kissing. The drag of his tongue is a lot, even though the fabric; the contact has your spine flexing all on its own.
“Here?”
“There, there,” You’re clinging on to handfuls of his hair already. “Right there.”
But Aizawa doesn’t kiss you again.
“In a public bathroom?” He’s watching you from the floor. Your leg is looped over his back. He’s surprisingly wide and thick under you; your legs have to spread so far to fit him. God, your body is plaint enough that it just gives to his pushing hands and demands.
“You like it nasty.”
You can’t bring yourself to respond. Your brain is fried with a deadly combination of horny and embarrassed. Is this really what you want?
“No, you don’t like it dirty, do you?” It feels like he’s reading your mind, hands kneading your thighs with a growing hunger. He plants a kiss where your legs meets your underwear and your cunt pulses in response. “My girl just needs it so bad, doesn’t she?”
Teeth sink into your inner thigh and you kick in response: another fucking hickey. The thing that got you into this mess-
“That’s right, my girl.” He’s talking to himself now, mumbling just under his breath. A finger loops under your panties, the same way your finger looped under his button, and there’s no time to feel shame before he exposes your pussy. “You went home with me.”
You expect him to go straight for your clit, to devour you with the fucking need that’s been building between you all goddamn night-
But, instead, he touches his lips to the crest of your mons and breathes. It’s hot, molten, pours down you like molten lava. It’s the faintest, tickling touch, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough. A moan rips out of you, so unexpected that you jump at your own voice.
Usually, when you have sex, you’re worried about the small things. Whether or not you’ve shaved, whether you look thin enough or pretty enough, but now, the only thing you can think about is being touched, needing touch, desiring touch.
And the time.
“We-” He hasn’t even started and you’re quivering for it. “We gotta hurry before Mic-”
“I promised you-” Aizawa says, firmly. “That we’d go slow.”
Finally, gloriously, you feel the hot press of his tongue, dragging up through your excitement. Every inch he takes is painstakingly slow until he hits the nub of your clit. That contact is fast, fleeting, but it still sends you keening and gasping. Every important muscle inside you is bunched and coiled, filled with enough potential energy to set the whole fucking restaurant on fire. You’re going to cum. You’re going to cum from practically nothing.
The vase of flowers on the table is overturned. You don’t even remember knocking it over. Water pools under your ass and everything is wet, from you, to the mess, to his drool across your inner thigh. His mouth closed over you the same way someone would eat a peach, sucking with this absurdly lewd sound as if he’s afraid to let any of your excitement escape. His jaw moves slow - just like he fucking promised- and doesn’t miss an inch of skin as he closes his mouth, lips coming closed around your clit. The pressure feels heavenly against the already puffy parts of your pussy and your hands clasp his dark locks tighter. You aren’t sure if you’re trying to pull him away or pull him closer; your body is just reacting, like neurons are firing all on their own.
Fingers clamp around your thighs. Aizawa is groaning, voice so low it vibrates against you, as if he’s the one receiving it, not you. Enjoys eating pussy… the memory rings through your skull. Fuck, what an understatement; he eats pussy like he needs it to live. His eyes are lidded heavy with pleasure. Every lick and suck and touch along the tapestry of your cunt is wet and wild, but aggravatingly skilled. The heat of his mouth against your clit - firm, but not hard- is enough to steal your breath away.
Then, he pulls away, and your pleasure begins to unravel-- unfairly fast. You hadn’t realized how close to the precipice you had been until you started falling away. The feeling is disastrous.
He speaks with a heady exhale, warm and not nearly enough. “You taste-”
“Shut up,” Now you’re definitely pulling his face back towards you this time. “Shut up, shut up, shut up-”
He silences himself with your cunt.
This time, there’s no savoring. His lips and tongue are on your clit, sucking in mouthfuls of your folds, bouncing against the involuntary roll of your hips. Everything inside you is hot and sticky, thick like honey. You’re saying something, maybe, but it’s all high pitched and garbled. The rub from Aizawa's stubble sends a chill up your spine and the hot and cold inside you melts into something smooth-
You can feel your orgasm coming long before it hits, everything inside you pulling high and tight, like the ocean rolling before a wave. The crest hasn't hit, but it's going to come, you're going to cum-
And then you look down, and Aizawa's staring back at you, with those dark, hooded eyes, and you unravel. It’s not my other orgasms you've had: a full body feeling, like the flush to warmth you get when alcohol hits your stomach. It rolls, through you, away from you, against you- in every fucking direction until every ounce of tension is smoothed from your muscles. Boneless had always sounded silly, but now you understand exactly what it means; you slump back and try to catch your breath.
Aizawa’s movements slow, but never stop. He runs the flat face of his tongue against you until you gather the energy you shove him back. For a split second, a string of your cum ties between you and his mouth.
“Shit,” you breathe. Your surroundings feel more tangible suddenly. The sink drips, the walls echo the restaurant’s soft muzak, Aizawa’s cheeks glimmer with your wetness: it’s all suddenly real.
“I cannot believe-” He wipes his face on his sleeve.
“Shit,” you repeat. That was insane. You were insane! Your friend is waiting at the table, probably wondering what happened to you two-
“-that you let me do that. You came so--”
“Shit.” This is exactly what you needed. “I’ve never-”
Aizawa sits back on his knees with a stiff grunt. “Don’t tell me you’ve never orgasmed before.”
“No! I’ve totally-” You awkwardly shimmy up your pants and instantly regret it. It’s wet. It’s cold. “No one’s ever gone down on me before.”
Aizawa gives you the slowest, longest blink you’ve ever seen. Then, he shakes his head and stands up, brushing his pants off. You debate asking if his leg hurts, but decide against it. “How do you continuously say things that make me want to go insane?”
He huffs about it, but you’re starting to unravel the strings of affection he weaves into his sentences. You shrug, biting back your smile.
“I’m just special, I guess.”
Eyes closed, he gives you a nod, tempering himself.
“Go back to the table before we’re caught.”
Fuck-- that’s right. You two have been gone for long enough that it's starting to get suspicious. Besides, there’s going to be a line outside the door if you don’t get moving soon- if there isn’t a line already. You quickly check your outfit and adjust your hair in the mirror; your skin looks brighter than usual. The power of an orgasm, you guess.
“Don’t you want me to…?” You give a little jerk off motion and Aizawa rolls his eyes at the behavior-- as if he didn’t just eat your pussy in a fucking bathroom.
“I don’t want you to do anything to me,” he insists. He helps you off of the table with a hand, then ushers you towards the locked door. “I want to lay you down and eat you out until your brain factory resets like a cheap Macbook.”
He’s already done that, but okay, you could be down for more-
“But we are in a bathroom.” He gestures around him. “In a restaurant.”
You add: “With Hizashi waiting.”
“With Mic waiting. He’s smart- he’ll figure us out if we aren’t careful,” he agrees. “Now, get out there and cover me.”
Suddenly, Aizawa leans over and kisses you. It’s not deep, but you can taste your musk on his lips and that makes your spine thrill with excitement. It’s illicit in a way that makes you feel young and happy and, and, and-
And all those weird, indescribable highs you get when your brain is drowned in dopamine and oxytocin. For a fleeting moment, you reach out and grab his hands, holding on for only a squeeze.
“Your room tonight?” you ask when he pulls away. Your head is still racing, head still swimming-
He grimaces. “Yours has better pillows.”
“I brought them from home.” He was in your bed last night, in your pussy moments ago, but the fact he knows your pillow feels so strangely intimate. “I like silk pillowcases.”
The expression in his face softens, just at the crowed corner of his eyes. “Of course you do.” He jerks his chin towards the door. “Get going.”
“Sho-”
“Get.”
And you walk out with wobbly knees.
261 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Catalyst
Summary : In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Violence, death, trauma, grief, cursing, non-sexual nudity. Lots of Angst. Fluff in the beginning and end. Multiversal Travel.
Word count : 8.9k
Note : This story is meant to resemble a What If? episode. It is an exploration of what would happen to you and Bucky if the other died. I will refer to the main universe (MCU) as Earth-616 because Marvel is stupid and has decided that it’s not earth-19999 anymore. The fic is inspired by the song of the same title by Linkin Park. Also, I hope this story makes sense? Enjoy!
Earth-616…
The bathroom was quiet, save for the soft gurgle of water and the occasional drip from the faucet.
Bucky sat on the edge of the tub, bare and bruised, watching you with a tired smile.
The gash on his forehead was deep, an angry red against his skin, and his chest was peppered with smaller cuts and scrapes, remnants of yet another mission gone south. You stood in front of him, tilting his chin to clean the wound.
“You’re lucky this didn’t need stitches,” you murmured, focusing on your work.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Bucky said lightly, though you could tell he was exhausted. “I’m practically indestructible.”
You glanced up, narrowing your eyes at him, not finding any solace in his self-deprecating humour today. “No, you’re not, James.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave you that lopsided, charming smile, the one that always made your heart flutter— even when you were mad at him.
“Alright, my love,” you closed the tap. “Bath’s ready.”
Bucky stood slowly, groaning as he stretched. Before you could move away, he pulled you back toward him.
“Come take a dip with me,” he murmured.
You looked up at him. “I drew this bath for you—”
“Please,” he interrupted.
You hesitated, only a moment, before nodding. “Alright,” you said. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you off the hook for almost dying.”
He gave you a faint smile as you undressed.
The water enveloped you in warmth as you both sank into the tub. Bucky settled behind you, his legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. You leaned back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers absentmindedly traced his metal arm, feeling the ridges of the plating.
You closed your eyes, but the memory of his bloodied face lingered in your mind. The fear you felt when he walked through the door earlier that day—bruised and battered but alive—still held onto you.
Bucky’s lips pressed softly to the back of your head, pulling you from your thoughts. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured, his voice soothing your worries
You swallowed hard, finger frozen on his arm. “You just really scared me tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, arms wrapping tighter around you.
“Just… be more careful, please?” you said quietly. “There’ve been too many close calls lately. If something happened to you…” Your voice cracked as you drew in a shaky breath. “If I lost you, I don’t think I’d know how to put myself back together.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, grip strengthening on you. “Don’t even think about it.”
You tilted your head back, resting on his collarbone. “I mean it, James,” you whispered. “You’re everything to me.”
“You’ll never lose me,” he said, his conviction absolute. “I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”
“You’d fucking better,” tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you managed a small smile. “Or I’ll find a way to drag you back myself.”
Bucky chuckled softly. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
“Good,” you said, snuggling closer to him. “Maybe that’ll keep you in line.”
He kissed the back of your head again. The water lapped gently around you, the warmth easing the knots in your muscles, soothing the subtle throb in your heart.
After everything you’ve both been through, you were just happy he was here— alive.
•
Somewhere in a distant reality…
In this universe, Bucky Barnes didn’t cry at your funeral.
The rain came down in unrelenting sheets, soaking through the black suit he wore, but Bucky didn’t shiver. He didn’t flinch when the first heavy shovelful of dirt struck your casket, the dull thud echoing in his ears like a death knell. He stood apart from the others, an immovable statue at the edge of the grave, his hands limp at his sides, trembling ever so slightly— His face might as well have been carved from stone.
The sound of weeping surrounded him—your friends, your teammates, people you had saved. Each sob seemed to pierce his skin, sharp as broken glass, but still, Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry.
Bucky didn’t cry when the ground swallowed you whole.
He didn’t cry when Pepper, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, rested a firm hand on his shoulder. He didn’t cry when Sam placed a folded flag in his hands, whispering, “She was a hero.” He didn’t cry when Clint, voice hoarse, muttered, “She saved so many lives.”
He didn’t cry when Tony, uncharacteristically subdued, raised a glass to your memory that night, his hand trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple, Bucky stayed silent. He stared at the drink in his hand until it blurred into nothing.
But when he sat in the shadows of his apartment later, something deep inside him twisted.
He couldn’t stop replaying your death in his mind. Your final words, whispered through cracked lips and choked breaths, were for him. “You’re going to be okay, James.”
You had died saving them— saving the world. You had grabbed the infinity stones away from Tony, you had snapped so he didn’t have to. You did it because you couldn’t let anyone else make the sacrifice— you did it because Morgan needed a father.
But Bucky needed you.
And you were gone.
He had no more tears to give. He had shed them in the days leading up to your funeral, in suffocating quiet of the aftermath. He had cried until there was nothing left inside, until grief turned into a cold, sharp knife that carved your initials into his chest and refused to let him rest.
So he didn’t cry anymore.
But when the world fell away—when the comforting murmurs of others faded and he was left alone in the silence of the apartment you had shared—something inside him broke.
Bucky didn’t cry anymore, but that didn’t stop him grieving.
Bucky grieved like a soldier.
It was disciplined, bordering on mechanical. He scrubbed your presence from the apartment with clinical detachment, packing your things with military precision. Your clothes disappeared into boxes he refused to label. Your toiletries vanished from the bathroom like they had never been there.
He didn’t touch the photos, though. He left them right where you’d placed them. He didn’t move the jacket you always left draped over the back of the chair, didn’t even bring himself to wash the cup you’d left on the counter.
At night, when the apartment grew unbearably still, he would sit in the dark and trace his fingers over the curve of your handwriting in the little notes you’d leave him—Don’t forget milk! He would fiddle with the frayed fabric of the worn shirt that still smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He held it in his hands for hours, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Every mission after that was a blur of adrenaline and violence. As soon as he got pardoned, he threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, his mind a haze of desperation and anger, his body moving like a machine, like no part of him remained human.
He fought like a man trying to outrun himself.
He didn’t care if he made it back, didn’t care if he took a bullet—or fifty. Every blow he took was nothing compared to his own pain.
But nothing— none of the wounds, none of the cuts he sustained— brought him closer to you.
And when the fighting was done, in between missions when the world didn’t need him, he disappeared, abandoning your shared apartment because it made him think too much of you. He retreated to a remote cabin deep in the woods, a place so far removed from humanity where no one could find him.
No one, except for Stephen Strange.
—
It had been nearly six months since your death when Strange appeared on Bucky’s porch, his portal crackling in the fresh mountain air.
“Go away,” Bucky growled, not bothering to glance up from the knife he was sharpening. He had gone hunting again, determined not to rely on anyone else for his survival.
Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the glowing portal and onto the weathered wooden planks. His expression was grim, his tone desperate. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“What do you want?” Bucky’s voice was rough, his patience worn thin.
“It’s not about what I want,” Strange replied. “It’s what the multiverse needs.”
Bucky finally looked up, his blue eyes still sharp but exhausted. He’d been running on empty for months now. You weren’t there to steady him, to breathe life into the fragile space beneath his ribs when the nightmares were too much to bear. You weren’t there to wake up next to him. You weren’t there to pepper him with kisses when he thought he wasn’t good enough. You were gone.
“The multiverse can save itself,” he muttered, turning back to his blade.
Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”
Bucky let out a scoff, his hands gripping the sharpening stone. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly, his words landing like stones thrown into water.
The desperation in his voice made Bucky pause. He set the knife down with care, leaning back in his chair to glare at the sorcerer. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Strange wasn’t the type to hold back words, but even he seemed to hesitate. And then he said it—the name. Your name. The one Bucky hadn’t heard in weeks.
“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, feeling like an arrow had struck his chest.
Strange pressed on, undeterred. “A version of her exists in another universe. But she’s… no longer her.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
With a flick of his hand, Strange conjured an image: glowing strands of the multiverse weaving together, spinning until a vision appeared.
It was you—but… not you. Not his version of you.
Your face was twisted, your body cocooned in violent energy. Behind you, planets crumbled, swallowed by the raw power radiating from you.
Bucky reached out, his hand floating near the image that magic had willed into life.
He couldn’t fully grasp it—this alternate reality where you were alive, suffering, destroying. It didn’t make sense, how this could exist.
You were gone. You died in his arms.
The heart that beat for him— he felt it stop beneath his fingertips.
How could he possibly wrap his mind around this? That a fragment of your soul—some version of you—was out there, breathing, enduring.
Alive.
His throat tightened as he tried to speak, to force out even a single word, but he choked on his own tongue.
The multiverse. Or whatever Strange had called it. A few years ago, he’d have laughed it off as some nonsense, he wouldn’t’ve believed it. But after being snapped out of existence and then willed back into it by a handful of glowing galactic stones, Bucky Barnes, man out of time, knew better.
Now, he’d believe in absolutely anything. Especially if it meant he was believing in a world where you still existed.
“She’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice laced with dread. “A being of grief, capable of destroying entire worlds. If she’s not stopped, she’ll collapse the multiverse.”
Bucky stared at the image, his chest tightening. Was this really you, destroyer of worlds, of universes?
You couldn’t be capable of this.
You were kind, you were incapable of harming an innocent soul. He remembered the day a poisonous spider had wandered into the room. You refused to kill it, carefully guiding it out to the garage.
But now, as the memories came flooding back, doubt began to settle.
He had seen glimpses of another side of you, when you were alive. The fiery rage that consumed you after losing an old friend. The anger you brought into battle, wielded like an iron fist. It had been terrifying—a force of nature that no one could stand against. It was how you wielded the infinity stones long enough to do what needed to be done.
Now, looking at this image Strange had conjured, he wondered if that force had finally consumed you.
“You want me to go after her,” Bucky said flatly. He was certain of it.
“I want you to stop her.” Strange nodded. “Talk to her. You’re the only one she might listen to.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Strange’s gaze was unyielding. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.”
The words hit Bucky like a hammer to the chest. He turned away, gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white. “I can’t lose her again.”
Strange stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. “She would want you to do it.”
Bucky’s voice rose, his eyes filled with tears he would not let Strange see. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“No,” Strange admitted. “But I’ve seen what happens if no one stops her. Entire universes will fall. Countless souls will die. If you won’t do it for her, then do it for them.”
—
Bucky didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, the room blanketed in suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional creak of his wooden single bedframe as he shifted nervously.
In his hands, his gun seemed to glow under the moonlight filtering through the window.
He turned it over and over, fingers brushing the worn grip, the faint scratch on the barrel— one he remembered you making during a standard recon mission. You had scratched it, accidentally catching it with your knife.
You apologised profusely, and he said it was no big deal.
He then teased you for being too attached to your weapons— how your knives had little personal inscriptions, how you had cared for it like it had a soul. He, on the other hand, said that he felt indifferent to his weapons— said he didn’t want to get too sentimental.
You laughed, saying he was too dramatic. "It's just a tool, James. You’re the one who decides what it’s for."
Now, he wasn’t so sure what he wanted to use it for.
Strange’s words looped in his mind like a broken record: You’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.
The thought of pointing a gun at you made his heart drop.
He once promised to protect you, to be your safe haven. And now, a sorcerer had tasked him with destroying you in another universe. How could he ever make peace with that?
How could he pull the trigger on you?
But then another thought struck him: Strange was right. You would want him to.
You would forgive him if he had to kill you.
You always forgave him, no matter how many times he swore he didn’t deserve it, because you would understand that this needed to be done. If the situation were reversed, you’d do what needed to be done— because that’s who you were.
You were good— everything he aspired to be.
If you were alive, if you knew you had turned destructive— you would kill the Catalyst yourself.
As the hours dragged on, Bucky tried to think of another way, to fantasise a different ending for the sick story he existed in. What if there was a chance— however slim—to reach that version of you without violence? To pull you back from the brink and remind you who you were?
He knew he had to try, but he also knew what failure meant: countless lives lost, entire universes wiped from existence.
If he failed, this universe would be gone, along with all the memories of you. Along with your legacy.
Your sacrifice would be in vain.
He couldn’t let that happen.
The gun in his hands felt heavier now, the future hanging like a noose around his neck. The sun was just beginning to rise when he finally stood.
He had made his decision.
He didn’t bother to pack much—just his knife, the gun, and the dog tags he always carried, the ones you had once traced with your fingers when you thought he was asleep.
He knew he needed to do this mission.
Not for the world, not for the universe.
The multiverse could burn, for all he cared. He’s doing this because he knew you would want him to.
—
When Strange arrived at the cabin, the swirling portal casted an eerie light over his mostly empty living room.
Bucky’s face went grim. He didn’t say goodbye to the cabin, didn’t look back at the life he had built in solitude.
He never liked this cabin. Never liked this new life— he only went here because it was what you always wanted. You wanted to be away from the city, one with nature. You always wanted to build the rest of your life here. Back then, Bucky had agreed— but now it was just a reminder that he was living a hollow existence without you.
He stepped through the portal.
The overwhelming surge of energy as he entered the alternate universe was nothing compared to the pain his heart endured.
The world he had stepped into felt like the aftermath of a nightmare.
The sky was a sickly yellow, streaked with ash and smoke. The sun, barely visible through the haze, poured a dying light over the desolation below.
Buildings lay in ruins, their remains clawing at the sky. The ground was a wasteland of debris, littered with the wreckage of battles fought long before he arrived.
Ultron's remains were everywhere. His drones twisted, mangled, scattered across the landscape, half-buried in dirt or wedged into crumbling walls, some buried under concrete slab. Their empty eyes stared at nothing— stared at Bucky with emptiness.
Bucky adjusted his grip on his rifle and took a cautious step forward. The air was thick, stinging with the stench of burning metal and organic decay. He moved carefully, scanning his surroundings.
This wasn’t his world, but it was familiar enough for him to navigate through.
“Strange,” Bucky muttered under his breath, though the sorcerer had closed the portal. He pushed through, putting his Winter Soldier mask on “What the hell did you send me into?”
—
It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened. In this universe, Ultron had won, but not by slamming Sokovia into the Earth like an asteroid. Instead, his drone army had swept across the world, decimating everything in its path.
He found more evidence in a hollowed-out bunker near the remnants of what would have been Central Park. His name was scrawled across a rusted memorial wall alongside hundreds of others. His dog tags—this world’s version of them—hung from a nail driven into the cracked concrete.
Bucky stared at the tags for a long time. He could imagine the moment you had hung them there, your fingers shaking, your heart breaking.
This was the universe’s cruel twist: in this world, he had died in the battle against Ultron.
He had been the one ripped away from you.
The rest of the story came from whispers, fragments of information he gathered from the few survivors he encountered. Most were too broken, too terrified, to speak more than a few sentences, but they all spoke of one thing: the Catalyst.
“She wasn’t always like this,” one man had said, his voice trembling as he huddled in the corner of a makeshift shelter from scrap metal. “She used to be a hero. Fought against Ultron with everything she had. But when he killed Barnes—”
His breath hitched, knowing the mask obscured him from this civillian’s view.
“—She lost it. Hunted Ultron down, tore him apart with her bare hands. But then she… she took his parts. Built something with it.”
“Built what?” Bucky pressed, his stomach twisting.
“Armour. Weapons. Something stronger than anything the Avengers had. But it did something to her—got in her head, twisted her. She’s not human anymore. Not really. Just anger and grief and—and…”
“And power,” Bucky finished grimly.
The man nodded. “She destroyed Ultron. Destroyed his whole army. But she didn’t stop. She just kept tearing down everything in her path. Now she’s… she’s…. If you see her, you run. You don’t fight. You don’t talk. You run.”
—
That night, Bucky sat alone in the ruins of what would’ve been the Avengers tower. He stared at the fire he’d managed to build.
The image of you—this you, the Catalyst—was burned into his mind. He’d seen a glimpse of it through Strange’s portal, but now the reality of it was just starting to sink in.
You had always been so full of life, so determined to make the world a better place. How could you be the very thing tearing it apart in this universe? How could you let grief do this to you?
He clenched his fists. He should’ve gotten here earlier.
This version of him had failed you. He should’ve fought harder, been faster, or something. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have had to face Ultron alone. Maybe you wouldn’t have—
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault.”
He knew he could not control what this universe’s version of him did. But the guilt ate him up anyway.
—
The next day, he found the first sign of you.
In the centre of the ruins stood a towering monument of burned metal, forged from the remains of Ultron’s drones. It was a grotesque structure, its sharp edges gleaming like shark teeth in the dim light.
He looked around, realising this would’ve been the Rockefeller Center— where he had taken you on a date, ice skating in the cold winter with Christmas lights surrounding you.
Bucky approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he studied the details. The surface of the monument was etched with symbols—some binary, some human words.
This wasn’t just a monument. It was a warning.
She’s close, he thought, gripping his rifle tighter.
The ground trembled beneath his feet. Suddenly, a low hum rose in the air. He turned sharply, his heart pounding as the shadows moved around him.
And then he saw you.
You descended from the sky like a vengeful god, clad in sleek, silver armour forged from Ultron’s technology. It clung to you like a second skin, pulsing with an unnatural light. Your eyes glowed with the same energy, and the air around you crackled with raw power.
For a moment, Bucky couldn’t breathe. It was you— but at the same time, it wasn’t. It was the face he loved, the lips that once kissed him goodnight, the eyes that soothed him after he woke up from one of his nightmares. Yet something was wrong. This wasn’t entirely the person that had been his world. This version of you was twisted— destruction incarnate.
But he could not stop the leap of joy his heart made. At least you were alive.
“You’ve come to stop me,” you said, not even lifting your eyes. Your voice echoed unnaturally. It was layered, as if a hundred versions of you were speaking at once.
Bucky stood his ground, heart pounding as you, —no, the Catalyst— stood still. The pieces of Ultron’s remnants shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, stitched together into a terrible masterpiece that trapped you like a tomb. Your face—once warm and full of life—burned with an inhuman intensity, flickering like a dying sun.
“I’ve come to bring you back,” Bucky replied, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. Slowly, he took off his mask.
Your expression flickered, just for a moment. As if he was a crack in the armour.
You recognised the voice.
“You’re— ,” you whispered, your voice layered and fractured, distorted by grief and the technology that had consumed you. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “You came back to me.”
The words hit Bucky like a blow to the chest. I did, doll. He wanted to say. I will always come back.
But he knew this version of you wasn’t his, so he swallowed hard, keeping his rifle lowered.
You froze, your head tilting slightly as you studied him. You weren’t satisfied without an answer. “James?”
Bucky’s heart twisted. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of the person you had been, the love you had shared.
Kill me now, he thought, before I have to kill you.
But he knew the cost of that. He knew failing would mean he had failed you.
“I’m here to help,” he said softly.
You stepped closer, unsure whether to reach for him— a fragment of your old soul begging you to stop this madness — or strike him down— an instinct the Catalyst had developed. Your glowing eyes traced every inch of him, lingering on the scars lining his face, the haunted look in his eyes.
Your fingers twitched, and for a moment, you looked lost.
“You’re different,” you muttered to yourself. “The scars… the way you stand”
Realisation dawned, and with it, the fragile hope in your expression shattered. You took a step back, the electric storm around you surging to life again. “You’re not my James,” you hissed, your voice bitter.
Bucky didn’t flinch. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But I know what he meant to you. What you meant to him.”
“Why would someone else’s James come to me?” you demanded, your voice rising, the ground beneath you cracking with the force of your grief.
“Because I couldn’t save you in my world,” he said, his voice breaking. “But maybe I can save you here.”
For a moment, the storm faltered, the energy around you dimming. But then your eyebrows furrowed, hands curling into fist, your grief boiling over into fury.
“You think you can save me?” you snarled, your armour shifting as weapons emerged from its surface—cannons, blades, and glowing surges of energy. “You think you can take my pain away, make it disappear? You have no idea what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”
The first blast came without warning. Bucky barely had time to dive behind the concrete of a collapsed building as a searing beam of energy scorched the ground where he had stood.
“Don’t make me do this!” he shouted, rising from cover and firing a warning shot. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off your armour.
“You came here to kill me,” you spat, advancing the attack with terrifying precision. “Just like everyone else!”
“No!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he dodged another strike, rolling into a crouch and raising his hands. “I came here to stop this. To stop you.”
“And how do you think that ends?” you snapped, the storm of energy around you growing more volatile. “I know what I am. I’ve seen what I’ve done. There’s no stopping it.”
You lunged at him, your speed too quick for him to process. Bucky barely managed to block your strike, your armoured fist colliding with his vibranium arm in a deafening clash of metal. The force sent him skidding backward, but he held his ground.
“I know you’re still in there!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “I know you don’t want this!”
“I didn’t want any of this!” you screamed, unleashing a wave of energy that knocked him off his feet. “But he left me! He—he died, and I—” Your voice cracked, and for a brief moment, the storm flickered, your grief breaking through the madness.
Bucky scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t want this,” he said, his voice softer now. “I don’t want this.”
Tears streamed down your face, glowing faintly as they fell. “I can’t stop,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “It’s too much. It’s too—”
The storm surged again, and Bucky knew he was losing you.
“I’m sorry,” he said, gripping his rifle tightly. “I’m so sorry.”
You raised your hands, energy crackling between your fingers, but instead of attacking, you froze. A look of clarity crossed your face—a moment of realisation.
Bucky lowered his rifle once again.
“You can’t let this happen again,” you said quietly.
Before Bucky could respond, you turned your gaze to the glowing core embedded in your armour—the source of your power.
“No,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “Don’t—”
“It has to end,” you interrupted, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Promise me, James. Promise me you won’t let another version of me become this.”
“I can’t—”
“Promise me!”
His throat tightened, and he nodded. “I promise.”
A faint smile touched your lips, and then you placed your hand over the core. The energy around you flared brightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
And then, a blinding light flashed before his eyes. You cried a violent shriek as you cast yourself into nothingness.
When the light faded, Bucky stood alone in the ruins, the air eerily still. Your body was nothing but ash, armour scattered across the ruins. The glowing core was shattered, its energy dissipating into nothing.
Bucky dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at the spot where you had stood. He had lost you all over again.
He had failed you all over again.
—
Bucky stumbled through the portal Strange had opened for him, his body worn, his breaths shallow.
“It’s done,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. He dropped a silver shoulder piece, a part of your armour—a fractured piece of the nightmare you had become—onto the floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, in the space between them. “She’s gone.”
Strange nodded, but said nothing.
Bucky glared at him, his grief rapidly turning into anger. “You knew, didn’t you?” he growled, “You knew she went mad because she lost me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Strange met his eyes, “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“That’s it?” Bucky demanded, his voice rising. “I’ve lost her twice now, Strange. Twice. And I—” His voice broke, and he turned away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
No crying today. He’s grieved over you. He’s done.
No crying, Barnes, he insisted again.
“I wish it ended here,” Strange said quietly.
Bucky’s head snapped back sharply, his heart sinking deeper in the abyss it was already stuck in.
Strange hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “This wasn’t an anomaly,” he said finally. “In every universe I’ve observed, when you die, she becomes the Catalyst.”
He stumbled back a step, shaking his head. “That… that can’t be true.”
Strange’s gaze softened, but there was no comfort in his expression. “It is,” he said. “Her love for you is not only her greatest strength, but also her greatest weakness. Without you, her grief consumes her. It changes her.”
“So what?” Bucky spat bitterly. “You’re saying she’s doomed to destroy the multiverse?”
“No,” Strange said, his voice firm. “Not if you intervene.”
“You want me to… to do this again?” Bucky froze, his blood running cold. “To watch her die again?”
Strange’s silence was answer enough.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, wanting to pull them out so badly. “How many times, Strange?”
“As many as it takes,” Strange replied solemnly. “If we don’t act, the Catalyst will dismantle the multiverse, piece by piece. She doesn’t stop at her own world. Her grief is a hunger—a need to destroy everything, to erase the pain.”
Bucky sank onto a nearby chair, burying his head in his hands. The thought of facing yet another version of you—of seeing your face twisted by grief again, of failing to save you again—was unbearable.
But what choice did he have?
“Are you ready for this, Sergeant Barnes?” Strange asked.
“No,” Bucky admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his head, his eyes red. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
—
Every time Bucky stepped through another portal, he braced himself for the inevitable. Some universes were barely recognizable—worlds where humanity had advanced far beyond what he’d known, some were distant worlds ruled by psychopathic overlords.
But in every one, you were the same. You met him. You fell in love with him— some evil villain decimated Earth, and this world’s version of Bucky perished in the fight.
When he was gone, your grief forged you into the Catalyst— destroyer of whatever force had destroyed earth, salvaging your victims’ weapons to make you more powerful.
Sometimes your armour was made from Ultron, like before. Other times, it was pieces of Thanos’ gauntlet, or the living metal of Ego the Living Planet. In one universe, you wielded the shattered fragments of Mjölnir.
You weren’t even close to worthy, but your grief was so powerful that you had bent enchanted Asgardian steel into submission.
Each encounter started the same way.
You mistook him for your James. There was always that flicker of hope in your eyes, that fragile moment where you thought he had come back to you.
But then you noticed the differences—the scars, the way he moved, the subtle sadness in his eyes.
And the hope turned to rage.
“Who are you?” you would demand, furious. “Why do you look like him?”
Bucky tried reasoning with you every time, pleading for you to stop, to let go of the grief that consumed you. But it never worked. The madness always took hold, and the fight always began.
In the end, you always destroyed yourself. It’s as if he was doomed to watch— doomed to be a captive audience to your death— over and over and over again.
—
The first time Bucky killed the Catalyst, it nearly broke him.
He had spent weeks, maybe months, tracking you in this icy universe. In this universe, Frost Giants took over. Bucky had been killed somewhere along the lines, and you took Loki’s staff and matters into your own hands.
When he saw you there, standing in a cloak of fur and leather, you radiated power.
And yet, behind the glowing eyes, he could still see you. The way you tilted your head when you studied him, the smallest flicker of hesitation before you struck.
He had prepared for this. Every movement, every breath, every strike was calculated, the result of months of relentless study. He’d learned how to predict the devastating surges of energy you unleashed, how to exploit the brief seconds when your guard faltered. You were stronger, faster, almost unstoppable—but almost wasn’t enough.
When he finally got to you, he only hesitated for a second before stabbing you.
No. What have I done?
A desperate wail tore from his throat as tears burned his eyes, spilling over like a shattered dam. He cried— for the first time in months— as he watched the light in your eyes fade.
Bucky knelt beside your dying body, whispering useless apologies as he cradled you in his arms. You looked up at him. You didn’t look at him with grief. Not anger. Not hatred. Maybe relief. Maybe love.
And then, as life drained from your eyes, the multiverse seemed to hold its breath.
You were gone.
Again.
He had finally convinced himself that he had to kill you. He could no longer endure your suffering. Every moment of your self-destruction had been nightmare fuel—your anguished cries, your desperate screams— It was unbearable. He loved you too deeply to continue watching you suffer.
Now, he was certain— ending your life, giving you a swift death,was the only way he could stomach this mission.
—
The Catalyst was powerful in every universe, but Bucky learned how to fight you better. Most times now, he was able to kill you, to put you out of your misery because he outmanoeuvred you, predicting your attacks like a ghost of every battle you’d ever had. Other times, he got there too late, and you destroyed yourself, unleashing a final burst of power so immense it annihilated your very existence.
Those times were harder.
Watching you choose to end it. Watching you fall apart in his arms, whispering words he couldn’t always hear.
Still, everytime, he took a piece of you.
He didn’t know why he reached out to gather the shattered remains of your armour. Sometimes it was a gauntlet, still glowing faintly with residual energy. A shard of the crystalline crown that marked your reign as the Catalyst. Sometimes it was Loki’s scepter.
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was guilt. He tucked the fragments into his pack and walked away, feeling like he had salvaged a part of you.
At first, he thought it was a way to remember you. The woman you had been, not the Catalyst you had become. But over time, the collection grew into a monument to his failure. Each weapon, each ruined piece of armour was a reminder of what it cost to keep going. To try and save you. To survive you. To kill you.
And still, he couldn’t stop.
The multiverse demanded it. The Catalyst always returned, more powerful, and Bucky would be there, each time, with the weight of a hundred battles on his shoulders and memories of the woman he loved. He’d fight. He’d win.
He’d lose you again.
And he’d carry another piece of you, knowing it would never be enough to make him whole.
So, over time, missions chipped away at him, piece by piece.
He didn’t smile anymore. He barely spoke, even when Strange tried to comfort him. His humanity felt like a distant memory, buried beneath the endless cycle of loss.
Once, in a rare moment of quiet, Strange tried to reason with him.
“You don’t have to do this alone, Barnes,” he said. “I’ve talked to Clint, Bruce, and Sam. They said they’d help.”
Bucky shook his head, his expression hollow. “It has to be me. I’m the only one she listens to. Even if it’s just for a second.”
Strange didn’t argue.
—
This time, he was so devastatingly close to saving you— it was the only time you had let him reason with you. The only time you had let him talk longer than a few seconds.
In this universe, you had taken the remains of Ronan the Accuser’s hammer, merging it with Kree technology to create an unstoppable weapon. You were a force of nature, cutting down armies and leaving entire planets in ruin.
Bucky fought you for hours, trying to get through because he saw a chance. His body was battered and broken by the end. But as he stood over you, your armour cracked and your face visible beneath your helmet, you looked up at him with tears in your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice faint.
Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he reached for you. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “There’s still a chance—”
“You’re still my James, aren’t you?” you interrupted, your hand brushing his cheek. “You love me in every universe, the way I love you.”
“Don’t leave,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave me again.”
Your smile was soft, bittersweet. “I never really left, James. I’m always going to be a part of you.”
And then you were gone again, an agonising cry as you self-destructed.
He was alone again.
—
As long as there were universes to save, as long as there was a chance to save you, he would keep fighting—no matter the cost.
Today shouldn’t’ve been any different.
He stepped through the portal with his usual grim frown, expecting to face another version of you consumed by grief, transformed into the Catalyst.
But what he found instead… was peace.
The world was whole. The sky wasn’t scorched, cities still stood tall and bustling, and the air hummed with life. It felt… normal.
And then he saw you.
You were sitting at a small café on a sunlit street, your hair loose, a soft smile playing on your lips. There was no armour, no glowing energy, no storm of grief around you. You looked like the person he remembered—the person he had loved.
He died in this universe, too— he knew as much. You had his dog tags around your neck, carrying a piece of him everywhere.
It took time for him to piece together what had happened, but he eventually got it.
In this universe, Bucky had been the one who took the gauntlet from Tony. He had been the one who snapped the stones.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than pain. He watched you laugh, the sound a beautiful melody he thought he’d forgotten.
In this universe… you were happy.
For days, Bucky stayed hidden in the shadows, watching you from a distance. It was wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed you through your routines—your morning coffee, your walks through the park, the way you waved at the children playing by the water fountain.
You hadn’t become the Catalyst.
Strange was wrong, Bucky thought, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. Not every version of you succumbed to grief. In this universe, you had found a way to move forward, to live.
And maybe… maybe he could, too.
The thought crept into his mind slowly. What if he stayed? What if he stepped into this world and introduced himself to you? Would you recognize something in him, a fragment of the love you had shared in another life? Could you fall for him again?
Could he be happy?
Could the two of you put the pieces back together again?
For the first time in years, Bucky allowed himself to dream of a life beyond grief and guilt. A life with you, as he once had.
He imagined walking up to you at that café, asking if he could join you. You’d be confused, maybe a little wary at first, but he’d win you over. He’d tell you about the man he used to be, the battles he’d fought, the people he’d lost. He’d tell you how much he loved you still. And you’d tell him about your James, how similar he was to him.
Maybe, in time, you’d fall in love with him again.
But then he saw Steve coming home from a mission.
It was a perfect day— the sun was warm, the breeze gentle, the streets alive with chatter. Bucky stood at a distance, watching you in the park, his heart full of hope, something he thought he’d never feel again.
And then Steve Rogers appeared.
He walked up to you with that shy confidence Bucky had known since they were kids. You stood when you saw him, your face lit up in a way that made Bucky’s stomach twist.
Steve pulled you into his arms, and you went willingly, laughing as he spun you around.
Bucky felt the air leave his lungs.
He watched as Steve kissed you, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. And you kissed him back.
It wasn’t fair.
Bucky's knees nearly buckled, as he turned away. His chest caved in, feeling like his heart had been ripped out and crushed into a million little pieces. The fragile hope he'd clung to for the last couple of days was torn from him as quickly as it appeared.
Your laughter echoed faintly in his ears, a cruel reminder that chased him as he stumbled toward the portal Strange had opened. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped.
He was no soldier, no saviour—just a broken man, haunted by dreams that would never be his.
—
When Bucky returned, Strange's eyes lingered on him for too long.
Bucky wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts like he usually was, but somehow he looked…. worse. The exhaustion ran deeper this time, as if the scars were invisible. “You stayed longer than usual in this one,” Strange observed.
Bucky ignored his statement. “You were wrong,” he muttered instead. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unable to meet Strange’s. “She wasn’t The Catalyst in this one.”
Strange froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s happy here, after my death. W-with Steve.” He finally looked up, the emptiness in his eyes enough to make even Strange flinch. “She moved on, and she’s... she’s still… her.
Strange’s eyebrows softened. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone measured, regretful. “But this is the exception, the rule. The Catalyst is still out there.”
Bucky let out a bitter laugh, but it held no humour. Only defeat.
He ran a hand over his face before dragging his fingers through his hair. His shoulders slumped under the weight of this endless mission.“I…” he started, his voice strained. “I’m never... I’m never gonna be happy. Am I?”
Strange had no answer for him.
—
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in Kamar Taj, staring at the collection of armour pieces he had gathered from the other universes. Each shard was a reminder of the battles he’d fought, the versions of you he had lost.
And now, he had been cursed with the knowledge that not every version of you that lost him succumbed to grief.
The knowledge that you were happy in that world. That you had found love again, and it wasn’t with him. That no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many universes he visited, it seemed there was no version of him that could have you.
It was cruel.
You had once told him he was the strongest person you knew, but in that moment, he felt like anything but. He had fought armies of aliens, faced death over and over again, but this… this was too much.
Bucky clenched his fists, his metal hand creaking under the pressure. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to let out the unbearable weight crushing his chest.
Instead, he picked up one of the shards of your armour—a jagged, glowing piece from an Ultron world. He held it in his hand, his reflection distorted in its surface.
“I’m happy for you,” he whispered, his voice cracking, insincere. “Even if it’s not with me.”
Bucky placed the shard on his shoulder, the first piece of the armour.
It felt right— like the power of a thousand suns starting to surge towards him.
He didn’t cry.
He never did anymore.
Because no matter how many universes he visited, how many battles he fought, how many versions of you he saved or lost, he knew one thing would never change:
You would never be his again.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you kissing Steve, your laughter echoing in his skull.
Why should they have happiness, when he was condemned to grieve for eternity?
Why should any universe be allowed to thrive, when his own existence was empty, meaningless?
He began by rearranging the pieces of your armour he had collected from the other universes. Each fragment gleamed with a faint, residual energy— remnants of the immense power you had wielded as the Catalyst. He spent weeks forging his own armour.
What started as just your shoulder pieces extended to more.
He reforged the chest piece a version of you got from the Kree, then a gauntlet you ripped off of Thanos when the Infinity Stones had been destroyed. It grew and grew until every piece of him was covered in fragments of you.
When the work was done, he stood before a mirror, clad in the armour of his own making. It was a haunting reflection of yours, humming with fragment stolen power. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him.
“That’s the point,” he muttered to himself, almost annoyed.
When the destruction started, the first universe fell quickly.
Bucky tore through its defences like a force of nature, his new armour amplifying his strength and speed. He dismantled its protectors—heroes and villains alike—efficiently. He left the cities in ruins, their skies dark with smoke, their people screaming in terror.
No one deserved peace when he couldn’t have it.
—
Stephen Strange felt the disturbance immediately. The multiverse’s fragile threads started to unravel as Bucky’s rampage spread across realities.
At first, Strange couldn’t believe it.
Bucky Barnes, the man who had fought so hard to save the multiverse, was now its greatest threat.
Strange had hoped that by guiding Bucky, he could break the cycle of grief and destruction. Instead, reversed it.
James Buchanan Barnes was now The Catalyst.
—
Strange arrived in a quiet, dimly lit apartment in yet another universe. The air was filled with the scent of coffee and rain, and the sound of your muffled sobs echoed through the space.
Yet another version of you sat on the floor, clutching a photograph of Bucky—your James—to your chest. In this universe, he was gone, just as Strange had calculated.
“Get out, Strange.” you demanded, your voice hoarse when Strange stepped through the portal into your living room. Your eyes were red and puffy, so utterly defeated.
Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the portal and onto the ceramic tiles of the apartment. His face was grim, his tone measured. He called your name to draw you out from the grief, even if only momentarily
“What do you want?” Your voice was raw, your patience long gone.
“It’s not about what I want. It’s what the multiverse needs.”
You finally looked up, your eyes sharp with exhaustion. You had been running on empty for months. You didn’t have Bucky here to hold you. To kiss you when you needed him to. To ground you in this existence. “The multiverse can save itself.”
Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”
You scoffed, turning back to the photo of Bucky you cradled in your arms. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly.
The desperation in his tone made you pause. You set the photo down and leaned back, staring at the sorcerer with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Strange hesitated for a moment before speaking.
Then he said it: the beautiful name you haven’t heard in weeks— “it’s about Bucky.”
“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice a low growl.
Strange pressed on, unflinching. “A version of him exists in another universe. But he’s not who you remember.”
“What does that mean?”
Strange conjured an image with a flick of his hand, the glowing strands of the multiverse twisting together to form a vision. It was him—but not your James. His face was twisted in anguish, his body surrounded by a swirling storm of energy. Planets crumbled in the distance, consumed by the raw power emanating from him.
“He’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice heavy. “A being driven by grief, powerful enough to destroy entire worlds. If he’s not stopped, he’ll collapse the multiverse.”
You stared at the image, his chest tightening. It wasn’t possible. Bucky was gone. He was dead.
“You want me to go after him,” you said, your voice flat.
Strange shook his head. “I want you to stop him. Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Strange’s gaze was unrelenting. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing him.”
—
In the vast expanse of the multiverse, the roles have reversed but the tragedy remained unchanged.
Somewhere, in a distant reality, Strange watched the threads of the timelines twist and tangle. He knew the truth, the one neither of you could see:
That as long as one of you lost the other, the cycle would never break.
•
Back in Earth-616…
After some playful back and forth splashing, you both decided it was time to get out of the bath.
You stepped out first, shivering from the cool tile beneath your feet, grabbing a towel. Bucky followed, water dripping from his hair onto his chest.
He took the towel from your hands and draped it around your shoulders. He wrapped the fabric tightly around you, as if he was protecting you from whatever evil may want to reach you.
Without warning, he pulled you into a hug. His lips brushed against your damp hair as you closed your eyes, sinking into the safety of his embrace.
After a while, you shifted in his arms, your hands finding another towel that hung from the wall behind him.
The corners of your lips tugged up in a playful smile as you began patting him dry, earning a soft chuckle from your supersoldier boyfriend. He didn’t stop you— he never could when you insisted on taking care of him.
So instead, he just watched you with that lovesick expression that made your heart do cartwheels.
Neither of you spoke; you didn’t need to. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, and your fingers traced patterns along the scars that marked his skin.
As much as you hated seeing him hurt, you knew that he was safe. And that’s all that mattered.
Because, in this universe, you were so blissfully unaware of the fragility of this peace, the fragility of your emotions. You remained unaware that in countless other universes, losing each other had broken you both. Unaware that in most other realities, there was no escape from the sadness that came with the death of one and not the other.
But in this one, none of that mattered. Because here, in this small bubble of love, you would keep each other grounded.
So as long as you both lived, you would stay blissfully unaware of the horrors your variants had to endure.
-end.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#james buchanan barnes#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#james bucky barnes#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes x reader fluff#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes x reader angst#the winter soldier#winter soldier#catws#fatws#marvel thunderbolts#thunderbolts#bucky barnes comfort#bucky barnes hurt/comfort#bucky barnes x y/n#sebastian stan#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan imagine#marvel fanfic
179 notes
·
View notes
Text
Her name is Alana De Riva. She was a slave in Tevinter, but got freed and joined the Antiva Crows after she helped Viago(pre-talon) get in her former master's mansion to assassinate him.
She is chaotic good. Sometimes too chaotic, sometimes too good
Elf and mage
Possibly in Antiva, maybe captured by the Antaam after she freed their prisioners
It's a mix between the postive one and the joking one
Bellara, Neve, Harding and Taash
Lucanis
None one really, poor thing has zero sense of self preservation
She loves the crows, they are the only family she has known and its very grateful for the part they played on her fleeing slavery but Viago fears she is too soft for the job sometimes and that might be her downfall
No, but she has sweet singing voice, nothing professional or anything but she used to sing to the others slaves to soothe them and does the same for the crows fledglings after they had particulary tough training day
Dagger and orb - she is not picky about which one
She is very curious and experimental, don't think she has come to a conclusion on that matter
It's her job. She will enjoy it though if she thinks someone desarves it.
She hadn't have much time for hobbies since she pretty much went from being slave, to crow training to save the world from elven gods but since she moved to Antiva she is been training to learn how to draw and paint. She wants to paint the landscapes at night.
Viago is big brother to her (or maybe like a grumpy dad?) and she looks up to Teia. She is also as close as one can get to the current Heir from the crows bc they were recruited at the same time and trained together. She got super starstruck when she met Dorian because she remembered her master's hatred of him, she admired him for speaking up against slavery in Tevinter ever since. She hates the first warden guts. And she can't forgive Illario after what he put Lucanis through, even if he does.
After meeting Assan, Griffons, for sure. I have a headcanon that she often visits his brothers and sisters in Arlathan forest and even bonded with one of them
Yes, she is very thankful for get the chance to see all the world because it's something she never thought she'd be able to do as a slave.
Probably working with the crows, trying to think of way to end the Antaam occupation.
Probably because she was too good for her own good. Doing some not so well thought out selfless, self sacrificing act. Viago will be pissed.
She would fight him, but like, try to talk things over first for the Inquisitor's sake.
She is specially proud of her eletric magic because it is effective and she manages to wield it with some flair (as a crow should)
Tevinter and Antivan. She knows some elven and curse words in Qunari that Taash taught her
She would try to be optimistic and push through the crises so when it's finally over I think she has no energy to do anything. After the events of the endgame she might need a few days in bed, cuddling with Lucanis before she can function again
She is not very spiritual or religious, so no. She caught some mannerism and habits from the Andrastian faith but isn't a firm believer herself.
Spell blade, she incorporates her crow training to her magic fighting style.
A tiny and energetic dog, will bite you and cuddle with you with the same passion
She had just turned into a full fledged crow, so there was a lot of being (happily) bossed around by Viago
She considers heself the leader but listen to everyone and specially asks Harding for advise since she had been working with Verric the longest and also has the experience in the Inquisition
The shadow dragons, she'd love to help free other slaves. She'd have a great time with the Lords of Fortune too.
She is kind, didn't let the cruelty and horrors she experience turn her bitter. She is full of life and face the worlds with an open chest and open heart
Rook Questionnaire
inspired by @cassieuncaged's BG3 Character Development Questions but for Rook instead!
1: Where in the Thedas is your Rook from?
2: What is your character's alignment?
3: Race and subclass?
4: If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found?
5: What emotion did they usually pick?
6: What companion are you platonically close with?
7: Romantically close with?
8: Who are they suspicious of?
9: Does your Rook get along with their chosen Faction?
10: Are they proficient in playing any instruments?
11: Weapon of choice?
12: What is their orientation?
13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?
14: What hobbies does your Rook have?
15: What NPCs do they like? Which one's do they dislike?
16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Thedas?
17: Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?
18: What would your Rook be doing if they weren't recruited by Varric?
19: How do you think they'll meet their end?
20: Would they side with Solas or fight him?
21: What is your Rook's favorite ability?
22: What languages is your character fluent in?
23: What do they do after an absolute crisis?
24: Does your character believe in the afterlife?
25: What specialization best represents your Rook?
26: What animal best represents your Rook?
27: What was their life like before the events of Veilguard?
28: Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?
29: If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why?
30: What's your favorite thing about your Rook?
#dragon age#or ask me!#veilguard#rook#lucanis x rook#rookanis#dragon age the veilgaurd spoilers#crow!rook#antivan crows#viago de riva#lucanis dellamorte#dragon age lucanis#lucanis romance
805 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Proposal AU! (part three)
Summary: when your boss Agatha faces the threat of deportation, she convinces you to marry her in return for a promotion- and things only get more complicated with a trip to Salem, an eccentric tarot-card-reading aunt, and a homophobic mother to convince.
Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader
TW: deportation (which I admit I know very little about I'm not American lol) suggestive themes, sort of arranged marriage
W.C: roughly 1.4k words
PARTS: ONE, TWO
As soon as you left Hayward’s office, Agatha started furiously typing on her phone, the crease between her brows growing deeper with each step out the building. You simply followed; uncertain of what else you were meant to be doing right now. Packing, you supposed. But your first priority was to get some information out of the woman, who was currently on a mission to remove herself from the building, striding at least three steps ahead of you at all times.
It wasn’t until you were both sitting in the taxi that you finally had the chance to speak. “So…” You started, paused, then realised she wasn’t going to put her phone down anytime soon. You sighed. “We’re going to Salem?”
“Unfortunately,” Agatha murmured. “If I can get in contact with my mother, that is.” She spat, resuming her frantic typing.
You scowled, leant closer to peak at the phone screen and tried desperately to ignore the way her perfume pleasantly filled your nostrils. Something about being in close proximity with Agatha was mesmerising. It always had been, but it seemed this latest situation was worsening your complex feelings towards her. If someone asked you to label it, you would say admiration, but deep down you knew it was something greater than that. You simply refused to acknowledge it.
“So, you weren’t originally going to visit?”
Despite having to be involved in Agatha’s life, you had never heard her talk about her family. Not once. It didn’t surprise you. It was near impossible to picture the woman in any scenario other than sitting behind a desk, winding up one of your coworkers for their incompetence, or shmoozing a business deal. Although you imagined her prickly personality had to come from somewhere, and shuddered to think what her mother might be like.
“No.” Agatha scoffed. “I try my best to stay as far away from family gatherings as possible.”
“I’m guessing you’re not close…?” You questioned, slow and cautious.
“God no.” She shook her head, strands of hair coming loose from the vehement movement. “I want nothing to do with my mother and her coven of freaks.”
You tutted, suppressing a smirk at her colourful choice of language. But instead of pursuing the topic further, you turned to look at the scenery flying past the window. “Shouldn’t have mentioned it to Hayward then…”
“Well, with your parents ever so conveniently out of the country, it did appear suspicious that we wouldn’t tell a single soul.”
“Could’ve eloped.” You murmured.
“Sorry, darling.” Agatha droned; her tone petulant. “Next time I’ll set us up a nice horse-drawn carriage down to the registry office.”
You took in a deep breath, ignoring the surge of irritation at her smarminess, something you recognised you would have to learn to cope with for the next painful while. You had no idea how long this whole process would take, and realised with a sudden stab of guilt that you would have to eventually inform your parents of this decision.
If you explained it was to keep your boss’ position at the company, rather than any dumb, spontaneous act of love, they would surely understand, right?
“Agatha?” You called, met by a hum of acknowledgement. “Are you telling your family the real reason for this marriage, or are we going to have to keep faking it?”
“Oh, my mother’s a raging homophobe.” Agatha chuckled bitterly, refusing to meet your eyes. “If she doesn’t immediately kick you out, I’m going to enjoy riling her up.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
At last, Agatha’s focus was diverted from her phone as she looked briefly over to you, mildly intrigued by your perseverance. “I was just going to see how it went when we get there.” She replied, shrugging.
“Great…”
“And until then, don’t mention this to a single soul.” Agatha jabbed an accusatory finger in your direction. “We continue as normal for the next day and a half, with me singlehandedly driving this company to success, and you following me about all dazed and heart-eyed.”
“What!” You protested. “I do not follow you about, nor do I have heart eyes!”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” She smirked, radiating an irritating charm that had you forgetting how to breathe for a second. You wrung your hands about anxiously in your lap, willing yourself to relax.
“Our flight leaves at 6pm on Friday, so we’ll have to go straight from work,” Agatha said, changing the subject. “You can hide your luggage in my office, and we’ll have my driver pick us up so that saves that hassle…”
She trailed off suddenly, and despite your insistence on not getting too caught up in the intricacies of your boss’ behaviour, you peaked over at her. Just like earlier in the immigration office, she was chewing at her lip, this time with a faraway expression. You frowned, sensing she was nervous about something. It set you slightly on edge to see her this way. Agatha was never nervous. Big meetings didn’t faze her, important deadlines never stressed her out and public speaking was like a second nature to her. Where once this bravery had been sickeningly envious, its disappearance now gave you concern.
Agatha was a mystery to you, one you were reluctant to address, yet desperate to understand.
---
Agatha flopped down onto her desk chair with a huff, allowing her head to fall backwards and feeling her neck crack with the movement. The tension that racked her body seemed to grudgingly resist lessening, and she considered whether she ought to just take the remainder of the day off. But that would be suspicious...
She loathed the idea that her every decision was being monitored but dreaded to imagine the other option: moving back home, back in her mother’s grasp. She hadn’t seen the woman in over ten years, and to think now that she would spend the weekend in her company… Agatha groaned, letting her face crash forward into her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut, and in the darkness saw only her mother, pictured how she would be reacting to the news that Agatha would be joining them for part of the trip.
As per usual, her attempt to reach out to her mother had been met by silence. She was starting to suspect her number was blocked, and thus Agatha had instead chosen to inform Lilia Calderu about this impromptu reunion. The woman was cooky, but kind. She had always been Agatha’s one ally within the family, and since her emancipation, was the only one who had bothered to stay in contact.
As if abruptly summoned from her thoughts, Agatha’s phone buzzed across the table, likely holding more information from Lilia. With a sigh, she reached forward to raise the lit screen into her eye line, yet was surprised to be met by another’s name
[4:10pm] Jennifer Kale: you’re coming to Salem????
Agatha chuckled, though not out of humour. Jen was one of the many people her mother seemed to just acquire. It was a terrible feature of Evanore Harkness: that the crazy gravitated towards her, became involved in their family and never left.
The word ‘family’ didn’t quite sit right with Agatha. It was more like a cult.
[4:11pm] Agatha Harkness: I am. I take it you’re still hanging about?
[4:12pm] Jennifer Kale: well when you abandoned ship someone had to replace you.
Agatha scoffed, ignoring the wave of irritation at Jen’s phrasing. She was irreplaceable. Though the idea that her own mother should even try to swap one daughter out for another didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Nonetheless, it still hurt. Agatha crossed her arms over her chest, deciding to pursue the conversation no further.
[4:15pm] Jennifer Kale: Lilia mentioned you were bringing a plus-one. who is she?
At this, Agatha’s loathing softened ever so slightly. Jen was one of the few that had supported her coming out, had even attempted to defend her from Evanora’s outrage. She picked the phone back up, feeling a smile grace her lips as she started to type.
[4:15pm] Agatha Harkness: someone I’ve been seeing for a while. She’s nice. You’ll like her.
The message was a simple lie, but it did the job.
Still, reading it back Agatha found she had a lot more to say about you…
NEXT PART
167 notes
·
View notes
Text
Good Boy
Summary: He’s been such a good puppy. You want nothing more than to reward him on his special day.
Pairing: Johnny x reader
Word Count: 5,527 words
Warnings: Pet play, mommy kink, puppy!Soap, sex toys, breeding kink, dom/sub dynamics, spanking (it’s like one), anal fingering, vaginal fingering, masturbation, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, lingerie,
A/N: This is the first kinktober fic I wrote for this year, but I ultimately decided not to do a version for Kyle. It just fits Johnny perfectly and I’m honestly proud of it. Posted it on Patreon back in early October but decided to post it here for everyone to enjoy
MASTERLIST
You can hear the slight rattle of the kennel before you even have the front door closed. You take your time, kicking off your heels, placing your keys in the drawer, going to the kitchen to put the groceries away. Quiet, pathetic whining reaches your ears, the quiet scuff of movement on the plastic crate pan. He must have bunched his bed up again.
Silly dog.
You flip through the mail casually, tossing junk in the recycling and setting aside what you can only assume is a birthday card from your parents. The whining gets louder and more consistent. You let out a quiet sigh, tempted to open the card now and make him wait, but you'll be a good owner and give him the attention he's so desperate for.
Poor thing has been locked up all day.
Your feet pad quietly towards the living room, dress pants dragging quietly on the wood. You'll have to get these dry cleaned later. The whining gets louder as you approach, the metal exterior of the kennel rattling as he moves around in anticipation.
You round the corner, pausing in the archway separating the living room from the hallway. Your dog, your sweet boy, is kneeling in his kennel, pressed up against the door in excitement. Tufts of hair stick through the top as he waits for you to scratch him through the bars like you always do. You can imagine his tail wagging happily, if he had one.
“Did you miss me?” You ask, not moving towards the kennel.
“Yes, mommy.” He whines, pressing harder against the cage, so hard his skin begins to push out between the gaps in the metal.
You let out a sigh, finally approaching. “Stop it. You'll leave marks on your skin. You know mommy hates that.”
He lets out a whine, but does as he's told, moving away from the side of the cage, but he keeps his head pressed against the top.
“Good boy.” You praise him, bending down to scratch his head through the bars.
His hair is soft between your fingers. He'd had a mohawk when you picked him out and brought him home. You let him keep it, finding it endearing. It gives him character. Fits him perfectly.
“Were you a good boy today?” You ask, pulling your hand away, bending down further, placing your hands on your knees. Your breasts push up, visible thanks to the few buttons you'd undone on your work shirt as you drove home from your after work errands. There's even a sliver of your bra showing. Blue, his favorite color.
His eyes are trained on your breasts, licking his lips. His whole body is wiggling excitedly, his cock swinging between his legs, back and forth almost like a tail might. He's distracted, drool starting to drip out of his mouth just from the sight of your cleavage.
To be fair, you had been denying him all week in preparation for today.
You reach through the top of the cage again, fingers gripping his hair and tugging until his head is forced against the top of the kennel. “Mommy asked you a question.”
He lets out a pathetic whine, thick fingers curling between the thin metal bars at the top of the kennel. “Sorry mommy.” He pouts, giving you puppy eyes as he apologizes. You can't help but soften as those big blue eyes begin to glisten with tears. “I was the best boy today.”
You hum, releasing his hair. You scratch his scalp as you eye the bed pushed against the back of the crate. “You messed your bed up.” His water and snack bowls are empty, shoved to the back of the crate with his bed.
“Too excited.” He whines.
You hum again, standing up straight. His eyes follow you, head shifting against the top of the cage. “Is my little pup excited about today?”
He nods, his fingers flexing on the metal bars. “Yes, mommy.”
“I got you a surprise.” You say, turning to the side table across from his kennel, digging the key from the drawer. “To celebrate.”
“What is it?” He asks, getting excited again.
“Well, that wouldn't make it much of a surprise, would it?” You tease, turning back to the kennel.
He lets out an eager whine, leaning against the front of the cage.
“Do you need to go potty?” You ask, bending down in front of the cage again.
“Please mommy. Real bad.” He begs.
You do feel bad. He has been locked up all day, and you had taken the time to run some errands after work. You've tried letting him have free reign of the house. It lasted a day. You'd come home from work to find him desperately humping your pillow, a pair of dirty panties he'd pulled from your laundry basket pressed against his nose. He'd made quite a mess, and so you had to go back to putting him in the crate every time you left.
“Can you be a big boy and use the bathroom, or do we need to go outside?” You ask.
He whines as he thinks for a moment. “Bathroom, please.”
You hum, putting the key in the padlock that keeps him from opening the cage. It's more to keep him from escaping to romp around the house and make another mess. He wouldn't leave the house, though. He has no reason to. He can get out in the case of an emergency, but he's a good boy. He does as he's told...most of the time.
You open the door to the crate, letting him crawl out. You turn the TV off as he takes a moment to stretch, joints creaking from being shut in the confined space. It's no small crate, the biggest you could find. Still, it doesn't leave him much room for moving around.
You'll have to book him a massage this weekend. Get those muscles loosened up again.
“Come on, pup.” You say, nudging him with your foot in the direction of the downstairs bathroom. “Let's go potty.”
He crawls on all fours towards the bathroom, slow going after being cooped up all day. You don't rush him, walking slowly behind him. The tags on his collar clink with every waddling shuffle on his hands and knees.
He crawls into the bathroom and you turn on the light. He shifts up onto his knees, using the edge of the sink to pull himself onto his feet. You watch him as he stands, joints cracking again. He stretches, arms up over his head, the muscles in his back moving as he does.
Sometimes you forget just how big he is.
It's easy when he's crawling around on all fours to make him small in your mind. It's not until he's standing that you remember just how broad he is.
5'11, roughly 200 pounds. That's what his profile said when you were searching for a new puppy. Your previous one had decided to leave, a mutual agreement. He had only been in training, and decided the lifestyle wasn't for him after all.
You don't mind training pups. It can be quite fun, but you were ready for a more experienced puppy after him.
That's when you came across Johnny. Soap, as his profile had said. A nickname given by a previous owner. You can only imagine what he'd done that earned him that nickname.
His bio was thorough, and he'd even provided the reference of his previous owner. You were intrigued so you had messaged him, and agreed to meet.
You liked him immediately.
Friendly, excitable, already eager to please during your first conversation. You're sure he'd have gotten down on all fours and crawled across the coffee shop if you'd asked him to.
His separation with his last owner had been rather traumatic and he needed someone to take control, someone who could handle him, his neediness, his clinginess, his intense libido and stamina.
It had only taken three meetings and a test run for him to move into your house.
He learned quickly, adapting to your rules very fast. It had been a pleasant surprise, finding such an eager pup in a Scottish bloke who looked more like he should be tossing logs at the Highland Games and not crawling around on your floor with a collar around his neck.
Your last pup had been more of a Greyhound, while Johnny, he’s more of a Rottweiler. Large and intimidating, but sweet and cuddly and so eager to please.
Johnny lets out a sigh as he finally gets to relieve himself after a long day. You stand, leaning in the doorway, watching him as he shakes and then grabs toilet paper to wipe his tip. A proud smile tugs at your lips as he washes his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water.
“Good boy.” You praise him as he drops back onto all fours. You run your fingers through his mohawk, letting the soft strands slip through your fingers. It’s getting long, you’ll have to trim it soon. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
He crawls behind you into the kitchen, watching as you move to the bag on the counter. He crawls closer, sitting back on his knees, watching you eagerly. You rip the tags off the toy in your hands, before turning to face him.
“I got you an extra special toy for your birthday.” You hold out the stuffed squirrel to him.
His eyes widen as he stares at it, sitting back fully on his knees as he reaches for it. It’s soft and fluffy and squeaks when you squeeze the middle. You’d spent almost half an hour at the pet store debating which you should get. You’d spent so long there a worker had approached, asking if you needed help and what kind of dog the toy was for.
Great Dane, you’d told her, your go-to answer when buying things for your pup.
She’d recommended the squirrel, and you could hardly say no. It was perfect, and judging by the way Johnny is clutching it to his chest, he thinks so too.
“I also got you a meat stick.” You say, pulling the long beef stick from the grocery bag. “So you can have something to chew on.” You say, pulling off the wrapper.
“Thank you, mommy.” He says, taking the beef stick between his teeth.
You watch him crawl to the corner of the dining room where his bed sits. He makes himself comfortable, stretched out on the soft, plush bed, his new squirrel tucked under his arm as he chews on his meat stick.
You jump into making one of his favorite dinners while he’s occupied. While you’ve never been quite brave enough to try your hand at haggis, Johnny never complains about scotch pies. You turn on some quiet music while you work, eyes flickering to Johnny every so often. He’s content in the corner, making quick work of the meat stick.
You take your time cooking, Johnny lazing with his squirrel in his arms. You stare at his cock as you mix ingredients, more thick than it is long as it drapes between his legs. There’s a heat growing between your own legs as you stare at him. He’s spread out on the bed, legs stretching straight out after being cooped up in the kennel all day. You make a quick note on the calendar. He needs a spa day this weekend. So will you after tonight.
You jump as a hand grips your leg, weight settling against you. Johnny is leaning against your hip, big hand wrapped around your thigh. It’s slowly creeping higher, as if you wouldn’t notice it snaking up your inner thigh.
You tsk at him, shifting out of his hold. “That’s not good boy behavior.”
He lets out a whine, trying to move closer to you. “Sorry mommy. Need you bad.”
“You need your strength, baby boy. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” You run your hand over his head. You do leave him plenty of snacks to tide him over on days you have to go into the office. It’s always a big dinner night on those days to make up for his lack of lunch.
He lets out a disappointed whine but he knows your right. He’s always a good boy, always so eager to please you and behave. He crawls back to his bed, cock swinging between his legs. Your teeth sink into your lip as you watch him go, rubbing your thighs together as you shift on your feet. It’s going to be a long evening for you too.
You plate up dinner for him, gently easing him back into his human brain for the moment as you remove his collar. Usually you make him eat on the floor out of his bowl, but this is a special occasion. You grab the card from the counter as you carry the plates to the table.
“Smells good.” He says, his voice lower and rougher than it is when he’s in his puppy mindset. His accent is thicker too, almost like he becomes an entirely new person. Well...he does. The whiny, needy puppy is gone, hidden well beneath the surface of a normal human man.
“My parents sent a card.” You say, sliding it across the table to him as you take a seat.
“That was nice of them.” He says, picking it up and opening it.
He reads it to you, full of well wishes and congratulations. Your parents have met him a few times, though they only know him as your boyfriend. They’ll never know about the other side of your relationship, the side where your giant Scottish boyfriend crawls around on all fours wearing a collar and occasionally a butt plug with a silicone tail attached.
To your parents he’s just a normal man. To you, he’s your good little puppy.
The two of you chat as you eat, talking about work and your coworkers and the annoying woman at the shop that was arguing with the cashier. It’s all so domestic, all so...normal.
You almost prefer him on the floor on his knees begging for scraps.
He sneaks up behind you while you’re doing dishes, his arms wrapping around you. You can feel the bulge of his quickly hardening cock against your ass, his hands sliding up your stomach towards your breasts.
“This isn’t good boy behavior.” You say, but you don’t stop him as his hands cup your breasts through your shirt.
You’ve fucked a few times like this, both of you in your normal mindsets. You let him be more dominant, let him get that energy out before he submits to you again. He’s a good fuck, knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly how to work you up.
“You’re going to ruin your surprise.” You say, yet you can’t stop yourself from pushing back against him as his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt. The skimpy bra you’re wearing doesn’t offer much coverage or protection from his fingers.
“Sorry mommy.” He growls in your ear, grinding against your ass.
The deep growl in his voice has a shiver running down your spine. You should stop this before it gets much further, but part of you is tempted to let him have this moment, let him celebrate his birthday in both mindsets.
“Easy, puppy boy.” You say, pushing his hands away from your breasts. You turn around, dragging a wet finger over his lips. “Be a good boy and behave yourself and you can have your surprise after I’m done.”
The change happens instantly, his eyes lighting up as he shifts back into his puppy mindset. He drops to his knees in front of you, eye to eye with your pussy but he behaves himself, holding still as you move to grab his collar. You stare down at the fabric one with the plastic clip, the one he wears while you’re gone in case he needs to get out of it fast. You want his leather one tonight.
You clip the collar around his neck for now before going back to the dishes. He crawls back to his bed, laying himself down on his stomach. You watch him carefully out of the corner of your eye to make sure he’s not rutting against the bed like a bad dog.
Dishes go by quickly as you set them in the drying rack, catching movement out of the corner of your eye. Unsurprisingly Johnny is in the corner, humping his bed, trying to relieve some of the ache that probably has his cock pulsing. You let out a sigh before approaching, bringing your hand down against his ass, the perky cheek bouncing. He lets out a yowl, his hips bucking into the bed.
“You’re being a bad boy.” You say as he turns around, cock weeping with precum. There’s a damp spot on the fabric of his bed, but you know he hasn’t cum. Not yet. He knows better.
“Sorry Mommy.” He pouts, but he can’t cute his way out of this one.
You slip your fingers under the front of his collar, tugging him forward gently. “Bad boys get punished.”
He lets out a whine, trying to give you big puppy eyes but they don’t work. You’ve long grown immune to that stare.
“Come on.” You say, moving to the drawer to pull out a leash. He crawls towards you, sitting back on his knees to allow you to clip the leash onto his collar. He is a good boy, he just can’t control himself sometimes.
Not with his insane libido.
You walk him to the stairs, taking them slow as you lead him up to the second floor. He picks up his pace on the carpet, following you eagerly into the bedroom. He dutifully sits on his knees next to the bed, watching you as you unclip his collar. You pull the leather one from the drawer, the one you made specially for him, the one with his name stamped on the side.
Johnny.
He tilts his head back as you put it on him, slipping two fingers under to make sure it’s not too tight. You turn back to the drawer, pulling out the box. He shifts on his knees, already knowing what’s coming.
“Bend over.” You say, pulling out the lube. He shifts himself onto the bed immediately, bending himself over the side. You squirt some lube over his ass, letting it run down over his hole. “Get yourself ready.”
“Yes mommy.” He doesn’t hesitate as he reaches a hand back, gathering lube on his finger before pressing it into his hole. He groans, pushing his face against the bed as he works his finger in, opening himself up. You watch him fuck himself with his finger, adding a second one to open himself up. The plug isn’t huge, but you want him to be prepared.
You spread lube on the plug before you pat his ass gently and he pulls his fingers from his hole. You squirt more lube over his hole before you press the tip of the plug against his ass. He clenches as you begin to push it in, a whiny moan leaving his lips. He’s staining the comforter with precum, but that’s what washing machines are for.
It won’t be the only stain on the bed by the time you’re done with him.
You slide the plug into place, the silicone tail perky in the air. He wiggles his hips, the tail wagging back and forth.
You hum, pleased by the sight. “My cute little puppy.” You praise him before grabbing the fluffy ears from the box. You’ve always preferred them over the more traditional mask. You want to see his cute face as you make him beg to cum.
He slides off the edge of the bed, sitting back on his knees. A breathy moan leaves his lips as the plug shifts inside him, the tail moving as he clenches around it. His cock is bright red and hard, and you’re sure you could see it pulsing with need if you looked close enough. You put the ears on him, stepping back to stare at him.
What a beautiful sight he makes.
“You were a bad boy.” You say as you close the box, moving it off the bed. “Humping your bed like a needy little pup.”
“Am a needy pup.” He whines, hips bucking the air in desperation.
“Naughty pups deserve punishment.” You ignore his words, moving to stand in front of him at the end of the bed. “You only get to watch.”
His eyes widen as you begin to unbutton your shirt, revealing the lacy bra underneath. Your nipples pebble in the cool air as you untuck your shirt, undoing the last buttons before slipping it off your shoulders. You toss it on the floor before undoing your pants, sliding them down your legs. He lets out a whine as your lacy panties are revealed, blue just like your bra. He shifts on his knees again as you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, spreading your legs.
The lace is damp from your arousal, darkening the fabric. He licks his lips as you rub your damp slit over the lace. He loves lace, the sight of it enough to make his cock leak. He can cum untouched like a needy teenager if you get him worked up enough. You're tempted to do it, make him cum all over himself before he gets to touch you.
That feels like too much of a reward.
“You don't cum until mommy does.” You command, moving the lace to the side to drag a finger through your slit.
He licks his lips, watching your shiny juices smear all over your skin as you rub your hand over your pussy. He’s enraptured, forgetting himself as he stares at your fingers and the way you spread yourself open for him to see. You’re doing it on purpose, goading him and distracting him to make him forget himself. All the more sweet torture for him.
You stop your hand, covering your pussy from his sight. “I gave you an order.” You say, your voice stern.
“Yes, mommy.” He stutters out, eyes still glued between your legs. “Don’t cum until ye do.”
“Good boy.” You praise him, opening your legs wider.
You circle your clit with a finger as you stare at him, those big blue eyes locked in on your hand between your legs. He’s picturing himself doing it, his fingers dragging through your folds, smearing your slick everywhere. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch where they rest on his thighs. He wants to taste you so badly he might start drooling soon.
You won’t let him have it yet, sliding your hand down to press a finger into your pussy. You moan softly as you work your finger in, knowing you’ll need to prepare yourself regardless to take his thick cock. You can take it without preparation, but he’s far too eager to be gentle tonight, to take his time.
You slip a second finger into your pussy, your head falling back as you fuck yourself with your fingers. Johnny shifts on his knees, hands curling into fists where they rest on his thighs. The wet sound fills the air as you thrust your fingers in and out, toes curling. You’ve been waiting for this as much as he has, your pussy throbbing for the last hour now. Still you pull your fingers from your pussy before you can cum, resting them against your inner thigh, spreading juices on your skin. Johnny is drooling now, his chin wet as his mouth hangs open just slightly. You can’t help but chuckle as you stare at him.
Needy thing.
You push yourself back up, staring at his cock for a moment. It looks painful, the nice side of you wanting to take pity on him, have mercy. This night is about him after all. It is his birthday.
“Come here and make me cum.” You say, holding the lace out of the way.
He doesn't hesitate as he crawls forward, immediately pressing his face against your folds. His tongue darts out, licking at your damp lips like the eager pup he is. He flicks his tongue over your clit, your stomach clenching at the warm sensation. He holds your gaze as he licks and sucks at your clit, slurping sloppily at the sensitive numb. Your lips are parted as you pant and moan, your hand lifting to grip his mohawk, pressing him harder against your pussy. He doesn’t complain, slick wetting his skin as he suckles at your clit, the sensations almost too much.
“Gonna cum...” You moan. “Make mommy cum!”
He sucks harder at your clit, flicking it with his tongue over and over. You cum quickly, thighs squeezing around his head. Your hips grind against his face, your hand tightening in his mohawk, holding him in place.
“Fuck....” You moan, his tongue still working at your clit, pushing you towards overstimulation.
You have to tug him away from your pussy, your body shaking from the near overstimulation. His face is shiny, his mouth still parted as he stares up at you. You press your fingers against his tongue, his lips closing around them, licking the remnants of your juices off them.
“Stand up.” You say, pulling your fingers free.
He does as he’s told, standing over you. His cock is right in front of you, hard and throbbing. You spit on your hand before you wrap your fingers around him, smearing your spit all over his length. He groans, his hips thrusting as you begin to move your hand, jerking him off.
“Gonna cum for mommy?” You ask, precum dripping around his foreskin.
“Gonnae cum.” He moans, hips thrusting in time with your hand. “Don’t stop, please!”
You don’t have any plans to, picking up the pace of your hand as you stare up at him. His cum is hot as it splatters against your chest, painting your skin as he moans low and deep. You pump him through his orgasm, milking every last drop out of him. He’s nowhere near done for the night, cock still hard in your hand.
You release him, leaning back on the bed again. “You made quite the mess, pup. Clean it up.”
He drops to his knees in front of you, leaning forward over you. His arms wrap around you as he begins to lick his cum from your skin. His tongue is warm as it trails over your skin, lapping at the streaks of cum across your chest, making sure to get every last drop of it. He follows the trail of it down to your stomach, stopping to suck at one of your nipples through the lace. You let him do it, moaning softly at the sensation. He trails his lips down your body to your thighs, licking up his cum as he goes.
He tries to push your thighs apart but you tsk at him, nudging him gently with your foot. “I’ve got something better for you.” You sit up straight on the edge of the bed, putting you nearly face to face with him. You grip him by the collar, pulling him up so you can stare into his eyes, your breath mixing with his. “I want you to breed me.”
“What?” He breathes, the puppy brain slipping just for a moment.
He goes still, his eyes widening. He searches your face for a moment, looking for any sign of hesitation or even a sign of mirth as you tell him you’re joking. You’re not. You rarely let him cum inside you, usually making him finish on your stomach before making him clean you up. He likes it too much, stuffing you full of his cum. You usually save it for special occasions like this one.
You pull away as you shift on the bed, kneeling on the edge before bending down, arching your back to push your ass into his face. “You heard me. Be a good boy and breed me.”
“Screaming Jesus.” He curses before rising to his feet, his hand falling to your hip.
He slips his cock under your panties, thrusting it through the lace and your damp folds for a moment. You moan softly as his head catches on your clit, your hips pushing back against him. You've been thinking about this all day. It had been a rough day at work as your mind was only filled with thoughts of his cock inside of you. The temptation to slip into the bathroom and rub one out had been strong, but you didn't want to make things harder for you or him.
You arch your back more as he pulls his cock back, pressing his tip against your hole. The comforter bunches as your hands sink into the fabric, holding on for dear life as his thick cock presses into you. You moan as he stretches you, rocking his hips to sink deeper and deeper. The stretch is always delicious, his cock like a bonus reward for choosing him as your puppy. Not just that, he knows how to use it.
He folds himself over your back as soon as he’s seated inside you, beginning to rut his hips against your ass. His hands come to rest by your head, pushing himself deeper inside of you.
“Fuck...that’s it puppy.” You moan, squeezing around him as he continues to rut into you like an eager pup.
He is an eager pup.
Your hands grip his wrists for support as his cock drags against that spot inside of you with every movement of his hips. He picks up the pace, his hips slapping against your ass. You’re the one almost drooling now as he rocks your body with his thrusts. He shifts, his knees coming to rest beside yours on the bed, pushing himself deeper into you.
“God, fucking yes!” You moan, squeezing around his cock.
He’s close, grunting in your ear as he ruts against you. You can picture his tail flopping back and forth, wagging excitedly as he finally fucks you after weeks of denying him your pussy.
“Mommy. Mommy.” He moans desperately. “Please, can I cum? Please let me cum.”
“Cum for me puppy.” You moan as his thrusts become sloppy and desperate. “Be a good boy and cum in me.”
His cum is warm as it spurts into you, his hips jerking before stilling as he spills into you with a whine. His cock is twitching inside of you, spilling the last of his cum before he pulls out. He moves off of your back, gripping your waist before he flips you over onto your back. You can’t find it in you to reprimand him for manhandling you, one of the rare moments he’ll take control while still in his puppy brain.
“Gonnae breed ye mommy.” He grunts, slotting his body between your thighs. You haven’t cum yet and he knows that. “Gonnae fill ye right up till ye burst.”
Fuck.
You can’t do anything but moan as he shoves your panties to the side again, thrusting right into you before very much of his cum slips out of you. He fucks it back into you, his pace fast and hard. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down against you. You can see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth from the force of his thrusts, your legs shaking as you grip his collar.
“Such a good boy.” You moan, thighs squeezing around his hips. “Such a good puppy for mommy.”
“‘M yer good boy.” He moans, pressing his face into your neck. “Good puppy for mommy.”
“Gonna make me cum?” You whine, getting closer and closer to the edge with every slap of his hips against your clit. He’s close again, whining as you squeeze around him.
“Please,” He whines, his pace stuttering. “Please cum mommy.”
You can hardly deny him as your back arches, body shaking as you cum around him. Your limbs coil around him like a snake, holding him in you as your fluttering walls force another orgasm from him. He spills into you again, spurting more cum into your pussy. You moan at the feeling, reaching up to pet his damp mohawk. He’s shaking over you, tail vibrating in the air. The night is far from over, his cock already growing hard inside of you again.
You’re going to call in the morning and book those spa days.
You continue to pet his hair as he grinds against you, humping you like a needy puppy. You press your face against the side of his, lips brushing his ear as you pant against his sweaty skin.
“Good boy.”
If you'd like to be notified of new fics, please follow HERE and turn on notifications
#call of duty#call of duty fic#cod fic#Johnny soap mactavish x reader#soap x reader#johnny mactavish x reader
204 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hiding - Oneshot
Inspired by this post by @crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington <3
“Have you heard from B today?”
Elita-1 looked up from her datapad at her former-incompetent-subordinate turned leader. He looked stressed, or maybe nervous? It was hard to tell ever since he received the matrix.
“No. I haven’t seen him since the last time he messed up putting the supplies in storage.’ She looked back at the forms she was filling out. “He’s probably avoiding us cause he’s embarrassed.
“Embarrassed?” Optimus sounded confused. Elita realised she had neglected to tell the prime about B’s latest incident.
“He put a lot of the supplies he was sorting into the wrong places. I mean, seriously! I gave him possibly the easiest job I could have, and he still messed it up.” Optimus didn’t look like her answer had put him at ease. “He’ll be fine. If he’s embarrassed it might teach him to listen a little more.”
“Just-“ They met optics, “Tell me if you see him, or if you can get through to him. He won’t answer my comms.” He sighed. “I’m worried.”
He definitely looked nervous now.
“Yeah, sure.” Elita went back to reading. Optimus was silent for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, but left quickly.
Once he was out of audial-range she tried B-127’s comm, certain Optimus was exaggerating. B never missed an opportunity to blabber.
“B”
Nothing
“B-127, respond.”
Still nothing
“B, this isn’t funny. Answer me.”
Silence
Elita never thought she would be able to use that word to describe the yellow bot. She started feeling slightly worried before it was replaced with something else.
How dare he hide away from his duties as an Autobot because he was embarrassed. He wasn’t the only one struggling with his new status. Being the Autobot commander and essentially second-in-command of Cybertron was exhausting. Every moment she wasn’t recharging or refuelling she was working. B was not going to get away with skirting his duties.
She was gonna find him.
Where the frag was he?
Elita had spent nearly half the orn asking around for the little mech. No one had seen him since she had. Not Jazz, not Ratchet, not even Prowl, who was usually aware of all Autobot activity. The other scouts had gibed her about B-127’s unrivalled skills in what they called “Extreme Hide and Seek”.
“If B’s hiding from you there’s no chance you’ll find him” one taunted. Primus, she hated being around the scouts, nosy bunch.
“Wait, why do you think he’s hiding from me?”
“Why else would you be looking for him? He’s told us about how busy you are.” Another one answered.
“Well, you’re not helping!” She stormed off before they could peeve her off more.
Elita was definitely getting hangry, so she decided to stop to get energon before anyone could risk mentioning it to her. Everyone had really been enjoying the abundance of it. The decreasing rations had been affecting the cogless bots hard. She remembered after being transferred to waste management seeing how some of the supervisors were stealing others rations off the delivery lines for themselves. That was one of the first things she fixed, especially since many of the bots on lower levels didn’t leave their stations during their breaks. Mostly the bots on the sub-
The sub-levels
“The best hiding spots are ones that other bots don’t know exist.” B-127 told her that once while he was training to be a scout. He was mostly talking about places that taller bots couldn’t get to, but almost no one knew about the 10 extra sub-levels.
“Scrap”
The elevator rattled more the lower it went. It was also getting noticeably hotter. The doors opened and after stepping out they surprisingly didn’t close behind her. Strange. She didn’t say anything at first, trying to hear any noise that wasn’t coming from the furnace.
She felt isolated.
Even though Elita knew she could contact anyone she wanted instantly, there was just something about the room emanated loneliness, but B had to be here.
She looked around. The room was small, nothing besides the furnace, the conveyor belt, and the trash chute.
Unless…
One of the walls seemed to have a handle, and when she moved it... Another room! She pushed it over.
What on Cybertron?
The walls were lined with multicolour string lights. The room had a table and chairs, but in the chairs were 3 piles of trash. They were kind of bot shaped. She guessed one of these were what “Steve” was, who Orion supposedly killed and D-16 insisted wasn’t real. Primus this guy was weird. Just before she turned away, she saw it. There was something golden-yellow barely poking up from behind the table. Elita had to stop herself from groaning. Some hiding expert he was.
“B” He didn’t move. Elita crossed her arms.
“B-127 I can see you.” He slowly ducked out of view. Elita’s face scrunched up, “Get out here right now or so help me, I will drag you back up to Iacon by your finials.”
The bot cautiously stood up, looking anywhere except her face. Neither one said anything for a few moments. Elita tapped her finger against her arm, making sure B could hear it. He still did not say anything. Elita started feeling nervous again, B didn’t even recharge this quietly. She wouldn’t show it though, he wasn’t getting any pity from her.
“Well?” she prompted.
“Why are you down here?” He asked quietly.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Elita leaned forward, but B still didn’t look up. “Why are you hiding? Do you think I’ll just forget your screw-up if I don’t see you for a few orns?”
“I’m not hiding. You know I’m here now, you can go back to work.” He fidgeted with his servos.
“What, so you can keep sulking here?”
“I’m not sulking.” His voice was low, but a bit rough.
Had he been crying?
“Then why are you down here?”
“You were really mad at me the last time I messed up. You said I was running out of chances.”
“So?” Her gaze steeled. His breath hitched.
Was he going to cry again?
“Well, that’s what supervisors used to say to me before I would get demoted” their optics met, “and you were a supervisor…”
“So, you came down here?” She gripped her arms a bit tighter.
“I’ve never had a boss who was my friend before.” He looked down at his servos, still keeping his voice low. “I just didn’t want to see your face when you decided to give up on me.” Fluid dripped from his optics.
“Give up?” Her voice was suddenly much softer. She cleared her throat. “Why would you think I’d give up on you? We’re friends, you said it yourself.”
“Megatron was Optimus’ friend, and he dropped him to the centre of Cybertron.”
Elita felt a pang in her spark. That might have been the scariest moment of her life, including everything that happened leading up to it. B had been the one to stop her from trying to grab Orion as he plummeted. In the frenzy she might have fallen after him. B had probably saved her life.
She was definitely failing to hide her pity now.
They were both silent for a while, the furnace rumbling softly behind her. Elita sighed and walked around the table. B shrunk under her gaze. This was the first time she had ever felt bad about making a subordinate scared of her. She put her servos on his shoulders, taking care to be gentle, and bent down slightly to be at optic level with the scout.
He was definitely crying.
Elita wrapped her arms around him tightly. He tentatively moved his servos up to her back. She felt him shake.
“Are you not mad at me?” B’s voice quivered. She sighed, squeezing tighter.
“I’m not sure I am anymore.” Letting go to hold his shoulders again. He sniffled and she moved her servos to cup his face. “Why haven’t you answered any comms? Optimus is practically beside himself.”
“I didn’t know you guys were calling me.”
“What?! Is your commlink broken?” She turned his helm to look at his audials. He pulled her servos away from his face. They had tears on them.
“No.” He looked towards the furnace. “I’m pretty sure no signals reach down here from the surface.
Elita’s face scrunched. She turned away, reaching a digit up to her commlink.
“Optimus, come in.”
No response. She swore quietly.
“We’re going back to Iacon before the boss starts pulling walls down to find you.” She held her servo out. B hesitated.
“He’s looking for me?”
“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?” B tapped his pedes nervously.
“I thought you guys were kinda fed up of me.” Elita chose not to address that. She grabbed his servo and pulled him towards the elevator. It was still open.
“How come these doors didn’t close behind me?”
“Cause they don’t open from this side. It’s so if somebot comes down here to get something they won’t get stuck.”
“But that means…” Her spark sank in her chassis.
“Yeah, I can’t call the elevator.”
She stared at him. She felt the rage she frequently had for Sentinel and his lackeys build up.
“So you planned on staying down here forever?” B started wringing his servos again.
“I dunno”
“Well how would you have come back up if I hadn’t found you here?”
“Optimus, Megatron and I climbed up through the chute.” He pointed at it. “I probably could have done that again.”
“Would you have?”
B didn’t answer.
“You’re coming back to Iacon with me.” She put a servo on his shoulder. “I cleared my schedule when I went looking for you so we can do whatever you want, ok?” She led him into the lift. He shrugged. “There are a couple movies I’ve been too busy to watch. We can watch them in my quarters if you want.”
“Sure” He smiled for the first time since she found him.
“We do have to go see Prime first. I’m a bit worried he has actually turned headquarters upside down in my absence.” B giggled. Elita felt a weight lift off her spark. Once the elevator started moving, she pulled him into another hug, more forcefully this time.
“Never scare me like that again, or I will actually kill you.”
“Okay”
#transformers one#b 127#bumblebee#elita one#oneshot#angsty#sorry B no knife hands in this one#everyone does think you’re cool though#promise#fanfic
82 notes
·
View notes
Text
Short of his parents no one had ever really asked what they could do for him in his worst moments. Of course Kade didn't really let anyone in and most people who knew what he dealt with only knew because they needed to and he wasn't about to get into all the little details with him. Chloe asking meant she cared. Not that he doubted that but he could sense the concern. "Sometimes I'm just gonna need you to let me ride it out. Like, look... imagine you've got two voices in your head. One is screaming at you that something is wrong. It's loud, it's repeating itself. It's insisting if you do this thing then this other thing will happen. Then the other voice, it's much quieter, is more logical and is telling you that you know that first voice is just making shit up. That's what it's like in my head sometimes. I very often know that what is happening is not logical, that nothing is going to happen to me. But when it gets bad sometimes I listen to the louder voice and I can't help that." He shrugged. "You just gotta trust me during those times, know that I will eat when I can if food is the issue at hand. Ordering a bunch of stuff or giving me a lot of options in the moment is mostly just going to overwhelm me. I keep a lot of protein shakes and fruit and nuts and things like that on hand because they're typically safe foods for me. I do also tend to trust junk food but if I eat nothing but that... there's no nutritional value, I'm just making it worse." Feeling like he explained it the best he could, Kade took a couple more bites before he was also finished. "Full, not put off. I promise." Standing up he moved to rewrap both burritos so he could stick them in the fridge as there was a chance he might eat them later. "Thank you for asking how to help though. It means a lot that you care."
Nodding as he set a time to call his mom. With a smile on her face she said, "Good, it gives me a change to pay." and winked before reaching for her coffee. Leaning on her elbows, she focusing intently on his answer. She wanted to remember whatever he was about to say. "Hm," she hummed, that was a bit of a dead end. "What can I do then?" She asked point blank, "When things get really bad, I mean." Chloe didn't want to resort to calling Grace whenever Kade hit a rough patch. She smiled gently, liking the idea that this cafe could be their restaurant. He and his parents had the fancy place, and they had Dalina. "Do I order breakfast burritos? I want to help you in times where you don't know how to help yourself." she explained, "But I don't want to overstep, I don't want to push you into another panic attack." She said realizing her words. Putting down the other half of her burrito, she let out a sigh hoping he wouldn't start trying to convince her she wasn't at least some fault or trigger of last night. "Wow, I'm full. I'm never able to finish all these." She stated, "You can have it later if you get hungry."
249 notes
·
View notes
Text
say again
george russell x reader | 3.9k
three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.
cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.
a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.
---
YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME
The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.
You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.
No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.
But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.
You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.
"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."
Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.
"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.
"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."
"Not going well?" you say lightly.
He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."
You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.
"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"
Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.
"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."
You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.
Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.
"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."
"I saw," you say. "I met George."
She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"
You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"
She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"
"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."
That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"
George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.
"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.
He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."
That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.
"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."
"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.
"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"
You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."
He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.
Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."
He laughs, delighted.
OH, SHIT!
This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.
Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.
They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.
You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.
Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.
It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.
"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"
"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.
"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.
"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.
Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?
George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"
All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.
You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.
George is immediately there with you.
"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"
"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"
"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."
You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.
"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."
He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."
"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"
"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"
You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.
George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"
It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.
"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.
"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.
"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"
George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.
The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.
George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.
"Where are your keys?" he asks.
"Front right pocket of my jeans."
"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.
"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.
"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"
You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."
Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.
"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.
"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.
"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."
"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.
"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.
"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"
In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.
"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."
You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.
"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.
"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.
"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.
"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.
"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."
"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"
He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.
You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.
"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"
"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.
"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"
"I'm ready."
He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.
"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."
"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.
"I'm just saying, darling."
He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?
Maybe you can't.
George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.
"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.
"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"
"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.
"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.
You nod.
He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.
"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."
"George--"
"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"
Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.
It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.
"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.
"What, no curse for me?"
His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."
You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."
BLOODY HELL
What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.
It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.
And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.
You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.
This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.
So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.
You sit on the bench and wait.
He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.
"Hello," you say, lightly.
He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"
You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.
"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.
"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."
It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.
"George," you sigh. "Come on."
He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."
You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.
He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --
Someone knocks on the door.
"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."
"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.
"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."
"If you say so."
You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.
The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.
Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.
You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.
"I love you, George," you say.
He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.
Someone knocks on the door again.
"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.
#george russell x reader#george russell#george russell fanfic#gr63 x reader#f1 fanfic#gr63#my writing#fic: say again
115 notes
·
View notes
Text
Two to One | 15 |
Pairing: Bakugou x Reader x Midoriya Chapter Title: Spilled Milk Chapter 14 | Chapter 16 Story Masterlist Summary: You are a simple college girl working at a cheap, back alley café! The top heroes, Deku and Ground Zero, visit your work in hopes of ordering coffee, but they pick something else up instead. You begin an interesting relationship with the pair, while slowly becoming aware of certain underhanded tactics they are using. Idolization isn't always that bad… Right?
WARNINGS: gaslighting, domestic violence, alcohol
“You’re WHAT?!”
Hana gaped back at (Y/n), trying to ensure she heard her correctly. (Y/n) smiled sadly at Hana.
“I just… got an opportunity elsewhere…,” she attempted to be vague. Hana didn’t look convinced.
“Please don’t tell me you’re starting an Only Fans.”
(Y/n) gawked. “No–! And even if I was…,” she made a face at Hana. Hana tutted.
“Please don’t tell me you’re starting an Only Fans without me,” she repeated, now laughing. The morning rush shift had slowed down to a nonexistent teeter. (Y/n) smiled at Hana’s comment as she cleaned one of the tables in the dining area of the quaint restaurant. Hana groaned, leaning back with her elbows on the countertop, her head tilting toward the ceiling.
“What am I gonna do without you here?!” Hana groaned at her best friend. (Y/n) announced that she put her two weeks in yesterday when Hana was off. Their manager flipped her shit, but Hana argued that she had it coming and that (Y/n) quitting should be the least of her worries. (Y/n) shrugged.
“I dunno. I’ll still stop by for some lattes. Give you guys some business with my big Only Fans money.”
Hana shook her head. “I’m gonna put my two weeks in tomorrow. Or I might just dip after today and not come back.” Hana’s curls bounced as she turned to check to make sure their manager was in the café backroom. Deep in the café backroom.
“You should stay for the chance of running into Shoto,” (Y/n) recommended, leaning on her elbows on the cashier counter. Katsuki and Izuku had been frequenting their café much more often lately, and she and Hana kid that it was only a matter of time before word of Sato’s traveled to Pro Hero Shoto. However, Hana still shook her head.
“What do you mean? We’re married. I see him every night. Work is my chance to get away from him!” She gave (Y/n) a coy smile. (Y/n) rolled her eyes, grinning, smacking Hana’s arm with a small hand towel.
“Shut up!”
Izuku and Katsuki threw themselves headfirst into their work, and (Y/n) shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not like she expected things to change after she finally had sex, but she couldn’t help but feel as though the experience wasn’t as life-changing as it was all made out to be.
What was that feeling? That persistent nudging tug in the depths of her mind and gut, telling her that something more should be happening now, either between her, Izuku, and Katsuki or in her life? Disappointment? She lost her virginity to one of the most famous pro heroes in Japan, and the experience wasn’t anything less than euphoric. What was there to be disappointed about?
Maybe how neither Izuku nor Katsuki recognized (Y/n)’s perceived loss of innocence. (Y/n) considered bitterly whether there was even any innocence to ‘lose’, and why would having sex make her any less innocent? Was she dirty now? No, no. That’s not it. (Y/n) didn’t expect the heroes to celebrate or anything of that nature. That’d be rather disturbing. What was she expecting, though? Nothing ultimately changed after the intercourse. Not herself, not really. Not Katsuki. Not Izuku. What the hell even was virginity?
Did she want them to change? What more did she want to come from that experience?
“Izuku?” She called, sitting on the couch one night. It was late; Izuku had just gotten home from a 16-hour shift. (Y/n) never really knew if he and Katsuki chose to work that long willingly – their hours seemed flexible – but she did notice that Katsuki seemed to know his limits and take scheduled breaks throughout the day. She couldn’t say the same about Izuku.
“Yeah?” Izuku replied half-heartedly. He obviously didn’t want to speak to anybody right now. He was digging through the fridge, looking for leftovers to wolf down. (Y/n) was convinced that Katsuki was the only reason why Izuku remembered to even eat and shower or even take care of himself at all. Katsuki’s footsteps could be heard upstairs; he must’ve just gotten out of the shower himself.
“What’s virginity?” (Y/n) blurted obtusely.
The shuffling of plastic containers and cartons in the fridge stopped. Izuku stood upright.
“What?”
He sounded incredulous. (Y/n) didn’t want to look at him because she was so ashamed of her question.
“What’s virginity?” She repeated, a little louder and snappier, in case he didn’t hear her. Izuku looked at the back of her head with a wild stare.
“(Y/n), I’m not–,“ Izuku was not in the mood for whatever she was talking about.
“And what’s the point of it?” (Y/n) continued. Izuku dragged a hand down his face.
“I’m not sure what answer you’re looking for,” he was blunt, more blunt than he cared to be. He was exhausted. He just wanted to eat something, go to bed and turn the world off, not deal with whatever emotional turmoil (Y/n) was feeling.
“I just… don’t feel any different,” (Y/n) pondered aloud, not caring if Izuku wanted to talk or not.
She heard the fridge door shut and footsteps approach. “Uh, good?” Izuku spoke with a mouth full of chicken, which he didn’t even bother to heat up. “It’d be weird if you felt different after having sex?” Izuku stared down at her oddly. (Y/n) rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I mean. I mean there’s, like…,” she made vague gestures with her hands. “It’s like nothing even happened.”
Izuku was tired, and when Izuku was tired, it was like talking to a brick wall. He was just as stubborn as Katsuki, if not more. This conversation was going nowhere. He swallowed the food he was chewing and shook his head, shrugging.
“I don’t know what to say.”
(Y/n) sighed, frustrated. She got off the couch and stormed up the stairs. “Ugh. Forget it.”
Izuku made his way over to claim the spot on the couch she left, continuing to eat his food.
Okay. (Y/n) can admit that she was being a little fussy. She blew by Katsuki, who was bent over in the middle of the hall replacing his bath items into the closet, and retreated into the bedroom.
Katsuki’s hair was still damp from his shower. He blinked, watching as she disappeared into the bedroom but left the door wide open. Katsuki stared at the door for a minute before inhaling slowly and letting out a sigh. He stood, closed the closet, and rubbed the back of his neck as he hesitantly followed after (Y/n).
He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. (Y/n) was on the bed, scrolling on her phone, obviously upset. Katsuki was debating whether he should bite or turn and walk away. Whenever he or Izuku gets into a bad mood, they typically avoid each other lest it blow up in their faces. He didn’t know how this would turn out with (Y/n).
He’ll bite. (Y/n) was more sensitive than Deku. She needed different things than he did. Katsuki was still learning.
He shifted his weight, feeling stiff. “Something happen?”
“No,” came the sharp reply. Katsuki blinked, and his face soured. Katsuki hadn’t heard her use that tone with him before.
“What?” He snapped back.
(Y/n) didn’t look up at him, still scrolling on her phone. “I said, no, nothing happened.”
Katsuki stared at her. “Okay, but something obviously did? Your attitude is shit right now.”
(Y/n) shrugged and shook her head. “Your attitude is always shit. What, I’m not allowed to be upset about something?”
Katsuki threw his head back and closed his eyes. He took a breath. Calm down. “So, something did happen?”
(Y/n) groaned, rolling her eyes. “You guys just… practically ignore me!” She blurted. “You’re never here! I moved out of my apartment, I put my two weeks in at my job for you, and you guys don’t even seem grateful… My whole life is about to change…”
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “Us? Grateful? We are paying your tuitionfor your shitty education. We are giving you free housing in one of the safest neighborhoods in Japan. We are giving you complete access to your own bank account with millions of yen already in it with no strings attached. If there’s anyone that should be grateful, I’m looking right at her.”
(Y/n) was teary-eyed at Katsuki’s harsh words. She yelled at him, “What if I was fine before all of that?!”
“Then leave!”
Izuku came up the stairs. He had dark circles under his eyes, and despite the argument, he didn’t appear urgent. “What’s going–“
“Go back to your shitty life. I don’t care,” Katsuki turned and disengaged, going downstairs and leaving (Y/n) crying on the bed.
Izuku could barely stand on two legs from exhaustion, but he relented the fact that Katsuki could handle himself. If there was anyone that needed to be pacified, it was (Y/n). He had to figure out how to settle all of this before the clock struck 1 AM so they could all get to bed peacefully.
He stepped further into the bedroom, staring with dead eyes at (Y/n) as she cried on their bed. He had to push himself to keep walking forward and to sit on the bed next to her. He waited silently for her to stop crying enough to look up at him.
Eventually, her sobs simmered, and she just sniffled. She rubbed her eyes, finally meeting Izuku’s gaze. This was the first time tonight that she really could see the exhaustion on his face, and she felt guilty for making tonight about her.
“What’s going on?” Izuku asks. His voice is calm and quiet, but she hears that tinge of something else – pity.
“I, uh…,” (Y/n) starts, now unsure why she’s upset. “I guess I’m just stressed. And worried. And scared.”
Izuku looked concerned. “About?”
(Y/n) sighed, wiping her eye. “I don’t know,” she paused for a moment. “Katsuki’s right. I should be grateful for all you guys have done for me… I don’t know why I’m feeling like this.”
Izuku glanced off into the hallway, probably trying to determine where Katsuki was in the house. “Are you… not happy here with us?”
(Y/n) instantly shifted to face him fully on the bed. “No, no! That’s not it at all. I’m very happy… It’s just… different.”
He stared at her. “It doesn’t sound like you’re happy. Or look like it, either.”
(Y/n) looked at him oddly, making a point to prevent any more tears from falling. “I am. I am.”
Izuku continued watching her. (Y/n)’s phone vibrated in her hands, and she glanced at it before turning it back over.
“Did we do something to upset you?” Izuku asked. (Y/n) shook her head.
“No, you guys didn’t do anything…,” her voice trailed off.
“We obviously did. What is it?” He could be just as forthright as Katsuki. “We can’t help if we don’t know.” What little patience was left inside of Izuku this evening was nearly depleted. He was trying his hardest to remain present and serene. (Y/n) shook her head. Her phone vibrated again, and Izuku couldn’t help how his gaze flickered down at it.
(Y/n) sighed, realizing Izuku wasn’t really going to leave her alone until she spoke; however, there was an air of shame that surrounded her.
“I just… think I need more attention, maybe…,” she tried not to wince, but she wasn’t sure how well she covered up her embarrassment. “I don’t know. I know you guys have long hours…,” she trailed off once again.
Izuku nodded, “We do.”
“Um…,” she didn’t know what to say next. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I think I’m just a little emotional after…,” she referred to their night together the other week. And, now that she’d thought about it, it wasn’t like they were completely ignoring her, either. They gave her affection as much as they could, kisses and whatnot. They’d all messed around a bit since that night, but they hadn’t gone ‘all the way’ again. Maybe with each other, but not with (Y/n). She didn’t feel ready to, and she knew that upset Izuku. He didn’t say it, but he always seemed a little disappointed when he saw the hesitance in (Y/n)’s eyes and how her touch was fleeting instead of carrying the same passion they started with. It especially disappointed him how she lingered heavier on Katsuki during their intimate moments, leaving Izuku to occasionally feel like the third wheel. He didn’t want to speculate on why this would be, so he never brought attention to it in hopes that he was imagining it.
“I’m sorry,” what exactly was she apologizing for? She felt like she needed to, though. Izuku looked like he was going to fall over from exhaustion, she’d made Katsuki mad, and here she was complaining when they had given her any girl’s dream life.
Izuku was too tired to address this any further. He glanced at the hallway again to see if Katsuki had returned. He hadn’t. He must’ve banished himself to sleep downstairs on the couch.
“Let’s just go to bed, yeah?” Izuku offered.
(Y/n) sighed but reluctantly nodded, feeling like a piece of her was unfulfilled.
Katsuki and Izuku made more of an effort to attend to (Y/n) after that night by spending more time with her when they were home. It made (Y/n) feel worse because she didn’t want them to think she wasn’t satisfied with all they had given her thus far – and now she could see how they were actively trying to keep her happy on top of all of that? Why couldn’t she just be appreciative to begin with? She tried not to let the guilt eat her alive, especially when she remembered that no other person, let alone two people at once, had ever treated her this preciously.
While the two pro heroes built their relationships individually with (Y/n), tensions rose between them, and it made (Y/n) uncomfortable. She didn’t know if this was how they always were or if something recently sparked this apparent rivalry between the two men. As she spent more time settling into the home and acclimating to her new environment, she couldn’t help but notice the sly remarks or side glances they gave each other – about literally anything. Most of their spats had to do with work. (Y/n) hardly knew what truly occurred in the hero world, so she would stay out of it.
Day by day, though, her guilt faded. She felt happier and able to truly enjoy her place in their home, no longer feeling like an outsider or a guest. She was learning both of them, slowly but surely. Katsuki required a lot of attention, but he’d never outright ask for it. He’d linger around (Y/n), not exactly engaging with her but doing mindless things around the house, and he’d get defensive if she pointed it out. She appreciated it when Katsuki was more honest about his desires, especially when he came home and the first thing he did was give her a kiss. Izuku was an insufferable romantic and very different than Katsuki in that regard. He was much more comfortable showing affection, and he always prioritized his partners’ comfort over his desires.
Izuku was much more cynical than his media personality makes him out to be. Sometimes, he said things that even made Katsuki go silent.
Katsuki was also a very clean person. (Y/n) feels like he might have an oral fixation, or maybe he just really, really enjoys watching her eat his cooking. She isn’t sure.
(Y/n) was getting ready for bed, just getting out of the shower, when she heard the whack of skin coming from the kitchen. She paused, listening, her mind trying to reassure her that it wasn’t what she thought it was. The front door opened and slammed shut – someone left the house, or someone just entered. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. She quickly tiptoed out of the bedroom, trying not to slip, as she still hadn’t dried off completely, peering down the stairs and into the kitchen.
She caught a glimpse of Izuku sitting at the island by himself. Whatever ruckus went down a few minutes prior no longer remained, and the house was silent. (Y/n) clutched the towel that draped around her, making sure it wasn’t going to fall, as she crept down the stairs.
Izuku glared at her as soon as she entered the kitchen, making her freeze by the door.
“What happened?” (Y/n) asked quietly. Izuku rolled his eyes, finally getting up from his barstool. He opened a kitchen drawer, the one where they kept random medicines, and rummaged through the back of it. He pulled out a cigarette and a lighter he’d stashed there.
(Y/n) watched him as he lit his smoke. She’d never seen him smoke in the house before. She got a glimpse of his face, then. His cheek was red and beginning to lightly bruise. (Y/n)’s eyes widened, and immediately, she flashed back to the events at Koburi Pass. She quickly approached Izuku, cupping his face to get a better look.
“Katsuki did that…?” Her emotions were conflicted. Izuku instantly yanked his face away from her before her fingers could even touch him. He took a drag of his cigarette. Tobacco smoke filled the kitchen, and (Y/n) grimaced. She just noticed now that she was shaking. Neither she nor Izuku said anything to each other for a while. They stood together in the kitchen silently, and (Y/n) watched as Izuku finished his cigarette. He rummaged through the medicine drawer once again, pulling out another cig.
“How many…?”
Izuku cut her off, seemingly already knowing what she was going to ask. “I keep them there. He hasn’t found them yet, or if he has, he hasn’t said anything.”
“Is he going to be upset that you’re smoking in the house?”
Izuku laughed bitterly, smoke blowing out with his exhale. He rolled his eyes again and shook his head.
Izuku practically refused to talk to (Y/n) about anything. The two of them just remained in each other’s presence. (Y/n) felt like he needed that more than to talk through whatever happened. He eventually went to bed, but (Y/n) stayed up. Katsuki hadn’t returned home yet, and (Y/n) had a few words to say to him.
It was around 2 AM when Katsuki returned home.
He closed the front door quietly – a complete difference from the slam hours ago. (Y/n) sat in the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk. She was nervous to see him, to get the truth of what happened. He was taking his time removing his shoes in the genkan, and it made every second feel like years. She forgot she even poured herself a glass of milk, as she stared at the entryway.
Katsuki appeared at the door of the kitchen, and his gaze immediately locked onto (Y/n). He looked a little distracted but otherwise fine. It wasn’t until he stepped further into the kitchen that she realized he was drunk.
He looked down at the untouched glass of milk in front of (Y/n).
“You spilled some,” he muttered. (Y/n) glanced down, noticing that she did indeed spill some milk on the counter when she was pouring it.
“I’ll get it,” she replied, looking back up at Katsuki. “Do you need water?”
Katsuki scoffed but smiled. “No.”
She thought she might as well confront him directly. Her resentment was teeming, “Why’d you hurt Izuku?”
The befuddled, faraway stare that Katsuki held hardened a little when she said that. He almost felt guilty. He swallowed, the alcohol loosening his lips more than he liked.
“He pissed me off,” he gave a slight shrug of the shoulder. Careless but honest.
Katsuki was always honest but never careless. (Y/n) decided then that she didn’t like this side of Katsuki. Her stomach felt tight.
“So, if I ever piss you off, you’ll do the same to me?” She snapped.
Katsuki shook his head, scowling at the ridiculousness of her question. He still stood in the doorway, almost caging her in, and (Y/n) noticed just how small she really was to them, to this big house. They stared at each other. Katsuki blinked then sighed, walking over to the fridge. (Y/n) was acutely aware of his movements, like she was locked in a room with a starving lion that circled her. The lion hadn’t pounced yet, but she could feel it in her bones that he was still eager to attack.
He shrugged, reaching for a beer from the bottom shelf – in the way back of the fridge.
“Guess not,” was his answer.
That wasn’t good enough for (Y/n), but she knew not to press the issue right now, not while he’s like this.
He popped open the beer bottle, threw away the cap, and plodded to the living room. She heard him collapse on the couch with a sigh.
(Y/n) stayed away from him for a while.
#bakugou katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#midoriya izuku x reader#midoriya x reader#izuku midoriya x reader#izuku x reader#midoriya izuku#izuku midoriya#katsuki bakugou#bakugou katsuki#bkdk x reader#reader x bakudeku#mha x reader#tto
68 notes
·
View notes
Text
Shigaraki x Reader masterlist
Here's my attempt at collecting all my Shigaraki fics in one post! We'll see how it goes.
One-shots
the crying game - You gave up on love a long time ago, but you keep getting invited to weddings, and after eleven receptions spent at the single's table, you're almost at the end of your rope -- until first-time wedding guest Shigaraki Tomura asks you to show him how it's done. (rated T, Tumblr exclusive.)
magnum opus - you're a crime scene photographer, and serial killer Shigaraki likes your photos a little too much. (rated M, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
d-o-l-l-h-o-u-s-e - spooky AU based on the movie The Boy. (rated M, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Best Practice - Taking the night shift at a 24-7 emergency vet hospital isn't for the faint of heart, and you've seen a lot of crazy things. But on one particular shift, it's Tenko Shimura and his service dog who make the biggest impression on you.(rated T, Tumblr exclusive.)
camera shy - You're a villain who likes catching heroes in compromising positions, and when you can't do that, you put them there yourself. It's not until you capture Tenko Shimura that you lose the upper hand. (rated T, Tumblr exclusive.)
Somewhere in the Crowd - Tomura tells himself he's content with singing backup in the band he founded, and most of the time he is. But when he takes a song request from you during the biggest concert the League of Villains has ever played, he realizes that there might be a few advantages to claiming the spotlight. (rated T, Tumblr exclusive)
taking care of boyfriend!Shigaraki when he's sick (rated T, Tumblr exclusive)
hands-off, hands-on - Shigaraki's quirk makes life difficult in a lot of ways, but there's only one he can't find a way around, and since you joined the League of Villains, it's gotten even worse. When the truth comes out at last, he's expecting it to be a disaster and nothing else. He definitely isn't expecting you to offer to help. (rated E, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Radio Silence - For the last year, your best friend has been somebody you've never met. When Tenko suddenly stops answering your messages, you don't know what to do. (rated T, Tumblr exclusive)
Tam Lin - When a child from your settlement goes missing, you go willingly into the woods to rescue him from the entity that dwells there. You're not at all prepared for what you find. (Based on the tale of Tam Lin. 7.1k words, afab reader, rated M with warnings for dubcon + smut. Tumblr exclusive)
you and Shigaraki try to survive your zombie-infested high school (rated M, soon to be expanded, currently Tumblr-exclusive.)
watching a scary movie with Shigaraki (rated T, Tumblr-exclusive.)
Multi-parts/Series
the new postmodern age - Before the war, you were nothing but a common criminal, but in the world that's arisen from the ashes, you got a second chance. Five years after the final battle between the heroes and the League of Villains, you run a coffee shop in a quiet seaside town, and you're devoted to keeping your customers happy. Even customers like Shimura Tenko, who needs a second chance even more than you did -- and who's harboring a secret that could upend everything you've tried to build. Will you let the past drag both of you down? Or will you find a way, against all odds, to a new beginning? (rated M, complete, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
blind date i + ii - After endless failed attempts to help Tomura up his game, his friends have settled on their last resort: A blind date. Even before you show up, it's not going well. No quirks AU, female reader. (rated T (for now), Tumblr exclusive)
needle, compass, north: part 1
Longfics
Expiation - Even after slaying the High Kingdom's greatest enemy and sparing its people from a terrible fate, Shigaraki Tomura's past crimes make him an outcast in the castle. Still, someone has to attend to him, and that someone is you -- and unlike the maids who came before you, you're not afraid to ask a question. (rated T, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Enough to Go By - Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (rated M, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Off-Script - Tomura's been Dabi's stunt double for almost a decade, and he's not easily impressed, but when he squares up with you for a fight scene, he finds himself caught off-guard in more ways than one. As the shoot progresses and sparks fly between the two of you, Tomura has to decide if you're worth the risk -- or if the best sparring partner he's ever had is all you'll ever be. (rated T, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Opposites Attract - Your quirk lets you capture almost anyone with ease, and you can't believe you let Shigaraki Tomura escape. Shigaraki can't believe it, either, and according to the League, there's only one possible explanation -- you let him go because you've fallen in love with him. He decides to find out if it's true. You decide you won't fail to capture him again. You both get a lot more than you bargained for. (rated T, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Skin Hunger - There's no such thing as a good night at work when you work in the world's most infamous brothel for monsters, but your night takes a turn for the worse when you find yourself serving drinks to visiting half-vampire Shigaraki Tomura. You don't mean to catch his interest, and you don't mean to start a conversation. You definitely don't mean to get him drunk. (rated M, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Haunting for Beginners - Ghosts summoned and bound to the human world have one purpose - haunting - but Tomura's never met a human he could stand long enough to haunt them, and he's pretty sure he never will. When you cross the threshold of his house, you capture his interest, and for the first time, he finds himself with a chance to do what ghosts are meant to do. It's too bad he doesn't know how. Scenes from Love Like Ghosts, through the eyes of the ghost in question. (rated M, ongoing, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
Love Like Ghosts - You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside-down world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (rated M, complete, available on Tumblr + Ao3)
#shigaraki tomura x reader#tomura shigaraki x reader#shimura tenko x reader#tenko shimura x reader#shigaraki tomura x you#tomura shigaraki x you#shimura tenko x you#tenko shimura x you#shigaraki x reader#shigaraki x you#x reader#reader insert#man door hand hook car door
68 notes
·
View notes
Text
I'm only referring to the story told by George Lucas (i.e. not Legends or the Disney stuff he was uninvolved with), because I wasn't sure what you were referring to, and because it's gradually becoming the only one I really care for these days. Legends has been decanonized for years now, and while I'll acknowledge that the Disney stuff is official canon, I'm not obligated to ignore how parts of it (i.e. stuff written by Filoni and Headland) are wildly inconsistent with Lucas's story in regards to the Jedi (this goes for the inconsistent parts of Legends too).
If you want to do otherwise, that's fine. If you think those inconsistencies make for a better story, well, fair enough. But again, I'm under no obligation to ignore something being inconsistent with its source material. Especially when the inconsistencies in question relate to parts of the source material I actually like.
In answer to your question, in my mind, what prevents the abuses - at least in Lucas's works and those written by people who actually understand how he wrote the Jedi - is simply that Lucas never wrote the Jedi as characters who would willingly commit their like. In terms of morality, they're on a similar level to Superman; the worst they do is get a little overconfident in their ability to detect and defeat the Sith by the time of the Prequels, and prove willing to compromise on their morals a little for the sake of protecting the Republic's people and soldiers when the Clone Wars begin.
(By "prove willing to compromise on their morals", I refer to the Jedi joining the war effort in the first place, Obi-Wan and the Jedi Council faking the former's death right in front of an ignorant Anakin, and the council tasking Anakin with spying on his close friend and confident in Palpatine. All these things came from a place with good intentions; you could argue that's just another way of saying "the greater good", but I personally think they're a world apart from forcing parents to give up their children in terms of morals).
(I suppose there's also how the council handled things with Ahsoka during the Wrong Jedi arc. I'm not sure precisely what the consequences would've been if they refused to hand her over to be tried as a Republic citizen, but if nothing else, Ahsoka didn't exactly look 100% innocent, and the Jedi had already had two of their number turn out to be Sith supporters (Dooku and Krell)).
Also, this might just be me making assumptions regarding your likely reaction to the above, but I'm also going to state that Yoda and Obi-Wan never told Luke to let his friends die on Bespin, nor did they plan to have him unknowingly kill his father. Yoda and Obi-Wan had no way of knowing what would happen to Luke's friends, but they did believe - not without reason - that Luke wouldn't be able to do much to help them with his miniscule amount of Jedi training if he just flew off to Cloud City. As for killing Vader, it's a plot point that Luke risks falling to the dark side if he does so out of anger and/or a desire for revenge, under which I'd argue "avenging his father" could quite easily fall. My guess is that Yoda and Obi-Wan planned to explain the truth to him when he was wise enough to handle it, but of course Luke's recklessness and Vader himself put the kibosh on that plan.
tl;dr: Writing the Jedi as the kind of people who'd forcibly take children against their parents' will was likely never the intention of Lucas.
When a Jedi takes in a child, it's kidnapping. But when a Mandalorian does it, it's a foundling.
306 notes
·
View notes
Text
They shouldn't have been able to make the journey in their condition, but they did. they had to.
Sure, the journey could have killed them, but what choice did they have? Just existing was painful to them, and not taking this journey would have killed them anyways.
There was something wrong with them. Something very wrong. No doctors could heal them of their affliction, no therapist could make them feel okay with it. The only one who might have a solution...
...had to be a witch.
So they pushed through their problems, over treacherous terrain, beyond anywhere they had ever been. It would have been difficult for a normal person, but for them - who by all means should never have been able to get this far - it was nothing.
Nothing compared to what they have felt, or what they could gain and lose.
The final stretch was through a dark forest... which opened up to a beautiful garden fighting back weeds, and a humble cottage patched by someone clearly inexperienced but well-meaning.
They knocked on the door, and prepared their nerves for meeting the witch.
The witch wasn't like they were expecting at all, and yet very much what they were expecting. She was... about human, more or less, though definitely more or less. Her skin was flawless yet pale, her eyes deep yet cold and dull. Her black hair was down to the back of her fancy red and black dress, and looked silky smooth but off in some way. She was taller than them, but in a way that looked like someone shorter was stretched out. But she was clearly a witch.
She even had the pointy hat.
After the shock wore off, they tensed up and forced themself to speak. "Miss Witch... I... I need help. I can't... turn to anyone else... please listen... to my problem."
The witch spoke with a lighter, softer voice than they were thinking. They expected power... of confident dominance or of arrogant distain, of even firm kindness. But this... this wasn't far from their own nervous voice.
"This one is not the-" she began, her arms wrapped around herself, but then went into deep contemplation. When she next spoke, she stood up straighter and let her arms out wide as if to hug them.
"That's right. This one is the witch. This one has been the witch for some time now. Please, tell the witch your problems and maybe you shall receive what you have come for."
The odd way of speaking concerned them for a moment, but they've never heard a witch speak before. Maybe this is just how they talk?
So they explained their problems, their pains, their dooms. And she listened. Finally, they wrapped up their explanation with a plea.
"Please... take away... my pains... my fears... don't let it... don't let it end me..."
The witch closed her nearly-lifeless eyes, breathing slowly as she thought. "This one may have a solution... but... the witch must warn you. Not only is there a price - and no, not money - but... the witch is not that skilled or powerful. The solution would be... inelegant. Crude. Imperfect."
"I'm already... all those things. And I'll... pay any price... but... I don't know what... I have to offer."
"This one already knows what the price is. You will not be in pain or be afraid any more, but your life will not be what you are used to. You-"
"Whatever it is... please do it."
"Very well."
The witch put a hand on their shoulder... and their arm immediately went numb. They tried to move it, but nothing happened; it hung limply by their side. A moment of fear crossed their face, but it quickly vanished. This was what they wanted, after all.
The numbness spread throughout their body - through their chest which felt no more heartache, through their legs which no longer had to carry them through all this, through the other arm which no longer needed to hold any burden... and finally to their finally-smiling face.
They felt nothing, blissfully free of feeling for a short eternity, before they felt something new.
They felt a weird sensation over their skin, though it was more like a sensation where their skin should be. It did not feel like part of them. Nothing felt like part of them. But slowly... new parts of them made themselves known. Fabric replaced flesh, as their mind reconnected to their body. Their eyesight - which was like watching a video of someone watching a video - became blank until they were looking out of buttons. What's happening to m- to m... to- they tried to think, though even their mind began to shift. The noisy polluted traffic of their mind was being cleared out, simple replacing complex. Everything became hazy, but then clearer than it had been for forever. No more pain, no more suffering, just pure, simple, one-at-a-time thoughts. They were slowly losing themself, but somehow still completely and totally them.
What's happening to this one? It doesn't understand? It? This one? But this one is a pers... peron.. .pesers... doll.
Of course it was a doll! Why wouldn't it be? It always has been a doll, watching over that poor person. That poor, always suffering, person. That person wasn't suffering any more, now. It had to let go of them. It was free from them. This was a happy moment.
Then why did it feel like crying?
"It's okay," the witch said. "This one knows you must be going through a lot."
"What did you do," the doll asked, as the world and the witch grew larger and larger. "What did you do to it? Why does it feel so weird? What happened to the person that came here?"
"This one is sorry. This was the only way to save you. The person... became the doll you are."
"It doesn't understand... but... does that mean that person no longer is suffering? Is this doll... okay?"
"Are you okay?"
The doll was finally able to move. It put its fingerless ragdoll hand to its fabric chin. "Hm... it thinks so. What does this one look like?"
"Well... this witch is sorry, but..." She grabbed a hand mirror, and showed the results. The inelegant, crude, imperfect results. She was waiting for more tears from the inexpertly-crafted doll.
The ragdoll smiled. "This one looks beautiful."
57 notes
·
View notes